Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  I’m not sure when I really started caring about what Ryder Harrison thought. I’m not sure when I started to care if I was fun enough to be around him and his friend. I’m not sure when he really crossed my mind, infiltrating my thoughts, to begin with. Maybe it was when Zephyr said all those awful things to me, breaking my heart, maybe when I said yes to Ryder’s Homecoming invitation because I knew it would piss Zephyr off. Maybe it was when I learned that anything I did with Ryder Harrison would anger Zephyr Kalivas.

  The bigger question: When did I start caring so much about what Zephyr thought of me?

  Ryder continued to drink. Definitely more than I was. I stopped counting his beers after five. No, six. The drunker he got—is that even a word?—the more hands-on he got. I tried to keep his hands in G-Rated areas, but he wasn’t a rule follower and didn’t believe in respectable boundaries.

  “We should get out of here,” he tells me while he attempts to dance, leaning closer to my ear to be heard over the pop song I didn’t know. His hand reaches up and strokes the side of my face, my cheek, as he thinks he whispers to me when, in reality, he’s straight up yelling directly into my ear.

  Ouch.

  “I don’t think you’re okay to drive, Ryder,” I reply, feeling his hot, sticky breath against my ear and neck. No one can understand how much I want to take a shower right now. I need to wash him off of me, I need to wash this night off me.

  As predicted, the temperature is so high in this room that I’m strongly debating the t-shirt I wore. I ditched the light jacket I wore and tied it securely around my waist like I used to do as a kid. My hair is tied in a messy bun on the top of my head but the back of my neck is still boiling. Every time I move my legs, my jeans stick to me and every move is uncomfortable.

  As much as I want to leave and head home—dear God, let it be soon—I paid attention during freshmen health class when we had to suffer through that British video about driving under the influence. Actually, I had to be carried to the nurse’s office, by Avery of all people. I passed out nine minutes into the film, smacking my head on the side of the table resulting in a permanent scar on the side of my face where my ear meets my cheek, from the sight of all the blood.

  It was real footage.

  Harley, like the best friend that she is, filled me in on all the gory details; the death toll, the number of limbs lost among the victims.

  I still shudder when I think about it.

  “Who said anything about driving, baby,” he purrs in my ear as he boxes me against the wall. His body presses against mine, pinning me to the wall. “I just mean a different room. This place is full of rooms. How about one less…” he trails off, pausing to think of the appropriate word, which could take some time given his inebriated state. “Crowded.”

  Red flag!

  “Uh, how about not,” I nervously mutter, my hands reaching up his chest to push him away. He drunkenly stands his ground, his hand reaching up to cup my cheek. His blue eyes focus on my mouth, on my lips, the lips—I swear to you right now—he will never touch.

  “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” he asks quietly, his face leaning closer, closer, and closer to mine.

  “Because I don’t want to,” I tell him, ducking from his head, trying to maneuver under his arm. It doesn’t work.

  “Of course you do,” he whisper-slurs, his beer-sour breath blowing into my face.

  “Why am I still here?” I mutter under my breath knowing he didn’t hear me, searching the surrounding crowd for help. Ryder’s too focused on my mouth, my lips, the lips he will never kiss, so help me God. “Look, I’m going to go, okay?” I don’t mean it as a question, I just want to leave in any way I can.

  Where’s Avery when I need him? Where’s Kennie when I need her?

  I just need a distraction of some kind.

  Ryder says something that I can’t understand, something that I wasn’t even paying attention to.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I remind him, still trying to push him away. “Okay?”

  “No, not okay,” he whines—actually whines like he’s three years old and someone took away his favorite toy—but his hands grasp both of mine, pulling me closer to him, if that were even possible. “Come on, let’s go somewhere more private. You’ll like me so much better there.”

  I don’t even like you now.

  “I doubt that, Ryder,” I struggle to say against his chest. “Let’s not and say we did.” I regretted that as soon as it left my lips. I don’t want to say we did anything except that he drove me home… after he sobered up. “Look, it’s almost my curfew”—I didn’t have one tonight, but it never hurt to use a little white lie—“if you can’t take me home, I’ll find my own ride.”

  “Baby, I’ll give you a ride you’ll love.”

  Crap, crap, crap!

  The word replays in my brain—constant repeat.

  He maneuvers us toward a closed door on the other side of the living room. No one notices us as we pass. To anyone that bothers to look at us, we just look like we’re heading off to get some alone time. No one notices my struggling to free myself from against Ryder’s chest, no one hears me telling Ryder to stop and let me go, but someone does lock eyes with me. Brett, the one from the first party, the one that surveyed me like a piece of meat. He smiles at me as we pass.

  Ryder gets the door open and the light turned on before he kicks the door closed and releases me into the room. I stumble back, falling on the rug in the center of the room.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Ryder?” I yell, sobering up and standing. What little buzz I had is long gone.

  “Nothing that you can’t fix, baby,” he slurs as he walks past me, his hand gliding across my cheek. He falls onto the white leather couch, as graceful as an elephant, patting the seat next to him, but I refuse to move. I refuse to go near him.

  The room he just locked us within must be some sort of den or home office for Jennifer Long’s father. There’s a large wooden desk by a window that lets out onto a balcony and the aforementioned white leather couch that Ryder’s currently sitting on—who knew that people still owned, let alone made, white leather couches, there are various trinkets and tiny statues that scream I am Man! everywhere.

  “Please,” he begs, still slurring, still whining pathetically. “I’ll behave.”

  I roll my eyes. I can leave. I can just turn around and walk out the door. I could get to the door before he even stands. As I turn around, ready to make my big exit, his hand grabs my arm and yanks me toward the couch, pulling me onto the cushion next to him. Ryder inches closer; his hand finding my cheek again, rougher this time. I shove him away and stand up, trying to move away from the couch, trying to put distance between us, but his hand latches onto my arm painfully, pulling me down until I straddle his lap.

  “Ryder, stop,” I demand, trying to wrench my arms free. “Let go of me,” I command, struggling against him to stand and back away. Only it doesn’t work and soon, I’m lying back on the couch with Ryder on top of me, his hand gripping my jean covered thigh aggressively.

  He mashes his lips against mine, aggressively, forcing his tongue into my mouth. His hand sloppily glides down my body until it reaches the hem of my shirt, pulling and tugging at the fabric to get a good grip. His hand slinks beneath the moist fabric and sliding up my stomach until his fingers reach the cup of my bra.

  My pretty baby girl.

  I try and push him, try and get away from him. Finally pushing back, kicking him until he falls to the floor in a muffled thud swallowed by the thick carpet. I stand, feeling a cool breeze against my stomach. He ripped my shirt, splitting it down the front. I turn my back to him until the light hooded jacket from my waist is untied and on. I need to cover my stomach. No one can see my stomach. As I zip the Abercrombie & Fitch jacket, my locket glints in the light, and I feel a tear slide down my cheek.

  Suddenly, I’m filled with so much sadness, so much anger, and the feelings conflict with each other. They battle for
the right to take over my body. But I allow neither one the authority to control my body. I need to survive; I need to escape—that’s all that matters right now.

  I turn around, hoping that Ryder’s a smart boy and left the room.

  But he hasn’t.

  He’s standing in front of me, a malicious grin splitting his face.

  “I’m going home,” I tell him, pulling my phone from my pocket. I scroll through the contacts for a name, an idea of someone to call. I stop on Zephyr’s name, his number illuminated in pink; he’d come and get me. Despite our fight, he still cares about me. I know if I were to call him, he’d come running.

  “Oh, come on, baby, don’t be like that,” Ryder whines as he stands near the couch. “All I wanted was a kiss. I’ll take you home now.”

  As he stumbles before me, I replay his words in my head, mentally hearing the slur.

  “Like I’m going anywhere with you again,” I growl, my hands shakily trying to hit the right part of the screen to call the familiar number. Damn touch screen phones. “How the hell could I’ve trusted you? I knew there was an agenda, I should have listened to him,” I remark, remembering Zephyr’s doubts and warnings.

  His hand snatches my phone from my hands before I have a chance to call Zephyr, before I have any way of warning anyone about where I am—my screen froze.

  Ryder glances at the screen, a shrill laugh escaping his throat. “Really, Kalivas?” he asks, mockingly. “Pathetic,” he slurs-murmurs as he tosses my phone onto the desk beside us.

  Forget this. “This is too much effort,” I angrily blurt. “You are too much effort, I’ll walk home.” Even if I have to leave behind my phone.

  Ryder grabs my arm before I can move away from him, because I can move out of his arms reach, or better yet, out of the damn room. His fingers tighten against my skin, squeezing so hard I know there is going to be a bruise tomorrow.

  “Just one more kiss?” He leans closer to me, his blue eyes mere inches from mine. “Please?” As if he’s in any condition to ask me for anything.

  If I were to kiss him—there’s no shot now—if I were to appease him, I could leave, if you follow the theory. But the thought of my lips touching his, voluntarily this time, his tongue drunkenly stabbing into my mouth again, that’s enough to make what little is in my stomach start churning and threaten to erupt. I just want to go; I’ll walk if I have to. It’s only three mines, maybe. That’s not too far. If Kennie drove separate from Duke, I might be able to borrow her car and she can just hop a ride with Duke. If Avery’s still here, I can just beg him for a safe escape.

  “I’m going home, whether I can call someone or I’m walking,” I tell him. I’ll be angry to leave all my stuff in his car, he has my jacket, my wallet, and one of my favorite hats, but I’m willing to make the sacrifice. It can’t be that much to replace a license and debit card.

  I lunge to grab my phone from the large, capacious desk next to us. My fingers circle around it, gripping it like the lifeline it is, and I try to click on the screen. My fingers find the button on top, pressing it once, twice, three times.

  The screen remains black and blank.

  Crap!

  My HTC has one issue, one flaw that really peeves my buttons, whenever I drop it, or someone launches it onto or against a hard surface, it tends to restart or shut off. Mostly it restarts, this time it just shut off.

  The dark screen turns white, a sign that it’s coming to life. Albeit, slowly.

  Ryder presses himself against me from behind. I can feel the disgusting length of him through my jeans, pressing against me. He bends himself over, reaching down to run his hands along the side of my body. His other hand grips my hair, snapping my head back. I let out a weak yelp as his hand grips my hair tighter, yanking a few strands out with the strain.

  A hand glides along my neck, sliding down my chest.

  “Ryder…” I’m losing my air, I can’t say. “Please.” I beg, my eyes beginning to water.

  My hands reach back, grabbing, scratching, anything. One hand slides into his front pocket, finding his keys and tugging them out, cupping them as best I can.

  “All I wanted was a kiss, bitch,” he says into my ear, the sound whistling loudly.

  You are so beautiful...

  “Let go, Ryder,” I beg, feeling tears starting to fall from my eyes.

  That’s my girl…

  He yanks once, twice, three more times. “You’re not worth it,” he spits out bitterly. Ryder releases me and backs away, staggering his way back to the couch.

  I can feel my body start to shake but I don’t want him to see it. I don’t want him to see me scared. I grab my phone, grip my jacket where my locket lies against my skin, and bolt from the room as he lies across the couch, hopefully forgetting my name. I shove my way through the sweating crowd receiving elbows and hits as I make my escape. The door never seemed farther. I make it outside, heaving in the cold air, letting it fill my lungs.

  It feels so wonderful to breathe!

  In, out—inhale, exhale. Just breathe, Joey. All you need is to breathe.

  “I’m safe,” I tell myself, whisper like a lunatic, I know.

  Feeling the chill, I hit the button to Ryder’s car, hearing the locks click in his new car. I grab my things from the passenger seat, making sure that everything is there, and toss his keys beneath the passenger seat, locking the doors before I slam the passenger door shut. I know it’s not much but it makes me feel better to know that something in his life will be harder than usual. I know he doesn’t have a spare key here. Maybe there’s a hide-a-key on the car somewhere but the fact that I just locked his keys in his car makes me feel a little better.

  Zipping up my jacket, I start the trek down the large hill. I dial Zephyr’s number, praying that he answers my call. There are so many reason why he won’t but I want none of them to matter. I want to hear his voice, I want to hear him say my name, I want to hear…

  “Hello?” he groggily answers. He probably ignored the caller ID. From the sound of his voice, he must’ve been asleep.

  “Zephyr?” I whisper, stopping in my tracks. I stopped crying when I locked Ryder’s car, but now I feel the tears beginning again.

  “Joey?” he sounds awake now.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” I sob out, clamping my hand to my mouth. I can’t lose it now.

  “Where are you?” I hear something rustle on the other line.

  “Jennifer Long’s street,” I answer, looking around for a sign, anything to tell me where I am. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  “I’m on my way, Jo,” he tells me. “Just stay on the line with me, okay? I’ll find you.”

  “Okay,” I answer, still walking, getting as far away from that house and that party as I can. After twenty minutes of listening to Zephyr’s breathing through the phone, I see the headlights of Jamie’s car and am inside the warm interior, warming my hands against the heater in the dashboard.

  We ride in silence for a few minutes before either of us say anything, before either of us even look at each other.

  Zephyr breaks the silence.

  “What happened?” Zephyr asks as he clicks the turn signal, making a right onto the main street, heading home.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell him, quelling the urge to cry. I fix the ponytail in my hair, keeping my eyes in my lap. I don’t deserve his kindness right now. I know that. I don’t want to hear him say I told you so but I know I deserve at least that much. “Maybe tomorrow?”

  He looks to me; I can see the movement from the corner of my eye when I lower my hands back to my lap. My fingers thread together to prevent the shaking. It’s unsuccessful.

  “Maybe,” he whispers, knowing I’ll never tell him what happened. I don’t want to think about it ever again. He’ll be left wondering what Ryder could’ve done to me to make me cry. He’ll be thinking that it must’ve been horrible since I’m crying.

  Pulling into my driveway, Zephyr turns to me, no smile
on his face. He’s expressionless—tired. His mouth opens, as if he’s ready to confess anything, apologize for everything, explain anything, but I don’t give him the chance. I bolt from the car, running up to my front door and struggling with the lock on the door until I’m safely inside my own house and away from the scary things of the night.

  Everything is dark, Aunt Hil is at work, per her usual, and I'm going to be alone for the night. Again. Lucky me.

  I walk up the stairs, slowly removing my jacket before I reach my room. Inside the dark room—I don’t bother with the light switch—I change into the most covering pajamas I have. I throw the ruined t-shirt into the trash can, or when I toss it, it’s close to landing inside the trash can. I pull Zephyr’s old football sweatshirt over my head, the one I stole when he wasn’t looking back in eighth grade, and crawl into bed. I could be reading right now, I could have the television on and watching some obscure old rerun, or I could be plugged into my iPod, drowning out my mood with some Slipknot or In Flames. Instead, I’m listening to the sounds of the house—the wind blowing against the roof, the wooden walls popping, cracking, and groaning as they settle. My mind floods with abandoned memories from the night. Ones that I need to box up in my mind and store in the large closet in my brain.

  His hand raking, grabbing, along my body, my clothes, his hot, sticky breath against my ear, burning against the tender skin of my neck, his want pushing against me, how there seemed to be no protection for me, how he laughed at me, how he made me feel small and unimportant.

  The voice telling me I’m beautiful. The voice…

  That voice didn’t belong to Ryder; I know that. It was someone else, someone older.

  The voice, it was worn and new, smooth and gruff, familiar and unknown.

  But we… we were alone in the room. I’m sure of that. Right?

  Then who told me I’m beautiful?

  ***

  Darkness swallows me, tugging me lower into the abyss. Emptiness swells around me. It wraps me up and envelops me. Keeping me cold and alone. Or, at least, I think I’m alone, but I’ll never know. I’ll never seek what waits for me. I’ll never wonder, truly, what’s here. Waiting.