"How's school going?" I ask him once as we shovel burgers and fries into our mouths at the local diner. "Ready for graduation?"
"I haven't even gone to prom yet, dad. I'm not thinking about graduation."
Of course not. Suddenly, I'm thinking of Savannah in a prom dress. Savannah, my beautiful secret. I'd tear her dress from her body and make her mine again and again. Because that's what I want. I want her to be mine, to own every part of her, body and soul. Is that too much to ask?
I answer my own question as I take another bite of burger.
Yes the fuck it is.
Savannah
The past few days I’ve spent with Elaina, but with school in the morning, I reluctantly gather my things and head home. Elaina and I spent the night watching movies and cuddling on the bed, talking about boys and how annoying they all are. I didn’t mention my rendezvous with Wyatt, and I don’t think I ever will. I don’t know if I can trust her to keep that secret.
I don’t think anyone would understand. I don’t fully understand it myself, and anxiety creeps into my skin for more than one reason. As I drive home, I’m overtaken by chills. I know dad will be angry with my defiance. His silence is telling. After our conversation before, I can deduce that he will have some sort of punishment in mind.
It overtakes me then that I wish so badly that I could be wrapped in Wyatt’s arms. His strength a halo of safety, like nothing else in the world matters except for us. My body still aches from sex with him, most likely from my lack of experience. But I’m glad for the feel of it because it's a reminder that everything will be okay. As long as I have this one refuge from the rest of my life. Still, I have questions for him. But there’s no time for me to think on them now. Now, I have to face my father.
As I roll around into our gated community, parking in front of our large cookie-cutter home, I see him in the long window next to the door.
I take firm steps toward the house, up the stairs, and into the door. He shuts the door behind me and I don’t look at him. I want to, but I can’t. Maybe it’s years of being conditioned to fear him, but I have to look at the floor, waiting for him to berate me.
“I...stayed at Elaina’s the rest of the weekend,” I tell him, my voice flat. Shaky.
“Come with me,” he says, and I have no choice but to follow him into his office. I’ve yet to meet his gaze, but as I trail behind him, I look up to see that his face has a strange expression etched into its surface. Fear traverses my body, laying slick lanes of ice down my chest and legs.
“Dad…” I begin to say, but before I can continue, I’m waylaid by the back of his hand. My head goes crashing into the wall, and the force makes my vision blurry. My head splits with pain. I search for anything, shaky fingers reaching for something, anything, to hold me up. But I find nothing and collide with the floor. Hardwood meets my buckled body, and I freeze, curling into a ball. Tears form in the crease of my closed eyes, but I cannot let him see the effect he has upon me. And I should be good at pretending, right?
“You whore. What are you thinking, staying out, going wherever you want…” he uses his foot to kick my ribs, and I hold myself tighter, stifling a groan as I take the sharp blow. Clamping my eyes shut even harder as I attempt to slip away from reality. But the pain is all too real.
“You will learn never to disrespect me. I don’t care if I have to keep you locked in your room,” his Arab accent is harsh, bleeding through his carefully procured American facade. “Give me your phone!”
I stiffen. If he takes my phone, I’ll have no way of contacting anyone. Will he let me go? I almost laugh at the audacity of his actions. He’s resorted to beating me because his desire to make me conform to his standard of “acceptable” is so strong. Each blow he sends down on my body reminds me of the inescapable fate I’ve been born and shackled into.
“Please…” I hear myself whimper, but I sound disconnected from my own voice.
“Shut up,” he growls, stomping down on my hand, my thigh, my stomach. Pain radiates through me, and I can’t hold back my tears any longer.
“What would mom think…” I murmur, the words slipping out of me on a wisp of breath.
It is then that I know I’ve either killed or saved myself. My dad freezes, and for a few hairsplitting seconds he looks down at me with dark eyes, malice in every crease of his tan face. For the first time in a long time, I think about my mom. Mom, with her bright Caribbean blue eyes, long wavy sun-soaked blonde hair, and luminous demeanor. Although I was three when she died, I remember the ghost of her warmth. The love she poured into me. Every hug and smile, every laugh and kind word-- it’s there in my subconscious. And now more than ever, I wish she was here. I wish with all my heart that I wasn’t so horribly alone.
Dad wrenches me out of my reverie by rolling me over and snatching my phone from my pocket. He throws it against the wall and I startle, letting out a quiet sob.
“Go to your room,” he commands quietly.
I try to lift my aching body, but it is difficult; like lifting bags of sand. My head is pounding in splintering pain. But I have to get up. If I stay, he could decide to continue his beating. I bite down on my lip to stop the cries from escaping, and I crawl. I slide myself against the hard floor, using my arms to push myself up the stairs. If I can just make it to my room...then I’ll be safe.
“When you go back to school you’ll have bruises. You’ll wear makeup to cover it up. It’s your fault you are in pain right now, Savannah. You gave me no choice.” Dad pads over to the bottom of the stairs and says this as he watches me struggling up each step. I can tell that he is anxious because he doesn’t want anyone to see the marks he’s undoubtedly made. He doesn’t want to get in trouble for what he’s done.
I hiccup as I hold back the tears and grind back the grief in my throat, pushing myself up the final step. If he fears that he’ll be discovered, or that I’ll press charges, I know that he’ll kill me. No mention of my mom will change that. I have to stay silent. Keep his secret. Keep the pain, the torture of every part of my life, a secret.
And I don’t want to speak to anyone. Except for him. My mind flashes with images of Wyatt, and even in the ruined state of my body, I recognize the dull thudding of want. The echoic reminder in the depths of my soul that Wyatt is safe, unassuming, forgiving, and devoted. For this reason, even though I want to cry into his t-shirt with his arms wrapped around me, I can’t tell him that this happened.
To tell of one’s hardships is to burden others, and I will not be a burden to him.
***
As expected, I rise the next morning and cover the majority of the bruises with makeup. My black eye, conveniently, has a funny story behind it, something that I’ll make up swiftly when someone asks. Maybe I got hit with the edge of a car door. Maybe while jogging I ran into a pole. Who knows. But as my dad kindly reminded me, if I was absent people would suspect something. So, with my entire body sore, every breath causing me to tense with pain, I dress modestly in a blue sweater, jeans, and boots, and force myself to walk to school. He’d made a show of taking my car keys, and did not unlock the fridge for me that morning either, giving me a hateful look when I’d glanced toward the kitchen hungrily.
“You could stand to lose a few pounds, you fat whore,” he muttered as I slipped from the doorway.
I wish I could talk to Wyatt. But now, my phone laying at the bottom of the garbage can under a bit of day-old spaghetti, I’m unable to reach out for contact with anyone. Phone gone. Car keys taken. No food allowed.
The school is quiet when I arrive. It is before the usual bustle, and I head to my locker. In the past, I’d been glad Derrick’s locker was right next to mine. Now, I wince at the thought of having to pretend with him. Of having to fake everything. Smiles. Laughs. Kisses. It’s all so irrelevant.
After a few moments of rearranging my locker and getting my books out for the first class of the day, I glance up to see the guidance counselor, Mr. Pratt, passing by. Our eyes meet for a
second and I frown and return to my task. Does he know what his call did? Could anyone ever guess? Why did he wait so long to call, rather than doing the next day's follow-up? I wonder what finally made him pull the trigger.
“Hey,” Derrick wraps his arms around me from behind and I jolt, pain and fear slicing through me. He recoils and shifts around so that he can stand beside me. “Uh...are you okay Sav?”
No. I’m not okay.
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. “You just startled me.”
“You don’t really look so good,” he says, reaching out and nearly skimming my cheek. I knock his hand away. His eyes grow wider, and I watch him scrutinize me, calculating and formulating just what exactly is going on. I’m sure to him my actions seem like a sudden and extreme offense. But I don’t have any more time to play these games.
“Oh my god! Savannah!” Elaina comes up beside me and uses one long arm to reach around my middle and tug me close. “He isn’t bothering you, is he? Because I’d really love a reason to kick Draper’s ass.”
She says it in a joking tone. She even winks at Derrick, whose features return to a surly smirk. But then, she looks at me. Actually looks. I wish I’d taken more time on my appearance because I wasn’t thinking about her or any of my friends when I was getting ready. I was thinking: just get out. Survive. Now, as her eyes travel over my face, she freezes. Does she suspect? How can I tell her, without words, to stay quiet?
“Are you okay?” she asks, reaching up to touch the slightly swollen, bruised area around my eye. Although the worst of my beating was focused on parts of my body that people would not be able to see, the ugly bruise was nearly impossible to fully cover with makeup. “Did he do this to you?” She says, glancing at Derrick.
“What?” he snaps.
“Elaina…” I squeeze her name from my throat, but I feel like the hall is spinning. The voices blend and I shut my eyes for a few seconds to regather my wits.
“It was you, wasn’t it!” she shrieks. “I swear to god, you’re going to be sorry for this.”
She uses both hands to shove his shoulders, attempting to force him away.
Derrick’s lips flatten, and he looks at me as if he finally understands what it was that didn’t make sense before Elaina arrived.
“Savannah, talk to me,” he pleads.
Elaina shoves him again, and when he doesn’t move, her hand flies out to slap him. Rage blooms and takes over his good-boy persona, his cheek now a stinging red, and he stomps away.
“Why’d you do that?” I round on Elaina. “It wasn’t him.”
Elaina’s lips tremble and she rakes a shaky hand through her silken blonde hair.
“I thought... “ she begins, but I shoulder past her and follow Derrick. I’m guessing he’s gone to the boy’s locker room, and I run to stop him there. I don’t stop, even when I realize the entire football team is standing there huddled around him. At this point, I really don’t care.
“Derrick. Can we talk?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. I try to ignore the rest of the boys, but they snicker and hiss low insults aimed directly at me.
“Yeah,” he nods and shifts his weight into one hip, hanging his hands in his pockets. “What’s up?”
“Not here,” I add, shocked by his glacial coldness.
“Nah. We’re good here,” he says, and I don’t know how to continue. Why am I trying so hard to make him feel better? This is an entitled boy whose life relies on shining compliments and accolades when behind closed doors his true self is revealed in a blur of narcissistic traits. It’s so typical, isn’t it? Perfect boy wants and has been given everything in life, and the second someone denies it to him, he’s both stunned and offended by the bludgeoning crash of reality. How long have I catered to his whims? To my dad’s whims? To everyone’s whims except for mine?
“Fine,” I say, voice crisp.
“You owe me an apology,” he states, tilting his head down, messy blond hair hanging in his brutal gaze. “Whatever the hell happened, you know it wasn’t me. But you let her think it was.”
“I didn’t have time to-” I realize that I’m being expertly baited into his trap. He wants me to defend myself. To realize that it’s ultimately me who's at fault. “So, this is about saving face, huh? You’re not worried about me at all?”
One of his friends glances at him and he plasters a caring expression on like a mask.
“Of course I care!” he says. “How could you possibly think I don’t? It’s so fucked up that you’d even say something like that.”
Of course. He’s making it about him again. He’s the victim. But then I wonder, what would a loving boyfriend actually respond like? Would he have noticed the bruise under the makeup first? Would he have asked me, in a concerned tone, what happened to me? Would he have instantly told Elaina that they were about to go on a manhunt together? Would I even recognize a loving relationship if it hit me in the face?
“Yeah. I’m the fucked up one right now,” I say, my entire body exhausted. “We’re done, Derrick.”
“Done?” he repeats, voice wavering. He’s realized that I’m serious and that he’s being dumped in front of all his teammates. A few of them blow out a breath in shock, the others stay deafeningly silent.
“You haven’t even asked me if I’m okay,” I shake my head, grief and irritation gathering like a tennis ball under my clavicle. “And you’re lucky I don’t tell people what happened a few weeks ago. Yes. We’re done.”
“A few weeks ago?” He thinks back as if caught off guard. “You mean when you showed me just how much of a dried-up asexual bitch you are?”
Guffaws and snickers come from the boys surrounding us. I don’t know how to respond to this, so I stand there, dumbstruck until one of the team members starts the shower around the corner. This gives me the strength to walk away. As I leave, I hear the hooting and howling of his friends, all of this crashing around me, cutting me deep.
As I wander down the hall, the students have begun to disperse, and now my footsteps clamor down open halls and reverberate in my mind. I am unable to think and slump against the wall. Sliding down until my butt meets the floor. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here before Elaina, Kaitlyn, and Greta arrive in a semi-circle before me.
“Savannah…” Kaitlyn says, and I can tell that she understands. Maybe she’s been punished like this before.
“Was it your dad?” Elaina asks hollowly.
I swore I wouldn’t release this secret, and turn my face away from them. Maybe they’ll leave me too.
“That fucking bastard,” Greta grumbles. “You should go to the nurse. Maybe you can get someone to pick you up.”
“She doesn’t have anyone to pick her up,” Elaina supplies, and then reaches down and grabs me in a tight hug. “Hey. How about I call my dad? If I explain that....”
“No!” I say, shaking my head furiously. Her dad is the Thornwood Sheriff. My dad could be found out that way, and I know the penalty for talking about what happened.
“I can tell him you’re really sick and have no one to get you. Maybe I can convince him to let us have a spa day?”
I sigh against her shoulder, and finally nod, admitting that this does sound like the best option. I don’t think I can face anyone else today. My entire body hurts, and I’m terrified someone else will realize what’s happened. Not only this, but I think I’d die if I had to face Derrick again in one of our many shared classes.
“Yeah?” Elaina’s voice is all smiles. “Okay. I’ll text him now. Let’s go to the nurse.”
I say goodbye to Greta and Kaitlyn, and Elaina briefly says that she’ll keep them posted. I hate that I’m the drama right now, and wish I could float away in a wisp of wind. I would let it carry me far far away, but not far enough away that I wouldn’t be able to reach Wyatt.
***
It’s sheer luck that Elaina’s dad, Sheriff Paul Kendall is able to pick us up. He drives a massive ford explorer owned by the city, and when he pulls up he ush
ers us in with a big goofy smile on his face.
“Hey girls! Sorry you’re not feeling well Savannah.”
“That’s okay,” I say.
He drives us back to their lovely modern home at the edge of town. The sprinklers are running, and the landscaping is perfectly manicured. The sun shines through the blades of grass, giving it all the dream suburban home vibe. The house has a basement and two floors above, and as we walk toward the front door I realize how little of my time has actually been spent here. I know now it’s because I’m jealous.
Elaina links arms with me as we stroll into the house, and she brings me up to her room. I was here only a day ago, and her bedding has already been changed from plum ruching to a candy pink comforter. Her mom is very quick to keep things pristine, allowing no room for wrinkled sheets in the process.
The morning’s events settle in my limbs and I give in to exhaustion. I throw myself onto Elaina’s bed carefully and let out a deep, defeated breath. I don’t have time to think about the consequences and what they will be. If my dad can’t sympathize with how distraught I must feel, how am I supposed to go back? I don’t know if can go back.
“I’ll get us some snacks,” Elaina calls to me peachily as she heads for the door. She’s left her phone on her side table, and I glance at it with desire. My stomach rumbles in response to her mention of snacks. Knowing Elaina, she’ll bring all sorts of carb-packed, sugar-glazed, cellulite-inducing treats. I hate that my thoughts instantly go to the scale. I let so many things control me, create me, and I bear the baggage of them as if they are mine to carry. Why can’t I just throw them off?
Working quickly, I snatch Elaina’s phone and pop in Wyatt’s number. I open a text and write:
My dad broke my phone. I can’t go home tonight. I’ll be over around five. Don’t text back.
The Prom Queen's Sinner: Thornwood Small Town Forbidden Romance Book One Page 13
