He’s sadistic.
“You know,” I glance up at him with a scowl, “I thought you were telling the truth when you said you wanted to start over—be friends, and all.”
Colson smiles with amusement, “Oh, Honeybee,” his words drip with condescension, “I’m going to be a lot of things to you, but a friend isn’t one of them.”
I feel a tug at my waist and look down in time to see him hook his fingers over my belt buckle and pull the waist of my pants out far enough to fit his hand inside. With one twist of his wrist, his hand disappears and he pulls me close to him so I can’t move. I grab his forearm against my stomach, but his fingers are already between my legs.
“Goddamn,” Colson groans as he slides his fingers inside me, slick and aching for release, “you act just as hateful as you did back then, but you’re still so weak for me, and I love it.” He opens his mouth wide with each word, his teeth clicking against mine as he shoves each syllable down my throat.
“Colson,” I creak out, squeezing my eyes shut.
“Yes, baby?” he starts rubbing gentle circles around my clit, making me squirm against him, “Do you want me to stop? Before you come all over my fingers and can’t come up with an acceptable explanation why?”
There’s a sharp knock at the door. Startled, I push away from him and he releases me. I quickly adjust my pants and smooth my hair, my eyes darting between Colson and the door. Thankfully, my hair usually looks like a curly mess anyway…
He takes one long step away from me, “Or maybe you just prefer that we see each other…” he pauses with a glint in his eye, “not here.”
“Come in!” I call.
A flash of platinum blonde pops through the doorway and Abby’s bright blue eyes search the room for me.
Jesus, Abby.
I can’t decide whether I’m annoyed or relieved that she’s here.
“Hey, sorry,” she apologizes in an exaggerated whisper, “do you have a minute to come to my office and go over these templates?”
Colson glances over his shoulder at her, “I’m done, she’s all yours.” He starts backing away from me, “So, yeah, just let me know.”
He winks at me before stepping past her. And as soon as he does, he reaches up and pushes his index and middle fingers into his mouth as far back as they’ll go. Then he slowly slides them back out, sucking his fingers clean before he disappears into the hallway.
As soon as I return to my office an agonizing 15 minutes later, I grab my phone with shaking hands, my fingers spastically searching for my text thread with Barrett. It’s a short text, but it takes me three tries to type out.
ME (2:05PM): I need you.
I’m supposed to see her, anyway. It’s Thursday dinner, after all. But I feel the need to warn her about the disaster she’s about to encounter. I also need a strong drink, the sooner the better. This is only reenforced when another text comes through a few seconds later. I grab my phone, thinking it’s Barrett, but it’s Hildy, and she’s asking me more questions about dresses and wedding cakes. All I can do is slam my phone down and bury my face in my hands, trying not to dissolve into a blubbering mess.
Sipping my whiskey on the rocks while recounting the afternoon to Barrett serves two purposes; halfway through the glass, my hands stop shaking, and all the talking makes me drink at a slower pace so I’m not blitzed by the time I finish. Barrett sits across from me in complete silence, a constant look of tranquility on her face punctuated by brief eye and cheek movements. She doesn’t give knee-jerk reactions full of wide eyes, slack jaws, and horrified gasps. She might have, years ago, but not now, not when she hears stories with equal or greater shock value every day.
When I’ve finished, Barrett takes a deep breath and stares off into the distance, a sure sign her brain is in analytical overload. And she has thoughts.
“OK, two things. First of all, whoa,” she says before taking a heavy sip of her Sauvignon Blanc. “That was my best friend response. And, second, do you feel unsafe around Colson because of what happened today?”
“I don’t know,” because I don’t, “I felt better he told me more about what happened in college. But after the Rickhouse, the smoothies, and what happened today…” I shake my head, unsure of what to say next.
“Did he admit to doing those other things?”
“No,” I give a laugh and then scrunch up my face in a scowl, “I even got up the nerve to ask him, point blank, but he never actually answered the question.”
“Perfect,” Barrett purses her lips with an eyeroll, “so, do you think that he’s trying to intimidate you with his behavior?”
“I know he is. But it’s more than that,” I jiggle my empty glass back and forth, making the condensation drip through the table slats onto the concrete, “the whole time, it was like he was rubbing my face in it.”
“You mean because he can do what he wants without consequence?”
“That, and…” I trail off, having no idea how to say what I’m about to say, “honestly, it’s like when a douchebag guy doesn’t like something you do, but he won’t just leave, so he acts like a dick to get back at you for it.”
“So, what’s Colson getting back at you for? You haven’t had a relationship with him in three years—of any kind. And the one you did have was pretty superficial and lasted for about five seconds.”
I stare down at the table, chewing the inside of my cheek and debating whether to open Pandora’s box. If I do, I’ll have to tell Barrett the rest of the story—the whole story—that no one else knows. Barrett thinks Colson was a crush, a run-of-the-mill hookup, a fuckboy who’s acting like a creep now. Yes, I’d told her what happened at the end of that night, when I woke up with him on top of me and a gun to my head. But I didn’t tell her what happened before.
I didn’t tell her why it was so hard to let go of Colson Lutz, and why my logical brain is locked in mortal combat with my reptilian brain—and the lizard is winning. I didn’t tell her about the things he told me, things I wander back to in the dead of night when I can’t sleep, things I visit in the deep recesses of my mind and then judge myself for afterward. And when I found some of those things in Bowen, I clung to them—clung to him—because they remind me of what I lost. And for that, I have overwhelming guilt.
“There’s a reason all of this sounds so insane to you,” I say while tearing at the edges of a napkin.
Barrett leans back in her chair and drapes her hands over the wrought iron arms, “Look, unless you’re going to say Colson’s been walking around with someone’s head in a box and gifted it to you, I don’t think you need to worry about how anything sounds to me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Brett
College
Colson drives like he should be on a racetrack rather than the interstate surrounded by cornfields. He’s silent from the moment he started the engine and doesn’t speak until the skyline is a distant glow behind us. But I can’t read him yet and I don’t know whether he’s angry or just comfortable with silence. Granted, I don’t care if he’s angry. If I don’t want to kiss him, then I don’t want to kiss him.
Once there’s nothing but a desolate highway in front of us, I finally clear my throat and break the silence, “Where do you live?”
“The West side, on the river,” he replies, reaching over and resting his hand on my thigh.
