Page 16 of Notes About Vodka (Happily Ever After Hangover #1)

Chapter Nine

LAURA

“Vodka, great for drinking, better for cleaning out old and new wounds.”

I wake up the next morning, the dream still vivid in my mind as my wrist has a slight cramp and my fingers are sticky from masturbating. I stretch, feeling a strange mixture of hope and uncertainty.

Dreading going into the living room and seeing Sam on the couch with his latest one night stand. I open my phone.

There, a message waits from Valerey.

Taking a moment to try and pronounce his name, I giggle as it keeps coming out as “Valerie” thanks to my southern accent emphasizing the last syllable; Amy Winehouse’s song of the same name starts to play in my head

Val: “Hey Laura. I was wondering, do you have a calculator I can borrow for my molecular genetics exam tomorrow?”

I think about ignoring the message because I’m still mad at him, but I’m also curious, so I reply.

Me: “Why do you need a calculator in molecular genetics?”

While I wait for Val’s reply, I crawl out of bed and go do my morning business.

It’s barely 5 a.m., and if I’m lucky, Rhea and Skipper are still asleep.

I slip out of bed as quietly as possible, grab my bag, and head for the door.

I want to get to the piano lab at NYU before class and work on a new piece.

Practicing at home would be easier, but my electronic keyboard doesn’t have a headphone jack.

And after the last time a neighbor complained about my "banging" when I got frustrated with a tricky combination, I’d rather not push my luck.

The lab will be empty this early, just me and the keys, no one to hear the mistakes. That’s the way I like it.

Once my teeth are brushed, I grit my jaws together and quietly head into the kitchen with my book-bag and purse, keeping all the lights off—I’m also hoping I can make it out without running into Sam.

When the coffee is brewing in my old percolator, I go back to check my messenger.

“Hey, baby, whatcha doing? Oh, hell yeah, fresh coffee. You know I haven’t had a good cup of joe since you moved up here.

By the way, when are you coming home? I’m really tired of you acting out and all of this,” Sam says as he enters the kitchen and steals the coffee pot before its completely done, draining my life force of dark delight without saving me any.

I glare at my soon to be ex-husband. He doesn’t get it, we are soooo over.

“Sam, I don’t get you. Here, while you sip my coffee, go ahead and sign,” I push a copy of the divorce papers I pull from my book-bag toward him on the counter. “Please, make this easy for me. Stop thinking I’m coming back to Alabama.”

“Whoa, babe, you know there’s no way I’m going to be easy about anything,” Sam states as he comes up behind me. “Besides, you wanting a divorce doesn’t have anything to do with these, does it?”

Sam drops a handful of notes from Val that I had hidden in my underwear drawer. I’m sick that Sam knows.

“You see, I found these when I first got here and I was so curious to who would be leaving my wife notes. Well, based on the fact that you are working at that trashy piano bar, I could only assume it must be someone from there. Glad I came with you last night, because wouldn’t you believe it, there was someone.

A certain bartender who just couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, now could he?

What are you replying, Laura? Are you telling him about your sorry, trailer park existence before I found you?

Fresh out of high school and just wanting to be loved so bad. Did you tell him that, Laura?”

I’m trying to remake my coffee and ignore Sam’s jabs and cutting words, but he grabs me by the hips and shoves his rock hard, albeit tiny, cock between my ass cheeks.

“You know how much I love your stories, Laura. I always like how you helped find our next adventure. If you wanted to have a friend, well, you know how hard it makes me when we share.”

The man is insatiable and not in a good way.

At first, I loved it, the constant physical attention, the intense amounts of sex.

But, something shifted in my brain one day.

The crazy sex fiend that I know I am started to be disgusted with what I was allowing him to do with my body.

To share what should have been ours with others.

“Sam, stop. If you want to get laid, go fuck little miss ho thing again. ”

“Can’t, already kicked her out. Besides, you are my wife and maybe it's your dry pussy I want to come in. Remind you who you really belong to.”

I want to slap him. Dry, my ass! That’s not fair. My body went through a lot in a very short period of time. I can’t help it that… things don’t always work down there.

“Seriously, Sam, get the fuck out. We are not having sex right now, nor will we ever have sex again, I’m no longer yours. Get it through your head already.”

I go to leave the kitchen, but Sam stops me, pushing my back against the wall.

I look into his dark brown eyes, seeing the gold flecks that I used to get lost in as I would try and count them all.

“Really, never, ever again…” he says as he holds my shoulder and squeezes my breast. Hard. He digs his fingernails into my skin.

A tearful, pained moan escapes my body. I grit my teeth as Sam moves to the other one, palming it just as hard as he leans down and kisses my neck. He bites, too. I know there will be marks, it gets him off to much. He loves seeing my pale skin bruise.

“Laura, baby, one more time, you know you want to. Think how hard I get you off the moment I slide in, every time.”

My mind blanks and goes dark as I stand there and let Sam continue placing biting kisses along my neck, my jaw, my cheeks. When he goes for my lips, I turn my head to the side. He presses my cheek into the wall.

“God, you’re such a bitch, Laura. Luckily you are a good dog that doesn’t fight back.”

He’s right, I stand there and take it. Because it could be so much worse. So, I do nothing as he pins me in place, spreading my legs apart. I know I say no, I know I don’t want this, but I don’t actually try to stop him either. I never have .

I hate myself so much. How can I let him keep doing this…

“Say my name, baby, you know you want to,” Sam grunts into my ear as he rubs his dick into my thigh through his pants.

“Never, I hate you,” I say loudly and in a moment of bravery and clarity, I try to push him off.

Sam just laughs, his bigger body holding me in place as his hands drift down my torso.

There is a moment that he has a hand down my yoga pants. His fingers almost touch my clit before his overly warm presence is gone. My back shivers at the chill of the apartment air.

I spin around, gasping as I see Skipper pressing his forearm into Sam’s esophagus. He has his knee in Sam’s gut, pushing inward.

I cry out, sinking to the floor against the wall just in time for Rhea to catch me and hold me against her chest.

Sobs release from my body as flashback upon flashback of Sam successfully getting away with what he wanted to do assaults my mind. I try to stop the memories, but one pushes through.

I know I should push him off. But lessons from the past have been learned. It ’ s going to hurt, but it could be even more painful if I don ’ t just give in.

So, I hate myself even more when I don ’ t struggle when I’m pushed onto the bed and Sam ’ s jeans fall to the ground and his dick is thrusting in and out of me.

To say I feel dirty is an understatement.

To wonder if he even washed his penis from the last girl before he ’ s inside me is even scarier.

I don’t want to admit how many times I’ve checked for STD/STIs since I found out he was chronically cheating on me. Each appointment feels like a scar, a reminder of the damage done—not just to my body, but to my trust and my sense of self-worth.

Why, Laura, why do you keep doing this to yourself?

Silly girl, haven’t you learned your lesson?

But it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple.

As he presses against me now, I feel that same sinking helplessness wash over me.

I want to push him away, to scream, but it’s like my body won’t move—or maybe it’s just that I know it’s easier to let it happen. To get through it. To survive.

Every time I tell myself I’ll walk away, that this will be the last time, a part of me freezes, paralyzed by fear and doubt.

What if I’m not strong enough to stand on my own?

What if leaving means losing every piece of stability I’ve clung to, no matter how toxic it is? What if this is all I’ll ever deserve?

The shame swirls, heavy and unrelenting, but so does the guilt.

It’s my fault for letting him do this. For not fighting back harder.

The endless cycle of anger toward him, toward myself, leaves me exhausted, unable to breathe, much less resist. It’s easier to let it happen, to survive in the moment, even if it means hating myself afterward.

Because hating myself feels safer than facing the truth of how broken this has left me.

My fingers graze the small scars on my wrists and I snap back to reality, rocking in Rhea’s arms. She’s muttering something into my ear but I’m shaking. Skipper still has Sam pinned against the wall.

“Get out,” I somehow manage to say.

Rhea and Skipper look at me. I slowly stand, Rhea holding me up as I move over to Skipper and Sam and look Sam in the eyes as I calmly say, “Get out. Now.”

“Skipper,” I look at my best friend, pleading, “just escort him out, please.”

Skipper pushes Sam down the hallway and out the front door, grabbing Sam’s bag from his room as he goes.

At the door, I can hear Skipper talking to Sam, but I have no idea what he is saying .

“Laura,” Rhea begins, “we need to call the cops. What he was just doing to you…”

“I know,” I look at Rhea. “I know, we will. But I just, he just..” I can’t finish because I’m shaking and sobbing again.