He keeps half-tugging, half-shoving me along until we reach the passenger door of his BMW. As he struggles to keep me upright and get the door open at the same time, it briefly registers in my short-circuiting brain that we’re leaving the party.
Why are we leaving the party?
“Malibuwherewegoin’?” I slur, my words like sticky taffy and my tongue an old wool sock.
“Who the fuck is Malibu?” The sharp, icy voice cuts through my blur enough for me to register that I should be worried, but not enough for me to remember why. The door is whipped open by a faceless hand, and Bingham dumps me in the front seat with a grunt before slamming the door shut again.
Resting my temple against the tinted glass of the side window, I hear muffled voices outside the car, and the sound almost lulls me to sleep before he opens the driver’s side door and slides behind the steering wheel. Practically laying on top of me, he reaches across my body for the seat belt, buckling me in and giving it a yank to make sure it’s secure.
God, that’s awful. Old gym socks and stale beer and frustration.
The smell coming off of Bingham makes my stomach pitch and roll. My eyelids are heavy enough that they might as well be sewn shut, so I feel rather than see his cold hand roughly graze the side of my face before reaching up and pulling the pins from my hair, its inky darkness falling around my shoulders. After rubbing a soft lock of my hair between his fingers, he gives it a hard tug, making me grunt in protest. His response is to reach hungrily for my breast and twist my nipple hard enough through my shirt to make me scream.
I manage to squint my eyes open enough to see his bloodshot ones light with sick arousal at the sound of my pain. Every alarm bell is going off in my head, but my mind feels like a sea of tapioca, and I can’t latch onto a thought long enough to get my body to obey my command to move.
I’m drowning. Sinking. Poe, please, help me!
The last thing I see before I pass out is the headlights from the car following us, reflecting through the rear-view mirror and illuminating my captor’s cruel eyes, as silent screams echo through my soul, crying for help that will never come.
A shoulder digs painfully into my stomach as I’m carried and then dropped onto something soft that smells of mothballs and rot.
Ugh. Gross. Why does everything smell so bad?
I’m so horribly tired.
Somebody screams in pain, and I just want her to stop. Something sharp tears into the delicate pale skin on the underside of my arm. Liquid fire burns up my thigh, picking and pricking and jabbing. More tearing, and another guttural scream.
Shut up, already!
Hot breath and the stink of a ripe, unwashed body. Hands. So many hands. Ripping and pulling. Searing pain in my chest. The sounds of metal on metal slicing through the air.
Snick snick snick.
A trail of warmth slides down my leg.
I miss my mom. But why won’t she stop screaming?
At last, the smooth, cold arms of unyielding darkness embrace me.
Why is my hair loose? Didn’t I have it up when I left my aunt’s?
The thick strands stick to the sides of my neck and face like cobwebs. The cloying smell of dead things makes me choke and gag. Rolling onto my side, I dry-heave a couple of times and almost blackout at the pain the movement jolts through my body. Lifting my arm makes the skin feel two sizes too small and like it might split apart, but I manage to convince my hand to wipe away the hair sticking to the sheen of sweat coating my forehead.
Slowly opening my eyes, I squint at the weak light filtering in through the cracked and dirty window high in the wall to my right.
Where am I?
Struggling to sit up, my breathing turns harsh and shallow, and dark splotches strobe through my vision as all the pain flares to life at once. Clenching my teeth against the high-pitched whine building in my throat, I struggle to control my racing heart as I take in my dilapidated surroundings. It looks like I’m in some kind of an old barn.
Old barn? Where would there be an old barn in Folkestone? Dammit it, Stella! Think!
Feeling something brush softly against my hand that’s planted for balance on the torn and stained mattress beneath me, I look down, and for a minute, my brain refuses to register what my eyes show me. Reaching up with my free hand, I hear a rhythmic keening noise floating through the air, and it takes me a few seconds to associate the awful sound with my own voice.
It takes a few more seconds for me to realize that the hair stuck to my face and neck is no longer attached to my scalp.
Skimming my shaking fingers over my head, I can feel my long, raven hair is now a ragged mess. Hacked off in chunks just past my jawline, I’m sitting in the middle of the shorn pieces, like an abandoned baby bird in a broken nest.
Operating purely on instinct and driven by fear, I scan the floor around me and see what looks like a cell phone about ten feet away, butted up against the wall. With my skin, my nerves, and my guts shrieking the entire time, I manage to belly crawl off the mattress and through layers of unknown filth to grab it. Turning the phone over in my hand, I recognize it as mine, even with the new spidered cracks on the screen.
“Oh, God, please. Please,” I beg to the empty room around me, my voice hoarse and stripped. Finding the power button, I hold it down and start to cry when the screen flashes to life. Flipping to the Find My app, I quickly share my location with Sunday’s phone and open a new text message. My brain is having a hard time staying coherent, so I only type what I can manage.
HELP. PLEASE COME.
My arm falls to my side, the shattered phone sliding free as I sit pressed to the wall, slowly rocking back and forth.
Time doesn’t exist as I fade in and out of consciousness. Memories bob to the surface and pop like oil-slicked bubbles. Trying to focus on the small window in the opposite wall, I suddenly remember I’ve always hated this particular shade of light. An awful rusty gold color that’s reminiscent of old kitchen appliances. Cold sweat starts to form on the back of my neck, and my vision tunnels. Watching the light creep toward the clumps of my dark hair strewn across the stained mattress on the floor, I feel something trying to break free as my mind folds inward and down into the black hole I fall.
His voice booms through the tiny A-frame house, calling my name like thunder. Knowing that ignoring him won’t make it stop and will only make him madder, I advance into the room with stilted steps, the mid-August heat turning my mother’s bedroom into a hot box rank with the smell of sweat and fear. Tiny dust motes float through the dirty rays, dancing before my eyes in an awkward ballet that pulls my focus.
My mother, herself, is off doing motherly things, grocery shopping after getting her hair highlighted at the salon down on the corner. The man on her bed is alone and clad in only a velour bathrobe, the color of day-old burnt coffee with amber edges. From the corner of my twelve-year-old eye, I see him motion me closer impatiently, but my focus remains on those specks of dust still playing in the dying evening light from the west-facing windows.
The air conditioning unit in her room broke weeks ago, and the small fan humming feebly in the corner does nothing to move the fetid air. The man slides to the edge of the bed and reaches for my thin wrist, finally tired of waiting. In doing so, his robe falls open slightly, and I see he isn’t wearing any underwear; the horrible thing between his legs left to bob and weave freely in its excitement. Terror rises quickly in my throat, and I can taste the grape Kool-Aid I drank at lunch.
The front door slams as my mother returns home from her errands, and he quickly reaches to tie his robe, letting me slip easily from his grasp. Turning, I creep silently to my bedroom, another crack forming in my fragile psyche. Too horrified to cry, I lay dry-eyed and motionless on my bed, listening to the sounds of the rats scratching in the walls.
Strong arms reach down and lift me effortlessly off the hard ground, and the sound of someone sobbing uncontrollably lures me back to the present. I stiffen and start to thrash,
pushing feebly against the chest holding me until I hear Payne’s voice as he grips me tighter.
“Stella, it’s okay. You’re safe, I promise. It’s me. It’s Payne. Shhhhhhhh.” He starts for the door, and I stare at the vein pulsing in his temple and the flex of his jaw as he turns back toward the sobbing. “Sun, take a few pictures of this fucking hellhole. We’ll need them later. Grab her phone and anything else of hers those fuckers left behind.” His golden-brown eyes shine with unshed tears as he glances quickly away from the remnants of my hair scattered in the dirt, and my heart squeezes painfully.
He carries me to Sunday’s Range Rover as my friend comes running out of the abandoned barn, tears leaking from her reddened eyes and wiping her snotty nose on the sleeve of her sweater. Pulling open the rear passenger door, she climbs in and slides across the seat, motioning for Payne to load me in with her. He carefully lays me down with my head resting on Sunday’s lap, before jogging around and sliding into the driver’s seat. Gunning the engine, he deftly flips us about, a spray of gravel shooting up from the tires.
“I lost my shoe,” I whisper. “I’m Cinderstella. Only, I didn’t end up with a prince. I ended up with a monster.”
“Stella, honey, you don’t need a prince. You have us, and the monster will never touch you again.”
Sunday’s hand smooths what’s left of my hair as her tears drip from her cheek onto mine, and Payne steers us toward home.
Chapter Sixteen
The bumpy back roads and twisting turns are making my stomach angry and my head pound. Even though somewhere in the recesses of my clouded brain I know the Rover is practically new and still has that new car smell, the stink of rot and fear is stuck in my nose and keeps making me gag. Throwing up right now seems like it would be extraordinarily painful and, well, just plain rude after they came to my rescue and all, so I grit my teeth against the bile and pray we get home soon.
Sunday lays her cold hand on my forehead and whispers comforting words and murmurs. Occasionally, her eyes meet Payne's in the rear-view, and it's like they can communicate telepathically or something. Like they operate on the same wavelength.
Or it’s the drugs talking, and I’m hallucinating like a son of a bitch.
That makes me giggle for some reason, and I realize my mind is slowly clearing. The downside to the drugs wearing off? My pain receptors are firing on all cylinders. With every bump Payne hits, they flare. I have no idea what part of me is injured or how, but my body feels like a roman candle of agony right now—a constant slow burn interspersed with shocking jolts of blinding hurt. I try to ask Sunday a few times if we’re there yet, but the pain keeps swallowing my words.
My mind wanders, trying to distance itself from the torment my body is feeling, and all of a sudden I hope that they haven't told anybody else they had to come and save my sorry ass. The last person I want to see right now is Poe.
He's also the only person I want to see.
Stop it, Stella! Stop tormenting yourself with thoughts of a guy who doesn't give a shit.
His words on the stairwell at Roxy's party come floating back to me, carried on a breeze of sadness and longing and anger. With my eyes closed, I don't have to see Sunday's face and the heartbreaking sadness etched there. The grief that she's feeling for me. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I tell myself they’re from the pain inflicted on me rather than Poe's words, or Sunday's sadness, or me feeling sorry for myself.
We make the turn into Tweedvale's lazily winding driveway and slip through the imposing iron gates. If I were in better shape, I would probably be freaking out at the thought of Cecily seeing me like this, but right now, I can't seem to care. My body is on fire inside and out, and my head is heavy and dull.
Payne glides to a smooth stop, and before he can even cut the engine, the back passenger side door opens roughly, and Spry reaches in to lift me out of the backseat.
"Hi, Spry. Your hair is messy. Why is your hair messy? Did you just get out of bed?" My voice is fuzzy, laced thickly with pain, and the last of whatever drug I ingested at Roxy’s party.
“You can tease me all you want about my grooming habits later. How about for now you just stay quiet and save your strength, okay?" he answers, his voice gruff with worry. Carrying me through the front doors, he starts the climb up the stairs, Sunday and Payne following.
Cecily is in my bedroom, laying out pajamas and turning back the sheets on my bed. When she hears us coming, she starts busying herself further and refuses to look at me.
"Auntie," the word floats between us, quiet and soft. Finally looking at me, her distress and guilt are invisible weights hanging heavy around her shoulders. As she leans toward me and brushes a strand of hair from my face, it comes loose and sticks to her hand. It was just bad luck she picked that particular piece of hair, but she looks horrified and starts to sob. Payne steps up to Spry's side and takes my tired body from his arms so the older man can move to comfort Cecily.
“Sun, can you grab the clean clothes off the bed?” He carries me into my bathroom and carefully sits me on the edge of the oversized tub, one hand on my back until he’s sure I won’t topple over. “You good here, New Girl?” I start to nod and wince when the world slips sideways for a second, my vision blurring.
“Yeah, I’m good.” I croak, smiling at the nickname. He turns to leave, but I reach out and grab his arm. “Payne.” My voice gets a little stronger with each word. “Thanks. You didn’t have to come for me. So thank you.”
“Stella, you’re one of us.” He says it so matter-of-factly. “We’ll always come for you. Family is family.” Seeing the tears well in my eyes, he lightens the mood as Sunday walks in with her arms full of pajama bottoms and T-shirts. “Plus, I think Sun might’ve cut off my junk if I didn’t go with her when she got your message.” He laughs at the eye roll she gives him.
“Like you even thought twice about it. You were as worried as I was.” Dropping her cargo on the counter, she turns and steers Payne to the door. “Out. Go keep Miss B company. We have girl things to do.”
Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms causes a stab of pain in my right eye, and I flinch.
“Fuck me, that hurt.” With gentle fingers, I prod carefully around my eye socket, wondering if I’m going to have a shiner. Closing the bathroom door behind Payne, Sunday leans against the vanity, silvery hair in disarray, and dirt and tear stains streaking her face. For the first time since I met her, she appears to be at a loss for words. “Cat got your tongue, Easton?” I tease. Instead of the snappy comeback I’m expecting, she looks at me with sad eyes.
“Stell, don’t ever do that to me again. To Cecily. To any of us.” Crossing over to me, she sits beside me and wraps me in a gentle hug.
“Trust me, I don’t plan on it.” Her grip on me loosens just enough for me to pull back and see her face. “Sunday Grace Easton, thank you for coming to my rescue, and for everything you’ve done for me since I got here.”
“You heard Payne. You’re one of us. Family. And better than that, you’re my best friend.” Her hug this time is tighter, and my breath catches.
“You’re my best friend too, weirdo. Now can you please help me take this shit off so I can get clean?” She nods hastily, and between the two of us, we manage to get me standing long enough to pull my ruined leather pants off, throwing them to the side along with my one remaining shoe.
The outside of my left thigh is already showing an ugly bruise and looks like it was nicked in a few spots by something sharp. It’s hard to get a full picture, with it still caked in dried blood and dirt. To my relief, my panties are intact, though, and none of the pain I’m experiencing is between my legs.
So, rape wasn’t the end goal. Thank God for that.
Sunday seems to be thinking along similar lines and raises her eyebrows questioningly. I shake my head, and she finally lets go of the breath I swear she’s been holding ever since they found me in that barn.
I reach for my brush on the vanity and run
it through what’s left of my hair, strands falling around me like loose feathers. It took me forever to grow it out as long as it was, and it’s the one thing I’ve always been vain about—rich and dark, shining blue-black in the light, like a raven’s wing. Seeing it chopped like this brings tears to my eyes.
“Do you want me to try to fix it? I’m pretty good with stuff like that.” Since she can’t really make it any worse, I give her a half-hearted double thumbs up, and she goes in search of Cecily to ask for a pair of scissors.
For the next twenty minutes, I am entirely at the mercy of my well-meaning friend, internally resigned to having to find a hairdresser tomorrow.
“Okay, Bradleigh. Behold the magic of Sunday Grace.”
Stepping in front of the mirror, I pause for a few beats before looking up and gasping in shock. What was quite literally a hatchet job is now a cute reverse bob, shorter in the back where the most significant chunks had been hacked off and angling smoothly to just past my chin in the front.
“Where in the hell did you learn to cut hair?” I ask in shock, tickled by what a great job she did. “This looks almost professional.” Sunday blushes slightly before answering.
“It’s no big deal. Just something I picked up when I was younger.” She’s visibly uncomfortable with my question and busies herself with dusting all the little loose hairs from my shoulders. It’s her way of asking me to leave it alone without actually saying the words.
“You okay, Sun?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She’s not. I can see that she’s not. “I’m going to run downstairs and get something to clean this hair up. Why don’t you shower?” Her smile feels a little hollow, but after everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, I decide not to push it.
“Well, thanks for saving me a trip to the salon, bestie.” Nodding, she leaves as I turn on the shower. Stripping off the last of my clothes, I yelp sharply when the thin fabric of my shirt rips away from my breast and the inside of my arm.
Fragile Things (Folkestone Sins Book 1) Page 12