by A. M. Wilson
Oh my God.
Embarrassment blazes inside of me like a rapidly spreading wildfire as I realize what all Mr. Ryan saw. At the time, I know he saw me against the wall, struggling against Wyatt, but I didn’t initially think he saw all the graphic, disgusting details.
I lift my head suddenly to look him in the eyes, even though inside I’m mortified. “What did you see?” I choke out, because suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world to me. I need to know.
“What?” he asks, probably thinking I’m rambling because I’m drunk. So I sit up straighter and hold his gaze, trying to show I’m serious. His hand stills it’s ministrations in my hair.
“When you found me today, what did you see?” I repeat.
“You don’t want me to describe that—ˮ
“Damnit, tell me how much you saw!” I demand as my embarrassment morphs into anger.
He visibly takes a deep breath and I focus on the rise and fall of his chest. I want to reach out to touch him there, to steady myself with his strong body, but I don’t. He doesn’t want me to. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. It doesn’t matter what happened two weeks ago. He’s my teacher now and we hated each other two days ago, but something changed today. He saw something happen to me that I would have never shared with him under other circumstances.
Now, he holds my deepest darkest secret because he was in the right place at the right time. Something like that, something that happens not by choice but by fate or destiny, is so much more powerful than if I had chosen to trust him with that knowledge. He was there because life intended him to be, not because I wanted him to be. He’s forever intricately woven into one of the darkest moments of my life, and it’d be impossible to unstitch that bond.
Now that life has given me a little taste of what it’s like to have someone care about me, to protect me, and nurture me, I realize I need it. It’s as necessary as any other sustenance. I don’t think that’s the alcohol talking, either.
His arms are still loosely resting around my body when he answers without meeting my stare, “I saw everything within a few seconds prior to me tearing him off of you. I probably can guess which parts you’re really wondering about, and yeah, Tatum, I did see what he was doing to you.” His voice is angry and pained, but hearing his emotions doesn’t make me feel any better.
I try choking back the sob working to claw its way through my chest, and a sound comes out like a hitched keening cry. I don’t want to spend my night crying and crying, over and over again, but the pain is so much more than I could have ever imagined. I feel dirty, and I need a distraction if I want to sleep again tonight.
I need the blade. I need the delicious silk of sharp metal to open me at the seams I try so hard to keep stitched together. My body is begging for the only release I know how to utilize. The only way to free the painful emotions tearing wildly through my body.
But I can’t. I don’t have it with me, and even if I did, I couldn’t risk anyone finding out the fucked up way I deal with my emotions.
“I need a shower. I need to wash him off of me.” It’s the only other option open to me. I jump off Mr. Ryan’s lap before he can answer me and start to wander down the hall to the bathroom.
“Wait,” he calls after me, and I stop in my tracks.
“You can use my bathroom,” he offers.
“Why can’t I use the one down here?” I ask, confused why it matters which bathroom I shower in. I just want to hurry up and scrub away the filth and degradation on my body.
“You’re drunk, and I don’t want you to slip and hit your head. My bathroom has a tub so you can sit down if you need to, and it’s just more comfortable. Come on upstairs. Let me help you.” He rushes over to take my arm beneath my elbow and steers me up the steps. I’m more intoxicated than I thought. Several times I trip up the stairs, but each time, Mr. Ryan is there to catch me.
“What’s your name?” I ask him, getting tired of this ‘Mr. Ryan’ crap. He knows my first name, and we’ve moved past ‘Miss Krause.’ I think after today’s events, I should be able to use his first name.
“Jacoby.”
“Jacoby.” I test his name out, weighing the feel of it on my lips. “Jac-OH-bee,” I repeat, dragging out the ‘o’ sound, and it probably sounds much worse because I’m drunk. “I like it. It suits you.”
He chuckles beneath his breath. I know he isn’t totally stone faced, even though I can’t see him right now.
He leads me to his bedroom. A king sized bed with dark gray sheets dominates the room, complete with a large four poster frame made of dark, solid pine pillars. Across from the bed sits a matching chest of drawers, also of pine, and a large flat screen mounted above the dresser. To the left of the bed is a large walk-in closet and from what I can see, it looks surprisingly empty. I spot a few button down dress shirts and two pairs of slacks hanging from the clothing rod. I wonder if the other side is just as vacant.
Off to the right side of the room is a small private hallway which Jacoby turns down, opening a door to reveal the bathroom. Inside sits a his-and-her vanity with a large wall to wall mirror, which is reflecting a tub and shower from the opposite side of the room. The toilet sits on the far left side of the bath.
Jacoby leaves me by the vanity while he starts to run the shower. The bathroom quickly fills up with steam, and the need to scrub my skin off is making me insane. He joins me by the vanity again, pulling open a cabinet to remove a fluffy blue towel and a washing cloth. He also removes a comb from a drawer and places it on the vanity, too.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have an extra toothbrush,” he tells me. “Are you okay by yourself? Are you still tipsy?” he asks, his features soft and full of concern as his eyes steady mine. I’ve never noticed how deep brown his eyes are, like the color of melted dark chocolate. They’re beautiful and rimmed with thick, long lashes.
“I’m fine. I’m not too dizzy.”
He turns to leave the bathroom, but pauses.
“I’m going to leave the door open. I’ll be in the room so if you need anything, just holler. And if you feel dizzy, sit down for a while.”
“Yes, mother,” I answer sarcastically, a grin spreading across my face.
“Ah, there’s my girl,” he replies, before leaving the room.
I walk across the chilly slate tiled floor to strip down privately, in case he happens to walk by the doorway while I’m naked. Bonus points for not having to see my reflection in the mirror again. I’m glad he left the door open, though he doesn’t need to worry as I’m starting to feel more sober.
The water is deliciously warm when I step into the shower, and I immediately sink down to my knees beneath the stream. Droplets pelt against the sore muscles of my back and I revel in the feeling, the tension seeping from my abused body.
Time passes as I soak up the relaxing, soothing heat. Rivulets flow down my cheeks, down my chest, and I watch the water run down between my legs. Suddenly, I’m overcome with emotion and soap the washcloth, scrubbing my skin in a desperate attempt to remove the memory of Wyatt’s touch from me. My skin begins to turn red before I realize I’m sobbing. Not entirely satisfied with the now raw skin of my thighs, I move the cloth upwards scrubbing my stomach to my breasts to my throat, while choking against the angst threatening to overcome me.
“What’s going on? Are you alright?” Jacoby must have heard me from the bedroom and come in to check on me. The safety and security of the shower had been an illusion, and I failed to realize how loud I was crying. Instead of covering up my cries, I stand up and turn off the shower.
“C-can you hand me a t-towel, p-please?” I stutter, and I remind myself to breathe. The soft blue towel appears from around the shower curtain, and I begin drying my skin before wrapping it around my body.
Feeling much calmer than a minute ago, I decide to share some honesty. “I wish I could wash away the feeling of his hands on me.” I pull back the curtain and come face to face with Jacoby. He’s staring at my face with a
mix of sadness and sympathy.
“I know, Sweetheart. I wish you could, too.” He reaches out, offering his hand to help me from the tub. When I reach the vanity, I see he put out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt for me to wear. As if reading my mind, he says, “I thought you’d like something clean to wear. I can throw your clothes in the wash for you.”
“Thanks, but I’ll do it when I’m finished. You’ve done enough. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
“Why, so you can raid my fridge for more beer?” he replies with a smirk.
“I think I’m good on beer for now, Mr. Ryan,” I throw back at him. “But I should sleep too. I have to work tomorrow.”
“Get dressed. We can sort it out once you’re finished.” He exits the room before I can argue.
I dress quickly and find Jacoby sitting on the edge of his bed. He doesn’t have a hair dryer so I’m combing my wet tangles with my fingertips when I come to stand awkwardly in his room.
“Um, where’s the washer?” I ask, not wanting to stare at his bed any longer. There’s an intimateness from standing in the place where he sleeps when I don’t belong in here.
He leads me to the first floor where he has a stacked washer and dryer in a closet off the kitchen. I start a load with my clothes and used towel, not wanting to leave any work for him to do once I leave. After my clothes are in, I stop in the kitchen and begin tying off the trash bag where I so gloriously threw up earlier while he was sleeping.
“What are you doing?” he asks, because it’s totally normal for a stranger to take out your trash.
“Uh, I sort of threw up in here earlier,” I answer shyly.
“Here, let me take it to the garbage can,” he offers, but I shake my head.
“No, just point the way. I don’t need you handling my puke.”
“And I don’t need you handling my trash,” he throws back. Not having the energy to duke it out longer, I hand over the offensive bag.
“What time do you work tomorrow,” he questions when he returns.
“Ten,” I respond and take a bottle of water he pulled from the fridge and offers to me.
“You sure you’re okay to go in? Take a sick day. You probably need to relax.”
“I can’t take a sick day. I had off Thursday already,” I reply, taking a long pull of the crisp, cool water. The iciness soothes the rawness of my throat.
He looks at me strangely and crosses his arms over his muscled chest. Shit, don’t think about his muscles.
“So, you missed class Thursday and Friday, and missed Thursday at work too? I think we need to chat tomorrow about what else is going on with you.”
“You don’t need to keep tabs on me,” I retort, feeling angry at his implication and suddenly remembering my conversation with Mr. Stephenson yesterday. “There’s nothing wrong with me, and it’s not your business if and when I miss class or work.”
“Tatum, talk to me. I want to help you.”
“I don’t want your help,” I spit back. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed.”
He sighs, scrubbing his tired face with his palms, but he doesn’t argue further. Instead, he maneuvers past me, leading me to a second bedroom down the hall from the bathroom. He doesn’t say anything more to me, gestures with a wave of his hands for me to enter the room, and leaves without another word.
I hear him climb the stairs before his bedroom door shuts. Exhaustion sets in and I lie down, falling asleep before I even have time to take in the room.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jacoby
Bright light filters through my eyelids, and I don’t need the blaring alarm from my phone to tell me morning has finally arrived. I struggle to hold onto the last remnants of my dream, knowing when I open my eyes I’ll be back dealing with the reality I stumbled upon yesterday. Back to dealing with the frightened young woman who’s sleeping in the room below me, hopefully finding a much needed reprieve in her dreams as well. Fortunately, I wasn’t plagued by nightmares; the images of Harper had dissipated once I fell asleep and didn’t return when I went to bed the second time.
I blink against the harsh light streaming in from my window and sigh. Tatum and I need to have a talk today, either before she works or after. Yesterday, I let my emotions—and hers—cloud my judgment and get the best of me. With everything that took place, I can’t think of a single thing I did right besides getting her away from that fucker. I need her to open up to me. I have a lot of unanswered questions. Where are her parents? Why can’t she go home? Who was that asshole and where can I find him? Is she going to report it? She should report it. I could lose my job for not reporting it. But damnit if she wasn’t so terrified yesterday. I couldn’t find it in me to subject her to that.
Slipping on sweats and a long sleeved Henley, I step into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Today’s Saturday, and I’m not planning on being in public besides driving Tatum to and from work, so I tousle my hair with my fingers before heading downstairs.
I don’t care how I look to her. I’m her teacher, not her boyfriend.
The mental reminder makes me feel a bit awkward, and I slow my steps down the stairs. Tatum isn’t too much younger than myself chronologically, and although her immaturity shines through at times, I can tell her mental age is far more superior than her peers. I’m not sure if I should be treating her like a student or a friend.
After stopping by the medicine cabinet, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and walk down the hall to the guest room. Just as I bring my hand up to knock, the door suddenly swings open.
“I was just coming to wake you.” Seeing her sends a pang to my chest, but why? Nervousness? Anxiety? I can’t put a name to the suddenly heavy feeling in my heart.
“Thanks, but I’m already awake,” she responds, a glimpse of that attitude I know so well shining through, and it makes me smile.
“I brought this for you. Thought you might be a little hung over this morning,” I tell her, offering the bottle and the pills.
She crosses her arms defiantly. “I don’t need them.”
Oh good Lord, we’re back to this. “Tatum, just take the damn pills,” I bark a little harsher than I intended. But it has the desired effect as she takes the water and medicine from my hands.
“Thanks,” I sigh tiredly. “What time do you need to leave for work?”
She hops from one foot to the other impatiently, or nervously, I’m not quite sure. “Um, I work at ten but I need to go by my apartment for scrubs, if that’s okay,” she asks timidly. Definitely nervousness.
“Of course. Let me know when you’re ready.”
I turn back down the hallway, intent on making a full pot of coffee. I’m going to need all the caffeine I can get today while I help Tatum sort through this mess. Staying up almost to the crack of dawn was a terrible idea.
Tatum asks to leave twenty minutes later. She’s directing me to her apartment with small sentences and nods of her head. Something changed since last night. I don’t know if she’s embarrassed or what, but she’s barely looked at me today. I try to break the silence with some of the questions I want to ask her.
“Do you have a car of your own?” Maybe she walks to school or takes a bus. Then I remember the day we met. On the side of the road. Because her car broke down.
“Um, I do, did…do,” she spouts confusingly. Taking a deep breath, she tries again. “I do have a car, but it’s being fixed. Wyatt, uh, that guy is fixing it for me.”
“What guy,” I ask, although I already know who she’s referring to, and my blood boils.
“The one who at-attacked me,” she says, curling into herself on my passenger seat. I want to reach over to comfort her, but I don’t. She’s acting skittish this morning, and I don’t want to scare her any more.
“So you know the guy.”
Silence.
I glance over to catch her nodding her head.
Wait. “So is this Wyatt, he’s the guy you called the day your car broke down?”
> She nods again, but remains silent.
“How well do you know this guy?” I ask, unable to keep my voice from dropping two pitches and sounding like a growl. But I’m pissed. When we met, she mentioned calling her friend. Sliding the puzzle pieces together in my head, what kind of friend gets a woman alone and tries to rape her? I’m overcome with a desperate rush to hurt this guy. To make him pay.
Tatum whimpers and the sound is a nail in my heart. She shakes her head at me. “Not now,” she whispers.
I let her have that because she needs time. Trying a different tactic, I ask, “Where does he have your car?”
She doesn’t answer my question, but abruptly she says, “Turn left here.”
I follow her directions, parking the car in front of a three story brick apartment building. There are a few suspicious looking dudes hanging around outside the front, and I can’t imagine a real nice crowd lives here.
“I’ll be right back.” She leaves before I can get out another word.
So she knows this guy. Once referred to him as her friend. And he has her car.
Christ, she must be feeling powerless right now. He’s stripped her of any and all comfort and safety she has: her apartment, her car, her trust. I hammer my hands against the steering wheel trying to relieve some frustration. I have so many questions I want to throw at her, but I know she’ll need to ease into my interrogation. She seems closed off and reserved, like the type of girl who’ll clam up when she’s feeling overwhelmed. She may have a big mouth and an even bigger attitude, but I also know she has anxiety.
Tatum yanking the door open breaks my train of thought. She’s dressed in a pair of bright purple scrubs, and her hair is styled into a messy pony on top of her head. It’s incredibly cute. Why did I just think that?
