Page 48 of The Bloodfeather Promise
“Did he hurt you?” The question comes out as a growl, the level of emotion carried in his voice shocking. He sounds as though he really cares.
I remember Justin’s last tirade. It was the same night I found him in bed with the girl from my sorority. It’s a stretch to say they were sleeping together because I’m fairly certain there was no sleeping involved.
The purposeof my visit to his apartment that night was to retrieve my favorite coat. It had been there for almost a week, now I needed it due to a cold snap in the weather. Before meeting Carly for dinner at a popular Mexican restaurant, I left Justin a voice mail, letting him know I would be dropping by. I intended on just running in and grabbing it.
Justin had a habit of leaving his front door unlocked when he was expecting company. If he was playing a video game or smoking a joint on the apartment’s private balcony, he wouldn’t need to be constantly jumping up to answer the doorbell. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even be home, so I’d sit and wait for him. After two years of dating, I would give the barest of knocks before going inside, and we were both comfortable with that arrangement.
That night was no different. Justin wasn’t in the living room. Or the apartment’s attached screen balcony. When I heard voices in the bedroom, I thought maybe he had jumped in the shower, or fallen asleep with the television on. I headed down the hallway and pushed open the bedroom door.
There was a lamp on the bedside table. On the lowest of three settings, it cast a warm glow over the room. Confusion was my initial emotion because, at first, only the pale globes of Justin’s buttocks and his muscular back filled my vision. It took a moment before comprehension settled in.
My boyfriend of a year was upright on his knees, positioned in the middle of the mattress toward the top. Gripping the wooden headboard tight, he was using it for leverage. I could see his fingers, the knuckles white with tension, clenched above a smaller, more delicate set. A woman, head down and bottom up, wrists joined and tied, was bound to the open fretwork. My coat’s red sash was in use as the restraint.
Justin thrust again and again, occasionally letting go of the headboard so he could strike the plump ass rocking back and forth into him.
Feminine cries of “More! Oh, God, Justin… harder! Harder!” assailed my ears, drowning out excited grunts and the sound of his palm hitting her flesh. Transfixed, almost in disbelief, I stepped further into the room. I needed to know who he was screwing. Not that it mattered, but still, I needed to know. I had a right to know.
My shocked gasp didn’t stop them. I whirled about in a blind panic, my hip colliding painfully with a dresser. An unlit lamp teetered then crashed to the floor. It was that loud bang that finally alerted the two of them.
Justin nearly fell off the bed with shock when he saw me frozen in the doorway. But Katie, the bitchy daughter of a Georgia senator, merely lifted her head from the pillows, flashing me a satisfied smirk.
Recovering quickly, Justin leaped from the bed and scrambled to untie her. Even as he did so, his face scarlet with anger, he was berating me because I’d entered his apartment. Mocking me for my refusal to give him what he wanted. Me in his bed. Me at his disposal. Whenever he wanted it, however he wanted. I listened to the hateful words longer than I should have before turning on my heel. I didn’t say a word as I left. My red sash and my coat were sacrificed. They were too filthy to be of any use to me after what I saw.
“Emerson…did he hurt you? In any way?” Greyson questions me again.
I sigh, shaking my head.
“Not physically. Justin’s preferred weapons were words, and when I walked in on him and the other girl, he said it was my fault. That his needs were more important than my silly attempt at holding on to something so old-fashioned as my morals.” I shrug as if Justin’s insults never bothered me when, in reality, I was crushed by his cruelty. “He told me to grow up. That saving myself was ridiculous. There was nothing special about me, that he was tired of chasing me, just to get something other girls gave him all the time.”
“Sounds like a real prize. What’s this prick’s name?”
“You wouldn’t know him.”
Greyson’s eyes narrow. “Tell me anyway.”
“Justin Marlett. His family owns a huge cattle ranch just north of Dallas. Although I don’t know why it matters. Unless you plan on rounding up cows in the near future.”
“It matters, Emerson, because if I should ever run across Justin Marlett, I plan on kicking his ass for treating you that way.”
Somehow, by the grace of God, and by chewing the inside of my cheek until it’s nearly bloody, I refrain from informing Mr. Greyson Finch that he himself once treated me much worse.
“My grandpop said he was a crackerjack prize.” I laugh softly at the remembrance of that particular conversation. “You know, from the popcorn boxes? Justin was all bright and shiny for a while, but eventually, the prize broke. He proved himself to be just a piece of junk.”
“Sounds like your grandpop knew your boyfriend pretty well.”
“Yes, well… he and my mom were happy when I broke up with Justin. Grandpop always said I deserved better.” I can’t believe I’m telling Greyson all this. I am spilling the embarrassing details of my break-up to the man I gave my virginity to. A man who has no idea he made my naive dreams come true up until the moment he broke my heart.
The wine rack stands between us like the walls of a jail cell. Greyson’s lip quirks. “You’re better off with that asshole out of your life. At least the experience didn’t put you off from dating.”
How do I confess Justin has not occupied a single moment of thought in my head? That I’ve not been with anyone since the night I slapped an arrogant rockstar and fell into his bed? How can I tell Greyson the one guy I did consider for rebound sex came up lacking? I made the mistake of comparing him with the man standing here and the way he owned me the moment he touched me.
I want Greyson to remember me. I want him to take me in his arms and kiss me. More than anything, I want to tell him everything.
I know I can’t.
* * *
We movefrom the wine cellar to Greyson’s studio. It is utterly amazing. Every new and shiny electronic device needed for recording has been installed. Instruments and microphones are in place, just waiting for the entire band to show up and play. Greyson explains his involvement with the design, constructed to his exact specifications. The whole space is completely soundproof, with a footprint nearly the size of my house’s entire first floor. It’s like something you’d see in a movie.
