Page 33 of The Good Girl

Where my mind was a swirling storm earlier, now I’m oddly detached. I don’t panic. Logic dictates that I should be afraid, but in The Society, fear is a wasted emotion. His knuckles bite into my skin as he tries to pull down my dress, plastering wet kisses on my body wherever he can. Nails scratch me and teeth drag across my flesh as he does what he wants, regardless of my will.

I inhale and relax, which he takes as a sign of my acceptance.I need to behave,I remind myself calmly as the feeling from earlier gets stronger, filling me.

No, I won’t be a good girl.

I am not a body to be paraded around for others’ enjoyment.

I am not a doll.

He claims my mouth roughly, moving down my neck as one of his hands disappears up my dress. I want to push him away, but I don’t. Instead, I wait and bite down on the fleshy bit of his ear until I taste the coppery tang of blood and his screams fill the air. No one back at the house would be able to hear him, especially not with the music blaring.

He shoves me back, slapping my face before clutching his head in pain. Rolling my eyes, I push myself back up, watching him as he tries to gauge whether I’ve actually torn a chunk of flesh from his ear or if I’ve just made him bleed. I grin, knowing I’ve torn a chunk, because I can feel his skin between my teeth.

“You fucking bitch!” he screeches, blood pouring down his neck and all over his white linen shirt. “I’m going to make you pay!”

I tilt my head as he grabs my torn dress in his fist and tries to pull me to him. I give in to the feeling that’s been building all week. I succumb to the rage.

With all the pent-up anger bubbling to the surface, I take the heel of my palm and ram it into his nose. The crunch noise is almost like the sound of stepping on gravel, just wetter. He steps back, and that’s when I kick him in the balls. I leave him in the pool house, ignoring his cries and taking his phone with me as I go. If he wanted help, he could go and find it.

I make a quick call once I’m in the garden, and look down at the damage. My dress is torn at the hip along a seam and both straps are hanging limply on, only attached by threads. I sigh and tear them off completely, my black lace bra is on show, but still in one piece. Sam’s blood is all over my face, down my neck, and runs into my cleavage. It’s also smeared over my hands and up my arms, making me look like I’ve been taking part in some Satanic ritual.

“You all done with your date?” a voice calls in the darkness, and I automatically flip him the bird. Trust Tristan to be lurking. I don’t know why, but I’m almost relieved to see him leaning against a tree, watching me with his arms crossed.

“Did you have fun?” he says with a half-smile, as we listen to Sam calling out for help. His cries are getting quieter, and it worries me how little I’m bothered by that.

“It was messier than I would have liked.” I look down at the blood on my hands, noticing more on my thighs. Fingerprint bruises have started developing under the mess too, and I roll my eyes again. How was I supposed to explain this to my father?

“Well, it’s nice to see you let your hair down once in a while,” Tristan says as he lights up a joint. I notice he’d stopped smelling of weed recently, but clearly, he hadn’t had the willpower to give up completely.

I bite down on my bottom lip, grinding out, “I lost control.”

Tristan scoffs. “He deserved it.”

There is no judgement for what I’ve done as he looks over my body with a serious gaze, he isn’t checking me out for a change, instead he’s cataloguing the damage. He’s making sure I’m okay. And that’s oddly comforting. He doesn’t make me feel like a monster.

“Yes,” I breathe. “He did. But I should’ve known better.”

“Why?” Tristan shrugs and stubs out his spliff. “This is part of who we are. The Society isn’t anyone’s bitch. We don’t lie back and think of Silvercrest as we get screwed over. We take what we want, fuck who we want, and hurt who we want.”

“There are still rules, otherwise it’s just chaos.” I shiver, completely sober as Sam finally goes silent. Good, he was beginning to irritate me. No, I shouldn’t think like that. I was not like that.

“Chaos is your middle name.” Tristan shrugs off his jacket. “You’re just not ready to admit it.”

“That’s not what I want,” I say firmly as he places his jacket on my shoulders and pulls it around me, still holding onto the lapels. We stand, looking at each other for a moment, saying nothing.

His tone is bitter as he murmurs, “Yeah, I forgot. Good girls behave, right?”

His dark eyes are locked with mine, and it’s another battle of wills. He wants me to lose control, he wants me to wreak havoc and welcome destruction into my life. But I can’t. I have responsibilities. I have to keep my anger inside.

“Fuck you,” I whisper as he lets go of the jacket and steps away.

“You want a ride home?”

“I don’t have the headspace to deal with you,” I admit. “Stay away from me, Tristan.”

He was working his way under my skin, making it harder to stay sane and stay in line. He was pushing me at every turn, challenging me, and I couldn’t hold out much longer before I broke, and I wasn’t ready for that. I needed to focus. I needed to regain control.

“I can’t do that.” He grins and winks.

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