Page 2 of Sixty Days Of Summer

He holds me tight, his gaze fixated on my lips once more. I can see the anticipation in his eyes, as if he expects me to surrender to his demands, just like he has cunningly manipulated me to do in the past.

As he moves in for another kiss, my instincts take over. I claw at his face and dig my nails into anything I can reach, desperate to make him back the hell off.

With a menacing growl, he forcefully shoves me, causing me to crash to the ground with a resounding thud. With a sudden impact, my body collides against the hard edge of the coffee table, igniting a searing pain in my side. The vase filled with flowers shatters, creating a colorful explosion of petals and shards of glass across the floor.

As I look up, struggling for air, I notice his towering figure above me, his face covered in scratches, blood slowly trickling down. His fingers drift across the wound, his touch gentle yet cautious, until he pulls his hand back to examine the dark, smeared blood. As he glares at me, his eyes burn with an intense fury. Before I can react or even get to my feet, he lunges forward with a predatory snarl.

“I fucking hate you, you stupid bitch,” he seethes, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over me.

As his voice roars in my ears, I recoil, realizing too late the danger lurking in his clenched fist. Just as I close my eyes, I feel a bone-jarring force slam into the side of my face. The force ofthe impact sends a jarring wave of pain coursing through me, shaking my bones and leaving me momentarily stunned as I collapse once more onto the floor.

Through the fog in my mind, I catch the faint sound of his footsteps resonating in the room, yet their exact location eludes me. The sound of running water brings me back to reality, forcing me to refocus. My vision blurs as I blink repeatedly, trying to focus, until finally I spot him standing by the kitchen sink. Hunched over with his back turned to me, he splashes water onto his bloody face.

My mind screams at me to get the fuck up and get out of there. Fumbling with the front door locks will take too long, and he’ll catch me before I can make my escape. The bathroom—it's my best shot. I pat my pocket, and a wave of relief washes over me when I feel my phone still there.

With his back still turned, hunched over the sink, I know I need to act now. There might not be another opportunity later. Desperate to get into the bathroom, I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest.

The uneven rhythm of my footsteps catches his attention, and moments later, the faucet shuts off.

“Oh no, you don’t, you little slut,” he growls, his hurried footsteps closing in behind me.

I push harder, feeling my body teeter on the edge of losing balance as my shoe unexpectedly snags on an object on the floor. Dread coiling in my stomach, I stagger forward, bracing myself for an imminent fall. With an effort, I regain my balance, and the force pushes me towards the bathroom door.

Footsteps sound behind me—shit, he’s almost on me.

In a rush, I propel myself through the narrow gap in the slightly open door, swiftly turning around and slamming it shut. The last thing I see before closing the door is Beck’s furious face looming closer, his eyes blazing with rage.

I stumble back, my heart pounding in my chest, as I watch in terror while the doorknob twists and turns frantically.

“Please, Beck. Please just go away,” I plead, my voice trembling with fear.

“Open the fucking door, Scarlet,” he snarls from the other side. His palm slams against the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through my head, amplifying the relentless throbbing pain in my face. “Fuck you, Scarlet. You know why I fucked Tasha? It’s because she doesn’t act like she’s so goddamn superior. That’s why I went to her—to get the fuck away from you.”

With trembling hands, I grab my phone, desperately trying to block out the relentless pounding on the door and Beck’s cruel taunts. I start to dial 911 but freeze abruptly.

If the press gets wind of this, my brother might make headlines for all the wrong reasons, simply because I’m his sister. I can’t do that to Nate—he shouldn’t be dragged through the mud for something beyond his control. But if calling the cops isn’t an option, how the fuck do I get Beck to leave my apartment?

“I’m calling the cops, Beck!” I scream, my voice trembling against the thunderous pounding on the door.

The banging abruptly stops.

“I’m calling the cops right now, Beck,” I repeat, my desperation seeping through as I clutch the phone tightly, praying that this threat will finally make him back off.

“You won’t fucking do that. You know the shitstorm it’ll bring,” he sneers from the other side of the door. He knows I’ve always avoided doing anything that might attract media attention and put my brother in the spotlight.

Ignoring his taunts, I press on, pretending to have already made the call and speaking loudly for him to hear through the door.

“Yes, I need to report a break-in at my apartment,” I say, striving to keep my voice steady despite the fear gnawing at me. “There’s a man trying to force his way in and threatening me.”

“Fuck you, Scarlet, you bitch,” he spits back.

Ignoring his rage, I keep speaking, using everything I’ve picked up from reality TV to sound convincing.

“Yes, my name is Scarlet Reynolds, and Beck Wilder, my ex-boyfriend, won’t leave my apartment,” I say, hoping the urgency in my voice is enough.

Through the closed door, I hear the jarring sounds of objects being hurled and shattered—vases crashing, furniture scraping against the floor. The noise crescendos into a chaotic racket before abruptly cutting off with the sharp slam of the front door.

With my heart still pounding, I approach the door cautiously, straining to catch any hint of Beck’s presence. The silence is unnervingly eerie, amplifying the throbbing pain on the side of my face where he struck me. I press my ear against the door, careful not to make any noise that might provoke him further.

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