Page 42 of Jerk

He doesn’t. He keeps going despite Vince’s body looking lifeless. So I reach for my heel and throw it at his head. It’s the only thing that gets him to pause.

Silence takes over before a groan finally comes from the floor. The tension in my chest releases.

Rye rises, a glob of spit flying from his mouth right onto Vince’s bloodied face. Vince lies motionless on the ground, looking exactly how he treated me. Like a piece of meat. Rye wipes his fist on his shirt, the blood disappearing into the black silk. He approaches me with a glare so deep it makes me step back before my back hits the wooden fence.

“Did he hurt you?” His voice is a low grumble, and I can feel the heat coming off him. I’ve never seen his eyes this dark. This unhinged. It’s hypnotizing. His hand comes to my face, his thumb squeezing one cheek as three thick fingers squeeze the other. “Did. He. Hurt. You?”

“No.”

“Did you want him to?” My brows furrow. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“No!”

“You teased him all night. Right in front of me. You wanted this.”

“No!” My hand comes to his chest. His hand comes between my legs. He pulls on the lace covering my folds, ripping it in one tug. A breath escapes me when his finger slides between my slit, and I hate that it feels like stepping into Chanel. Heaven. A contrast to Vince’s touch.

His head dips. “Then why the fuck are you wet?”

“Ryung?” Krystal’s voice comes from behind us. “What happened? Did you do this?”

When Rye moves his hand from my legs, my heart doesn’t stop pounding. And when he moves enough for me to see his sister standing between us and Vince, she looks as horrified as I am.

“Well, well, well.” Mac’s voice is next, my eyes moving to him as familiar faces follow. Gray. Ember. “Looks like I was right, Rowen.”

“Wait, is this about Dad?” Krystal asks. A new scar sits under her eye, my eyes narrowing on it.

“I thought this was about Vince,” I say, my voice still shaky.

“Party’s over," Rye says.

“The hell it is. You’re in my house, remember?"

“Know what, Alfonso? I’m sick of your shit.” In one swoop, I’m thrown over Rye’s shoulder, the rip in my lace exposed. “I said, party's over.” He growls at guests as he walks into the house. The DJ cuts the music.

“No, it’s not!" I swing my legs, hoping it’ll give me some leverage. "Put me down!”

“Why? So you can stir up some drama? Get yourself in a situation you can’t get yourself out of?” When he finally puts me down, I’m back in the guest room, each of us on one side of the threshold. “Time out, Hannah."

Slam!

The door shuts in my face.

I’m quick to tug on the door handle, but he tugs back. “Rye!” It’s impossible to open the door with him on the other side.

“Get me that chair.” His voice comes through the wood, muffled, but still clear.

“Don’t you dare!” My eyes widen, knowing what’s coming. Something drags in front of the door, and when I try to wiggle the handle, it's stiffer than before.

“Goodnight, Hannah.”

Hannah: We need to talk

My unanswered textis the first thing I see the next morning. Still no response.

A groan leaves me when I push off the bed, a long mirror greeting me. It’s not pretty. My messy hair doesn’t have that lustrous shine I work so hard to maintain. My skin is pale, dry and splotchy, and the bags under my eyes are worse.

I wanted last night to be empowering. I needed a win. Instead, I got locked in this room. Again. Sleep never came. I kept replaying the image of Rye pounding Vince’s face in. He was right. I was wet. But it wasn’t thanks to Vince.