Page 82 of Crybaby

My eyes are shut tight, and I’m almost screaming.

“Look at me!” he repeats, as I’m going into a full panic attack.

I open my eyes, and I’m breathing fast; his eyes are strong and safe.

“I’ve got you, baby.” He kisses away my tears. “You’re strong. You’re beautiful…and you’re mine. Now, fuck me.”

I stop crying and lock eyes with him as I begin to rise up and down, his big hands under my ass guiding me.I know what he’s doing—he wants me to be present at the moment and replace those horrible memories with moments like this.

He wants it to be his mouth, his touch, I remember—always.

“Don’t stop looking at me,” he instructs, and his eyes blink through the hot water with large droplets on his long lashes.

“Don’t. Stop. Looking. At. Me,” he repeats as he pushes his cock in deep and as far as it will go.

I feel so full—in every sense of the word, which is why I let go.

“I love you, Rev.” As the words spill from my lips unintentionally, his eyes roll back into his head.

Coming hard in me, he moans, “Fuck, me too, baby. I fucking lov—”

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

His sentence remains unfinished as the sounds of something earsplitting booms from outside our room. Rev hits the taps off and grabs towels for us.

“What the fuck is that?” I whisper loudly, quickly drying off.

Rev yanks the cord to kill the lights in the bathroom. He grabs the gun he had earlier placed on the toilet cistern and shoves it into the waist of the towel now tightly wrapped around him.

“Stay here,” he orders and crouches down low to creep through the room, keeping to the shadows.

I bite my lip so hard that I taste blood. He peers through the crack in the curtains, and my blood runs cold when he bellows, “Fuck!” before the door to our motel room is kicked in, smashing the plaster wall.

Idon’t have time to protect her.

I don’t have time to reach for my gun.

I don’t have time to do anything but fucking watch my world spiral to shit in a second.

“Get down on the floor!”

“He’s got a gun!”

“Motherfucker, show me your hands!”

These orders are being barked at me by two rookie cops who can smell their promotion through the ranks by making this arrest.

I raise my hands slowly, but the young cop with a buzz cut waves his gun at me. “I said, get on the floor!”

“Get on the floor? Show me your hands? Make up your motherfucking mind.”

Buzz doesn’t like my cheek and, in response, pistol-whips me in the temple.

I tongue my cheek, blood trickling down my forehead and seeping into my eye. I don’t wipe it away. I stare this fucker down because if he thinks I’m about to surrender, he is shit out of luck.

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