Page 51 of One Bad Knight

“Thank you so much for coming.”

You don’t know me at all.

“Wasn’t my uncle’s speech excellent?”

I’ve never been so alone.

“Hey.” Jimi nudged my shoulder before handing me one of the champagnes he held. “You seem a little tense. This will help. I’ll have some with you.”

I gave a curt nod and sipped at the bubbles. In no time, I downed the whole glass, though I wished it were bourbon.

“That a girl,” he said encouragingly.

Jimi was right. The drink did help relax me some. A sleepy warmth expanded through my body. When I stumbled, Jimi took my arm again. “Let’s go find a more private place to take a break from this party.”

All I could do was nod. I suddenly needed to sit down; my skin felt tingly and strange. Not bad, just strange.

Jimi led us onto a garden path, where we wove past shrubs, irises, and petunias until we reached the rose garden. At the center of the water lily pond stood a red and yellow glass sculpture of spikes that rose high into the air. It was a Chihuly, beautiful and vibrant, yet violent and prickly. It reminded me of someone I knew. My hand closed, as I wished Gatsby’s strong, warm one held it.

My eyes zeroed in on a stone bench next to a statue of a woman, and in moments I experienced the bliss that was sitting. I sighed, content as a cat.

We could still hear the chatter and music from the party, but I felt instant relief at not being under such intense scrutiny.

Jimi studied the woman’s statue. “Greek, sixteenth century. When people knew how to celebrate a woman’s form.” His hands covered her stone bosoms, giving them a squeeze.

I couldn’t even pretend to care what he was talking about. My body hummed with strange energy, and it drowned Jimi out.

“But you’ve got way better tits.” Jimi shot me a sly smile and loosened his tie.

Time blipped and he was sitting next to me. Too close. His cologne closed in around me, and the heat of his body was oppressive. A hand roughly squeezed one of my breasts.

I batted his hand away.

“Jimi, stop,” I said. My words come out a little slurred.

He giggled, an unnatural, off-kilter titter.

I tried to focus on what was wrong here.

“Did you… did you give me something?” I finally managed to ask, grasping a now-watery memory of him handing me a glass of champagne. Was that five minutes ago? Or had that been an hour ago?

“Yeah, to help you relax,” he said. Then at seeing my expression he rushed to say, “I took some too. We must get through these dry functions somehow, right? I thought we could use some fun.”

And then there he was again, his mouth attached to my neck like a sucker fish. Jimi’s hands were on me, squeezing too tight, fumbling with the zipper on the side of my dress.

No, no, no, I didn’t want this. I needed to push him away. I tried, but he just emitted that strange titter again before reattaching to my neck.

“Just relax, baby, I’m going to make you feel so good,” he muttered. “Now that I know you are such a dirty little slut, I know exactly what you need.”

My stomach churned. Gatsby had called me worse, but this was all wrong. It made me feel sick to my stomach.

“You need a big fucking dick to stick down that naughty throat, just yards from everyone else at the party. That way you won’t scream and make a scene like the cunt you are.”

“Jimi, stop,” I said louder, hoping I wouldn’t have to knee his balls into his throat. Though that option was becoming the far more appealing one. The situation was fast growing out of hand, and I felt disconnected from my body in a very bad way.

He gripped my arm and forced me to lie back on the bench with surprising strength. Or was I just woozy from whatever he’d given me? He pushed my dress up. Then a zipper opened with an audible rip. I twisted my body to try and maneuver him away, but he grabbed my hair with a sharp jerk.

“That’s right, I like it when my dirty little sluts put up a fight. It always makes it more fun.”