Page 30 of Still Beating

“Are you fuckin’ serious?”

I can’t stop laughing.

“I thought you were dead!”

A few snorts break through and I can’t catch my breath. I worry that I might actually pass out. For real this time.

Mandy speaks up, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “Not cool, sis.”

“Yeah, babe, you scared us.” Brandon is crouched down beside me, his hand on my shoulder.

I allow my laughter to subside as I lift myself up on my hands, my eyes finding a highly unimpressed Dean. “I got you good, and you deserved every minute of it. Your face was priceless.”

Dean stares back at me, spearing me with callous eyes, his shoulders heaving. It’s apparent he is not sharing in my hilarity. In fact, I’ve never seen him look at me like this before—frazzled, outraged, maybe even a little hurt.

Whatever.

I’m not sorry.

“I need a fucking smoke,” Dean says in a gruff tone, fishing through his pockets and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He shoots me a final dirty look before disappearing into one of the adjoining rooms, the old floorboards creaking beneath each step.

The evening proceeds on with far less excitement as I snuggle into Brandon’s chest and sip on a cocktail. We tell ghost stories around the candle arrangements, munch on popcorn and chocolate chip cookies, and allow our minds to play tricks on us as we giggle and squeal at every strange, spooky noise.

It’s a fun night. A memorable night.

But something is off.

It could be the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. It could be the chill in the air. It could be the tummy ache from all the junk food I’ve consumed. It could be the spiders lurking in the shadows, waiting to breed inside our brains.

Or… it could be that Dean doesn’t say a single word to me for the rest of the night.

Over a week drags by in this house of horrors.

Sixteen sunrises mock us from the frosty window.

‘Twenty Questions’. Turkey sandwiches. Rape. Hunger pains. Heart pains. Singing. Stories. Despair. Sex with Dean.

Sex with Dean.

That is something I’ll likely never wrap my head around. It’s happened four times now.I’ve had sex with Dean Asher four times. And it’s not rape—I will never call it rape. Every time, he waits for my consent. Every time, he is willing to die in that moment if I choose to say no.

And every time, he dies just a little bit anyway.

Earl and Dean alternate days like a goddamn schedule. My body is not my body anymore. But Earl treats me like a piece of trash, tainted and disposable, while Dean massages my wrist to help me cope, whispers his shame into my ear, and spills his tears against my neck before being dragged away and chained back up.

Today is Dean’s day, and I’m grateful for that.

Dean is holding my wrist between his fingers and thumb, circling around and around and around as he thrusts in and out of me. He doesn’t look at me. In fact, he hardly looks me in the eyes at all anymore. I think he’s afraid of what he might find there.

“That’s a good dog,” Earl sneers from a few feet away, giving orders in between his disgusting moans. “Kitten loves it.”

I suck in a breath and keep my head turned to the other side. Dean pulls back, dropping my leg and raising his hand to the side of my face. I fall to my feet due to our height difference, and he slips out of me. He could hold me up with his opposite hand, but he doesn’t. He won’t let go of my wrist.

His touch is delicate and kind on my cheek, and my skin sprouts with goosebumps that I hope he doesn’t notice. “Are you okay?”

Earl interrupts. “I didn’t say to stop railing her, you dumb ass dog.”

I spare Dean a quick glance, nodding my head and swallowing down the real answer:I’m not okay. I will never be okay.

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