Page 40 of Tell Me Again
CHAPTER NINE
Sam looked up from her book when Frank barked then dashed out of the room. She glanced at her clock and thought about ignoring the persistent knocking at her front door. Based on the slew of texts she’d received since leaving the band concert, she knew who was waiting on the other side.
“He’ll go away,” she said to herself at the same time her phone beeped with an incoming text.
I’m not leaving.
She quickly returned the text.
I’m not home.
His reply flashed on the screen a moment later.
Car in driveway and light on in house.
She blew out a breath.
Stalker.
He sent her a smiley face emoji.
Seriously? A smiley face? Oh, hell no.
She headed for the front door, practically tripping over Frank, who’d decided the best defense against a possible intruder was turning himself into a canine speed bump.
As soon as she opened the door, Trevor held up his phone. “The smiley face got you, right?”
“Go away, Trevor.”
“Talk to me first.”
“I think you said plenty earlier this evening.”
He took a step forward and she placed a hand on either side of the doorjamb.
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Why? Because you think I’m a slut or because you told me you think I’m a slut?” Her eyes burned with anger. “First you called me a hooker, then I was a garden-variety whore. Either way, it didn’t stop you from sleeping with me.”
“You aren’t those things,” he said, his tone fierce. “I know you’re not.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Damn it, I hate that I made you think—” He cursed again. “Let me in, Sam.”
She shook her head, unable to speak. Underneath her temper were more dangerous feelings. Humiliation. Shame. A belief that he was right. If she opened her mouth, those things might tumble out and then how would she pretend she wasn’t that person any longer? What if Grace saw in her the parts that she’d tried so hard to hide?
If Trevor were totally to blame, it would be different. But he’d only said what so many others thought. What she’d proven time and time again with her self-destructive actions. All of it played out on a public stage. She was a fool to think she could be someone different than her image. A pathetic fool to believe Trevor would see her as someone more.
She pressed her fingers to her lips when the emotions rose up anyway, refusing to be denied any longer. “I don’t want to be that woman,” she whispered, more to herself than Trevor. “I’m not—” She choked out a sob and tried to close the door, but the irritating man shoved his boot in the opening.
She slammed the door several times on his foot and heard him grunt in pain. “I wish it was your head in the door!” she shouted before going still, her strength abruptly drained.
“I know, honey,” he murmured and then pushed his way into her house.
She didn’t stop him. All her focus was going toward not ending up in a weeping puddle on the colorful rug in her entry. She bent forward, concentrated on pulling air in and out of her lungs.
The dog looked up, wagged his tail.
“Intruder,” she whispered when it was safe to speak. “Kill him.”
Frank belched.
