are other things I can do to her, other ways to show her that I’m in control and that I always will be. Sliding a hand beneath her dress, I grab onto her thigh, squeezing it harshly, making sure she feels me. I can give her pain if I give her pleasure at the same time.
Her eyes go wide, the hazel really standing out, and her throat bobs as she struggles to get away from me, but I push her back against the wall. As my fingers run up the inside of her thigh, she goes stone cold, and then I feel it. Something rough and raised against the creamy smooth skin of her thigh. I run my finger across the line, it feels almost like a scab.
“What is this?” I ask, reaching for the hem of her dress, ready to inspect myself. As soon as our eyes connect, I see the pure panic in them. She completely freaks, becomes this wild animal, hell-bent on escaping me. Her hands lash out, and her nails dig into the skin of my face as she drags them downward.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” she screams as she shoves at my chest, panic clawing its way out of her. I reach for her wrist but miss, and she comes back, landing a hard slap across my face. I’m stunned, shocked by the violent action, which gives her the moment she needs to shove by me and escape. Running away, she disappears while I hold a hand to my burning cheek, wondering if everything that just happened was a dream.
What the fuck was that?
She acted like I was going to kill her. I’ve threatened her before, grabbed her, and touched her without asking. She’s never reacted like that before. No. This was different.
Whatever it is, it’s big. She is hiding a big fucking secret, and I’m going to find out what it is.
I don’t know why I stand there moping over it. I don’t care what the fuck is wrong with her, just so long as she doesn’t die because her misery is my enjoyment, and if she’s dead, well, there goes my fun.
Waiting a little longer before I reappear in the banquet hall, I give myself a moment to get my shit together. I go into the bathroom and check my face in the mirror. There is a scratch mark across my cheek, but I can’t do shit to hide it. Not going to lie, the fact that Kennedy attacked me is surprising as fuck.
Cleaning myself up as best as I can, I leave the restroom and walk back into the party. I make it all of two feet inside the door before my mother is on me, her face a mask of fury.
“What did you do to her?” my mother asks sternly.
I choke on my laughter. “What did I do to her? Do you see my cheek? She fucking attacked me. Plus, I’m not the one out here pretending like everything is fine and dandy.” I take a step back, my voice rising, drawing attention from bystanders.
I don’t care who sees or hears what I have to say. I’m past giving a shit now.
“I know you’re hurting, son, but you need to calm down. It was an accident. Kennedy didn’t mean to do it.”
I hate how calm she sounds, how dismissive to what happened to Jillian she is. Her voice is like ants crawling all over my skin, and I want to sink my nails into my flesh and itch.
“An accident is running into someone with your shopping cart. Spilling a glass of milk. What she did wasn’t an accident. It was murder and the fact that you can’t see that…” I clench my fist, ready to punch something, someone, anything. I’m boiling water, that’s bubbling over. “The fact that you can’t see that makes you a fucking disgrace. You don’t forgive the person who killed someone you love. It’s disgraceful and shitty, and you’re…” I back away needing to go somewhere else to escape this turtleneck of an event.
“Jackson, wait,” my mother calls after me with tears in her eyes, but her tears mean nothing to me, not when she can sit with the enemy and pretend that everything is all right. Not when she’d rather talk to the person that killed her daughter than her own son, who is drowning right in front of her.
I don’t wait.
I run, and I don’t stop until my lungs burn, and my muscles ache. Until