Chapter 29
One moment, I found myself in the unbreakable clutches of creepy Cory Stills. The short-statured but powerfully built wrestler was employing all his strength and all his skill to immobilize and subdue me, right in the middle of the fraternity’s swarmed but oblivious dance floor.
The blaring music drowned out my screams. And Corey’s wily wrestling moves thwarted my attempt to extricate myself. I couldn’t even kick him in the balls. He had wrapped me up like an octopus would, and he was jamming his hardening crotch into me, poking and probing through our clothes. It was the same phallus he had so proudly exposed to me that day in the shower, hoping to shock me with its size and length. Hoping to excite me with its veined and hardening sexual power.
But it only repulsed me.
Now, creepy Corey was exacting his revenge. This time, he would not be denied. This time, he would make me deal with both him and his penis on their terms. He was the kind of man who would take whatever he wanted, the woman be damned.
And he had me all right. One of his arms was locked across the small of my back, pulling me into him, even as he thrust his angry loins into me. The other hand was locked at my neck, pressing my face to his. Holding my mouth to his, as he fed me his tongue so I couldn’t scream.
Worse still, my burst of strength was all but gone. My fight was over. My limbs were going limp. I couldn’t get enough air, not with his mouth covering mine and his face pressing up against my nose. I felt myself giving over to him. If he wanted to, he could reach under my skirt and rip my panties aside. He could have his way. I could not stop him.
This was how easily assaults occurred. And sometimes they happened in obvious, public places. And the knowledge, the sheer realization of it, stunned me. Because I was about to become a victim. A statistic. Another faceless woman whose brutalization was reduced to a police report and a terse news account, where legal euphemisms sanitized the violent deconstruction and brutalization of a human being.
But just when all hope seemed lost and I retreated inside myself for a measure of protection against the dehumanization that I could not prevent, suddenly – miraculously – Corey Stills released me. Not only did he release me, Corey seemed to all but disappear from before me. It was almost as if he had vanished.
Was it magic? Was it my guardian angel? Was it some hallucination brought on by the alcohol?
I would soon learn that it was none of these things, although the idea of a guardian angel would come the closest to describing what occurred – and how I was saved.
I’ve spent many a long night considering the odds. On one hand, I ask myself, what were the chances? On the other, I attempt to convince myself that it was just one of those things. A coincidence? Without doubt. But not an occurrence wholly out of the question.
Because what goes better with frat parties, beer and scores of hard-partying college students?
You got it. Pizza.
So it was that Dante Bartoli just happened to be delivering a mega-order of some fifteen pies to Phi Beta. It was a crazy, hectic night. Because with Homecoming weekend comes plenty of house parties. And this means pizza. The delivery business was off the hook. All this had placed Dante Bartoli inside the Phi Beta frat party at the precise moment I needed him most.
The fraternity’s order required three trips to his car. The thermal delivery boxes that kept the pies piping hot held only five pies at time. Dante had to carry each all the way to the bar. Doing so, he hoisted the heavy delivery box high overhead, then navigated his way through the mass of dancers. He did this grudgingly. On one hand, it was a busy night, and Dante had many more miles to go before it was over. On the other, he knew the frat was a good tipper and a steady source of business for his family’s pizza shop. So he lugged in the delivery boxes, one by one, and unloaded them at the bar.
It was on his final trip, as the DJ lights flashed and the beat thundered the dance floor, that Dante saw me. Or at least he glimpsed part of me, as much as he could, given that Corey Stills had his ferret face locked with mine. But Dante was an acute observer. His eyes roamed wherever he went. Did he like looking at pretty college women? Sure, who could blame him? Just like he watched me on all my visits to his pizza shop before we finally spoke.
This time, I caught Dante’s eye but in a different way. It wasn’t my beauty, but my distress. My distress at the hands of Corey Stills.
Dante Bartoli, being of the old world, would have helped any women in my situation. But I do believe he knew it was me he was saving. Even from across the room, amid all those dancers and crazy lights. He had watched me so long, my profile, the curve of my neck, the slope of my shoulders. Something imprinted on his mind made the connection. Whatever it was, there is not a day that goes by that I do not thank the fates that he was there that night. And that this good and watchful man had found me, amid the dance floor, at the worst moment in my life.
Upon seeing the wanton nakedness of Corey Stills’ violence and dominance over me, Dante reacted. Instantly, he dumped the pizza delivery box from high over his head, sending it crashing to the floor. The Velcro flap that formed the door flew open, spilling the pizza boxes onto the dance floor. The boxes scattered like a deck of cards. Soon, unknowing dancers were stomping on them, mashing them down, even slipping on the still-hot cheese, sauce and dough.
But Dante was long gone from the growing scene of commotion surrounding the scattered pizza boxes. He moved with speed and authority toward me, toward us – my attacker and myself. When necessary, Dante pushed buzzed, bleary-eyed and unsteady dancers out of his way, until he came upon us.
Stills had his back to my approaching defender. He never saw what hit him.
Dante lay both hands down hard upon creepy Corey’s shoulders, then heaved him away from me in one fluid, swift and devastating motion.
I felt Corey’s grip give away, but I didn’t know what was happening. Neither did Corey. As soon as Dante had ripped Corey off me, the wrestler swung around in annoyance, his narrowed eyes searching for the source of the interference.
Dante held me, asking if I was okay. Corey saw this and lunged at him. I screamed and Dante turned, just in time.
Dante loosed his cocked fist, landing a direct shot to Corey’s mouth, breaking his lips against his teeth and sending him careening into oblivious dancers, then to the grimy, beer-soaked floor.
Corey was picking himself up to his knees when Dante stepped forward, raising a leg that took Corey in the stomach. His back lurched up, then he fell flat to the floor again.
Maybe he puked, the sharp kick to the gut unleashing the sour beer and whiskey in his stomach. When he gathered himself again, I saw Corey’s face in a flash of light from the DJ booth. His mouth was red and leaking blood. His expression, dazed, his vacant eyes, bewildered. Still, those beady, porcine eyes radiated hate. Hate, vengeance and violence.
Corey zeroed in again. But Dante was ready. He allowed Corey to get to his feet. Then, he immediately moved in, cocking a fist and swinging before Corey could react.
This time, Corey danced away from the blow, then charged at Dante low, trying to turn the boxing bout into a wrestling match.
A growing number of dancers were becoming aware of the fight. A circle formed around the combatants. Soon, the dancing ceased and the dance of violence between Dante and Corey Stills took center stage.
Corey had both arms wrapped around Dante’s waist and he was trying to bring him down. But Dante was agile, and he had good balance. He let Corey ride him, but he wouldn’t permit the wrestler to bring him down. Instead, Dante balled his fist and pounded away at Corey’s midsection, hitting him with upper-cut after upper-cut.
By now, the crowd was cheering. The D.J., aware that something was amiss, cut the music and brought up the house lights.
One guy shouted, “Hey, it’s the pizza dude. He’s fighting at our party, man!”
The door man signaled to a couple of other frat brothers, and they muscled their way through the crowd. Corey was still h
olding on, trying to twist Dante down. But the smaller wrestler was taking a beating. Dante was pounding him to the ribs. And he kept on pounding until the two frat guys burst from the crowd and grasped Dante from either side, pulling him off. Corey let go then. He raised from his crouch and wiped blood from his mouth, then looked at Dante with menace.
With the two frat guys holding his arms, Dante was vulnerable. And Corey finally saw his chance for revenge. Without a word, he walked forward, then unloaded an uppercut to Dante’s liver, doubling him over in pain.
Corey was going to take advantage now, but I wouldn’t let him. I pushed my way into the circle, raised my cell phone, and shouted at the top of my lungs, “Stop it.”
Corey did, if only for the moment.
Holding the cell phone aloft, I said, “Leave him alone or I call the cops -- right now.”
Corey’s eyes darted to the phone in my hand. So did the eyes of the frat brothers, who instantly recognized the threat.
Someone from the crowd yelled, “Narc! That’s so uncool.”
But I didn’t care. I pointed an accusing finger at Corey.
“He was attacking me,” I said. Then I swung my finger to Dante. “He got him off me, okay. It’s over. I just want to go, and he’s going with me.”
By now, the rest of Five had seen what was going on. Amanda and Lauren were pushing their way toward me.
Amanda got to me first, asking “Are you okay? Did this wanker hurt you?”
I shook my head. “I’m all right,” I managed between gulps of air.
Lauren walked up to the bloodied Corey Stills, looked him up and down, then said, “Asshole.”
She walked back to me. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.
I nodded at the idea. But before we left, I walked to Dante, looked into his dark, kind eyes, and said, “Thank you.” Then I leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.
“Come with us so there’s no more trouble,” I said in a low voice so others wouldn’t hear.
He nodded.
I walked to the crowd, near where the two frat brothers were. They parted to let me pass.
Just then, Sonya pressed her way past the crowd. She looked me up and down, then her eyes moved to Corey Stills, then finally, to Dante.
“What the hell?” she uttered.
“We’re leaving,” I said. There was no room for argument.
Sonya nodded, then looked back at Josh, who was getting a briefing from his fellow frat brothers. In just one glance, Sonya condemned the party to her would-be boyfriend, making it crystal clear that she was on our side.
We moved to go. It was Lauren who halted us.
“Chelsea?” she cried out. “Where’s Chelsea?”
It was a damn good question.
Our eyes surveyed the room, but she wasn’t there.
“Chelsea,” Lauren cried out, panic infiltrating her voice.
There was no answer. None at all.
This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.
But none of us knew just how bad it would be.
Innocence Page 29
