Page 242 of Hell Hath No Fury
After all, tons if not most of the other girls in Atlantic West would be positively thrilled just for a chance with him. Jonah is very good-looking, even despite his current foreboding glare, and notoriously popular. So if Jonah wanted that kind of controlling, 1950’s-style relationship, there’s no logical reasonfor him to have pursued me of all people, especially so vigilantly, and for so long. Not for the first time I wonder if his attraction to me is more physical than anything else. It makes no sense otherwise, and I’ve told him so. Many times now.
His thin blonde brows pull together in anger, his cheeks reddening in flames I should probably know better than to fan.
It’s then I notice how glazed his eyes are, how bloodshot. I don’t know exactly what he’s consumed tonight, or how much, but silently I hope it’s from smoke and not drink. He’s far calmer when he’s high than when he’s drunk, more reasonable, though he knows I prefer him on nothing at all. Still, the combination is the worst, and I can tell in his expression that there’s no reason there whatsoever. Which means there’s no point in trying to discuss anything with him right now, certainly not when he’s in this state. Although I’m not sure there’s anything left to discuss anyway anymore.
“AndI’vetoldyou,” he says darkly, “I don’t like to be fucking disrespected!”
Jonah takes a looming step in my direction, standing practically right in my face, as if to remind me of his superior size, and of my own, more petite, more vulnerable frame. As if I wasn’t already well aware.
I don’t back down, though. I’m not afraid of him. And I sure as hell won’t let him believe otherwise.
Still, I don’t need a drunken confrontation about nothing, so I try to employ the same tactics I’ve found effective in the past.
“Jonah—”
His glare widens, his nostrils flaring. “I’m sick of my girl disappearing all the time! And people always having to ask me where you are! I look like a fuckingidiot!” he growls so fiercely that spittle lands on my cheek.
I stifle my gasp.
I don’t know why I’m still so stunned by this behavior from him, by his random, inexplicable perceptions, and his utterly unacceptable reactions. Maybe it’s because of all of the impassioned apologies he so zealously swore the last time he ‘lost his temper’.Allof the “last times”.
“If you look like an idiot, Jonah, it isn’t because of me,” I shoot back.
It’s the wrong response.
He grabs my upper arm again, this time hard enough to cause actual pain, and I wince, more surprised than anything when he refuses to let me shrug him off. Instead his fingers squeeze harder, with the kind of force he usually reserves for drunken brawls with his friends or the occasional bar fight with people he refers to as “spoiled summer snobs”.
Jonah drags me a few more feet down toward the dunes, and for the first time I register actual fear.
“You’re a realindependent woman,Liz,” he spits, sardonic and seething, “but there’s only so much shit I’m going to take from my own fucking girl!”
I yank so hard I actually feel myself bruise, but I finally escape his grip. Or he releases me, I’m not sure which.
I rub my arm, knowing I will feel his unwelcome mark far more sharply tomorrow, and I resent it beyond measure.
Jonah has grabbed me before, I have no choice but to shamefully admit to myself, and he’s lost his temper and gotten too aggressive with me, too, but he’snevercaused me actual, physical pain. He’s sure as hellhas never left a mark.
But it's the debilitating injury to my pride, to my self-worth, that is far more devastating to my soul.
I amnotthis girl.
I will notbethis girl.
I make the decision here and now, once and for all. The one I should have made in the first place.
“Then I’mnotyour fucking girl,” I say slowly, cautiously.
Not cautious of his reaction, becausefuck him.
FuckJonah Berry.
I’m cautious of hiscomprehension. Careful that he understands thatthis—this controlling, violent fuckingbullshit—it is a nonstarter for me. My proverbial line in the sand.
And he’s already crossed to the wrong side.
I glare at him, demanding he hear me, that he come back to his senses. Or whatever senses he’s ever had. Because as much as I wish that the other Jonah, the version of him that can be so sweet and caring if not particularly thoughtful, would somehow return to the body of this monster before me—to show off his typical displays of regret and remorse—it won’t change anything now.
This is too much. Too far. I am done.
