effort to control himself, he digs his fingers into my thighs astride him. But his desire is stronger than his restraint, because in the next second, he curses under his breath and growls, “Screw it.”
When he jerks up from the chair, I almost topple over. He catches me before I do, locking his strong arm around my waist and whisking me off with him. His long strides eat through the crowd while my baby steps struggle to keep up.
In minutes, we’re at his trailer, the noise from the bonfire at the back of the compound dulled. He yanks open the door and drags me in. When he turns to me, his eyes are blazing with lust and heat.
I feel a brief moment of fear, considering I’ve never done this before and don’t know what to expect. Maybe riling him up like this wasn’t the best idea. Because he doesn’t know. Which means he’ll likely be rough. Should I tell him?
Nah, he’ll back out. Scratch doesn’t seem like the kind of man who has the patience to do soft and gentle. Plus, they’ll all know that I’m a fraud and no doubt ban me from the compound.
So, with bravado, I urge him on by sticking my chest out and licking my lips.
Grabbing my face between his big paws, he growls out, “You better be worth it.” Right before he slams his mouth down on mine.
~
My reflection stares back at me from the small, black-edged mirror in the tiny bathroom of Scratch’s trailer, my wet hair hanging down my shoulders in thick clumps. I’ve showered away all the evidence, the blood, and now I’m sore between my thighs.
Losing my V-card is nothing like I thought it would have been. Isn’t sex between a man and woman supposed to feel good? Better?
It didn’t for me. Pain, burning discomfort, and tears are what I experienced. It felt as if I was being split open with a metal pole the entire time. And by “entire time”, I mean more than a minute but less than two. Because the second he noticed the blood, he’d recoiled and leaped off of me looking like a venomous snake had slithered out of my vagina and bit him.
With a troubled scowl, he’d pulled up his jeans and slammed out of the trailer. Shortly after, I heard him roaring at someone on the phone. I’d taken a guess at the recipient of his rage—the man whom I’d been in a fake relationship with. Grunt.
After that, it was silence. So I figured it best to shower and start getting dressed to leave before he returned. I’ve seen how vicious he could be to Club Cats if he was displeased.
The sudden slam of the trailer door makes me jump.
He’s back. Shit.
Grabbing a bleach-stained towel from the rack, I wrap it tightly around myself like it’s a shield and tentatively exit the bathroom.
Scratch is seated at the edge of the bed, leaned forward with his hands on his knees, and his furious eyes lifts to fix on me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands.
Ignoring his question, I tell him, “You need to finish what you’ve started.”
“What I’ve started?” His voice is staggered. “Are you sick in the head, girl?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because I can’t understand why you’d come here pretending to be a slut, signing up to be a Club Cat, when you’ve never even had sex!”
“I have my reasons.”
He throws his hands up. “Pray, tell. What on earth would possess you to do something so stupid? Is this some kind of a low self-esteem, low self-worth thing?”
Once again, I find myself studying him contemplatively. For six years I’ve been lugging this secret around with me like loose skin. Not even Grunt, whom I had considered my best friend, was able to get it out of me. It’s something I intend to take to my grave—my future relies on it.
But…maybe Scratch could take it to his grave, too. Relieve me some. He’s going off to die. I know it. Aside from sex, booze, and crime, he has nothing to live for, so he’ll fight like a loser—because he thinks he is. He won’t be coming back.
Could I tell him? Should I? He has no reason to not tell anyone since he has no obligation or loyalty to me.
But, if my new god of fire is for me, he’ll see to it that Scratch never makes it back to tell anyone.
“If I tell you,” I say, “you have to promise me not to