by Anne Eliot
Michelle shrugs, her expression apologetic. “No can do. There's a possible Gran emergency. I'm sorry. It's serious.”
“Gran? What's wrong?” I leap to my feet.
“She called through to Corey's phone. She just kept saying for me to find you and that you needed to come home right away. If she hadn't sounded so freaked I'd let you two have more time in the old love garden. But Gray, you'd have killed me if I hadn't found you.”
“Yeah. You're right.” Michelle knows me so well. “Thanks,” I tell her as I pull out my phone. The monitor's gone black. “Stupid battery. What if she's had a relapse? I should have stayed home with her.”
“Gray, the doctor said she'd be fine. And Gran sounded okay. Just sort of panicked,” Michelle adds.
“I hope so.” I turn to Jess. “We can try to talk in the car, but…I don't know if what I have to say needs to be said in front of these two. It's private. Can you wait?”
Jess relaxes against my shoulder. “I can wait for the talking part, but could we try that kissing thing again one more time before we go?” She grins. “You guys promise not to look, right?”
“Oh. No. You. Did. Not. Just. Say. That,” Corey groans. “I refuse to witness your sappy bullshit and public making out with my best friend.” He smirks, before going on. “But if Jess wants to kiss Michelle in front of me…now that's different.”
Michelle socks him in the arm. “You freak. I don't kiss girls, ever. Our life is NOT like what you see on TV. Get OVER that stupid show you saw, or move to New York City and see if you can find girls to kiss in front of you. And good luck with that. Do something, Gray. He's so out of line.”
I stand and punch Corey's other arm as hard as I can.
Corey winces. “Bullies. Destroyers of dreams.”
I ignore his glare and put my arm around Jess's shoulders when she stands and shoots me a smile. Her cheeks are bright pink and her eyes tell me she's remembering our kiss. I pull her closer.
“Have I mentioned to you two how much in love I am with this girl?” Gray says.
“We know, dork.” Michelle laughs. “Now let's go.”
“What have you done to my best friend, Jess Jordan? And when can I have him back?” Corey rolls his eyes.
“Never,” Jess says. “He's mine, now.”
I love the sound of that. But without finishing our conversation, I can only hope she means it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jess
I have no idea how I make it to Michelle's minivan for the ride home. I can only float across the parking lot like I'm a helium balloon tethered gently to Gray's hand. My lips and cheeks burn as my mind replays and replays me kissing Gray! Gray kissing me!
Every inch of my skin is on fire. I swear I still feel his hands brushing against my cheeks, his fingers lingering on the back of my neck and running through my hair.
Kissing is amazing… weird… beautiful! Everything I didn't expect, but all that I'd dreamed about. My cheeks burn all over again. I know I've been in a constant state of ‘blush’ since Corey and Michelle interrupted us, but I can't seem to stop.
I don't want to stop.
“Tired?” Gray asks as we wait for Michelle to find her keys and unlock the van.
For the first time ever, I feel no need to lie. “Yes. Very.”
He smiles, but his eyes are dark, troubled. I can almost see the tension radiating from his expression.
“Don't worry. I'm sure your gran's just fine,” I say, hoping to calm him. We open the van door. I call out to Michelle who's on the other side of the car, “Michelle, let Gray borrow your phone to call home. He's beyond stressed.”
“Yeah…hang on,” Michelle says.
“It's not that,” Gray says, lowering his voice. His eyes flash and cloud more. “I'm—I need to finish our talk. Really. I have to know we're on the same page here.”
I brush a bold, quick kiss on his lips before stepping up into the van. “We are. I'm in. You win. I'll give it a chance. I'll trust you,” I say over my shoulder. “Just call Gran first so you can talk to me without that weird, completely upset expression on your face.”
I work my way past the bucket seats to the bench, grabbing the giant blue orangutan Gray had put in the car earlier. I shove the monstrous thing into some semblance of a ball while Gray makes it into the van and takes the seat beside me. “I love my new pillow. Thanks again for winning him.”
Without a word he squishes the awkward stuffed animal half onto his lap. “This time, you buckle into the middle. I'm your pillow too. If you can't accept that, the monkey dies a terrible death.”
Pleased, I rest my head on the monkey and lean my weight on Gray. I've never been so aware of how long his legs are. He smells like lime and warmth as usual. But this time he's got a cotton candy tinge coming off his shirt. I sigh, feeling completely safe and unbelievably comfortable. Happy, all over—again. I kind of want to scream.
OMG. I kissed Gray Porter and it was AWESOME. And he's my boyfriend!
Michelle starts the car and turns to toss her phone to Gray. He catches it with one hand leaving the other on my hair. “We probably won't have signal until we get closer to Denver,” she says.
“I thought you said she called Corey's phone. If there's no signal—how did the call come through?” Gray asks.
Corey pipes up, “We were making out in the sky ride—it's the only place that gets signal. We were at the turn-around point. Gran ruined my ‘hand-up-the-shirt-move’.”
“Corey! Can't you just tell them we were enjoying the view?” Michelle says. “As for your move, I sure didn't notice it.”
“Oh, it was in full play. I was about to let my fingers enjoy the view of the lace on your shoulder strap and then, I was going to check out that little spot on the side of your neck that my lips like so much. And then I was going to look for more lace and try a little—”
“Shut it! Or you're about to enjoy this ride home from the bumper.”
Corey laughs, totally unashamed. “What? A guy can dream.”
“As long as you keep them to yourself. Otherwise, my dad will be happy to help you adjust the dreams you have regarding me and the lace on my underwear any time.”
One of them turns up the music, drowning out the rest of their flirt-argument.
I sigh. Enjoying the moment, the warmth of Gray's body so close to mine, and the goose bumps travelling up and down my arms. Gray's hand—the one that had been playing with the ends of my hair—has wandered to my cheekbone. It lingers there a moment and traverses the length of my shoulders so he can gently rub my neck.
I completely relax. It feels so wonderful…
...
Nothing happened.
Let's get out of here.
You're a very lucky girl…lucky, lucky girl.
“There's someone in here.”
The man's voice is far away. Suffocating white is the only thing I see.
My stomach flips and rolls with nausea. I need to find some air that's not overheated. Everything begins to spin. I try to roll over, because I think I might vomit, but I can't seem to move very far. Confused, I stare up at my arm. It's caught—tied—above my head. On the other side of the white thing that's suffocating me. My hand kills, and I can't move.
I pull down on my arm hard as I can.
And I remember.
I remember.
I'd already tried to pull my arm free hundreds of times. My latest attempt has finally cut into my wrist. Now blood is staining the sheet above me. My blood. On the sheet.
That's what the white is…a sheet. A sheet…
I stare at the long trickle of red that has soaked through. It's dripping a slow a line down my arm. I hear the voice again. “Appears passed out. Wonder what the hell happened in here…”
“Help,” I croak. The back of my throat feels shredded—like it's been hit with a blowtorch. “Can you please get me out. Untie me. Please. I want out.”
I look down at myself and realize I'm only wearin
g panties. No bra. My cheeks are wet like I've been crying for a long time.
Shame, panic, and absolute dread solidify the lump in my throat until I'm choking.
The fear has me frantically pulling at my arm again. I don't care that it hurts. “I'm over here. Is anyone there?” I call out again. Why won't my legs move?
“Please…” I hear keys, the clash of metal, and a strange, noisy static sound growing louder. Light hits my face like a punch, and I cringe against it as the sheet is pulled off me.
“What the—!” The policeman's voice is so loud it cuts through the air like pointed knives.
Cold slams into me and I close my eyes. I'm only able to turn slightly away from the police officer.
“You're safe now,” he says. I feel the sheet come quickly back up to cover my nakedness, but he keeps my face clear of the fabric.
Only I wish he wouldn't.
I wish he'd hide my face. Make it so I can't breathe again, because now, I think I want to die. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here!
“Young lady, can you tell me what happened? How old are you? Do you know your name?” The voice is kind, but the reflective flashes of light glinting off his badge, his handcuffs, his belt buckle, and even from the small snap that hold his gun in place make it hard for me to find his face when I open my eyes again.
The static buzzing increases and blips. I realize it's the officer's walkie-talkie, which is right next to my ear. He kneels next to me, and shines the light right in to my pupils, then on to my tied my arm.
“This is O'Connor. I'm requesting female officer backup ASAP. Upstairs—master bedroom. I have what appears to be a 261 or 261A.”
More loud buzzing, and then, a metallic reply: “Pulling up outside.” It's a woman's voice. “Can you hold for two? Over.”
“Will hold. Request ambulance to scene. Code 50. Basic transport. Victim is conscious and breathing. Wait for possible injury update.”
“Ambulance dispatched,” a third voice runs through his radio.
The officer leans closer. I can finally register his face. He looks worried. He's older than my dad. His eyes are kind. Safe.
I'm safe. Safe. He said I was safe.
All that I've been holding back—the pain and my fear—washes over me and I start to cry again. “My arm,” I say. “I—I'm going to be sick. My arm and my hand—it hurts so much. Please help me get my arm down.”
“Stay calm. Do you know where you are? Can you tell me your name?” His hands move to the knot tying my hand to the bed.
“Jess. I'm Jess Jordan. I'm at the Peterson's house. At a party.”
“It's a flipping necktie,” he mutters, letting go of my wrist. “I'm going to have to cut the knot off with my knife. Are you okay with that? Can you hold completely still?”
I nod. He pulls out a large, black pocket knife and slices through the knots. My arm flops next to me like it's not part of me anymore. It takes all of my concentration to pull it under the sheet. It's so numb I can only register the weight of it pressing onto my bare chest.
“That looked pretty bad.” He holds my gaze. His eyes are scanning my face. I look away and see my clothes heaped in a clump near his feet and my head starts to spin all over again. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Have you been raped?”
“Almost, I think. Almost,” I whisper.
“You sure?” His voice lowers. “I'm assuming you weren't tied like that of your own free will?”
“No.” I cry harder. My arm is slowly waking up…it's pins and needles. Thousands of them, all at the same time. I groan.
He sniffs at the half-empty glass beside the bed. “This is pure vodka. How much have you had to drink tonight? Do you remember if you took any pills? Smoked anything?”
“No. No. I drank those lemonade things downstairs. And I didn't feel good. He—a guy—told me if I came up here where it was quiet I'd feel better. He told me that was water. He made me drink it. And then I couldn't move at all.” I'm gasping for breath between sobbing. “He made me drink so much of that.” I choke. “He…said.”
He said I was beautiful.
“Who was it? I need a name. Who brought you up here?”
“I don't know. I thought he was nice.”
I lean over and vomit on the carpet. On the officer's shoes.
On my tangled, inside-out new, blue shirt that's crumpled in a heap.
“Shit!” The officer moves back. “Okay. Okay. Breathe slowly. You're okay. I'm thinking you're a very lucky girl. You're going to be fine. Nothing happened. You're going to be just fine.”
He walks into the bathroom and returns with a small, silver wastebasket lined with a pink, powder scented plastic bag and places it under me.
I vomit again—this time all over the wads of tissue at the bottom of the basket until there's nothing left. “I need to go home…but I can't move my legs.”
“Okay…hold tight. We're going to get you out of here by ambulance. There's a possibility you've been drugged.”
I stare, and stare, and stare at the seashells next to the bed in a crystal bowl.
I make myself believe that if I stare long enough, I might wake up a second time at the beach and none of this night will have been real. This is all just a dream. The room spins all over again.
A dream. A dream. This is all just a dream.
I tell myself this over and over until my voice chanting these words is the only thing I hear. The seashells are the only thing I can see.
A second officer, a woman, enters the room.
She bends next to me, blocking my view of the seashells in the bowl. More questions. I try my best to answer: “Jess Jordan. I'm fourteen. No. Didn't smoke. No needles. No pills. I live on Ridge Road. Number 55. I don't know. He made me drink something. He had brown hair, brown eyes…and he was tall. Really tall, and so strong. Too strong. My Mom is at 443-8763.”
The first officer comes close again, his face still apologetic. Sad.
His voice has turned gentle, but he says it again: “She's a very lucky girl. You are a very, very lucky girl.”
“You are honey,” the woman officer agrees. I close my eyes. “A very lucky girl.”
I'm done talking to them.
...
Lucky. Lucky. Lucky. Lucky girl. Only…I don't feel very lucky.
The memories wash over me.
My hoodie being unzipped and pulled off.
“It's pretty hot up here to be wearing that,” he says, laughing after I'd choked back half of the acid tasting drink he's forced down my throat. He smiles as though he hadn't just been very mean. As though we're friends.
My upper arms ache where he's still gripping me. “There you go. Have just a little more.”
He pours it down my throat again. I try to not swallow. My t-shirt front is drenched. I cough, and some goes down my throat. I push at him and try to stand—to run—to hit him, but instead, I fall onto the carpet with a thump.
That makes him laugh. “Whoa there. That's right. Give it a minute to settle in.”
He reaches toward me and pulls the hair band out of my ponytail while I'm there—lying on the Peterson's beige carpet.
“Nice,” he says, running his hand through my hair and pulling it out around my face.
I try to stop him but my hand is now made of wood. It only moves a few inches and then stops at my hip.
“You're almost there. I'll get you some water,” he says.
He smiles and pulls me up, depositing me onto the bed easily as though I'm a rag doll. He's whistling as he walks into the bathroom. Like everything's normal.
I manage to drag myself up and hold onto the bed frame. My eyes are on the door, but I can't move toward it. He returns, but not with what he'd promised. He looks into my eyes as though he's looking for something; but I can no longer register his face, or what he looks like. Where I am…and possibly…even who I am fades away into the buzzing that's filling my head.
All I can see is a swirl o
f black eyes and a strange, knowing smile that I don't like at all.
He pulls my blue shirt up over my head, then, my cami. My bra comes next.
“No.” My voice is only a whisper. My limbs won't move.
He touches me…and I am not able to stop him…and I can no longer see his face…
“I'm going to make you feel really good. And you're going to make me feel really good. It's going to be fun.”
“No. No. I don't want this. Please,” I moan, managing to push his hands off my body and I sit up, but he easily pushes me back down.
“Shh…shhh.” That's all he says while he ties my arms to the bed.
The only apology he makes to me is that he's sorry he'd taken too long trying to decide which of Mr. Peterson's neckties he should choose.
Blue. They're blue ties. Both of them.
He peels off my jeans.
God, how I want to scream because his hands are rough, scraping against my bare skin. I turn my face away from him. My parents and the Petersons are friends. This is their bed. This is their son's party. I'm supposed to be at a sleepover down the street. Not here! Everything is in its place, but I'm not supposed to be here. We snuck out…I'm not supposed to be here. And I want to go home.
Dark wood, dark fireplace, dark furniture, dark eyes on the guy who won't stop touching me.
There's a painting of windswept dunes hung on the far wall.
And beside the bed, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson's bed, are polished, purple-tipped seashells glowing, translucent and fragile in a crystal bowl.
Beside the bed. Beside the bed where I'm being touched and I can't move. Seashells.
His hands work to tug down my underwear. He steps away from me for a second and I think maybe he's going to stop. But the light glints off of his silver belt buckle, and I know enough to understand what's next.
I try to scream again. Move. Nothing works.
A crash and a door slamming into a wall has us both looking to the sound.
Someone is in the room. “You need to stop, right now!”
“What the hell? Dude. Get out!”
“The police are heading in. Someone tripped the alarm or something. There's three squad cars outside.”
