Page 101 of The Soldier

Call Marshall.

I blink as the thought enters my mind along with the information that I need to get myself safe. What if Roger gets dressed and comes looking for me?

That gets my heart racing and body moving.

I dig into my pocket awkwardly, my hands still tied, and finally pull my phone out. Then finding Marshall’s name, I press dial.

The phone rings and I almost cry, waiting for him to answer. Until he doesn’t. Nor a second time.

Or a third.

Oh god.

He isn’t coming to save me.

The reality of how badly I’ve fucked up my life comes crashing down. Marshall is done with me. I’ve lost him.

I was raped, and I’m sitting on the grass in some unknown Los Angeles street with no panties, hands bound, vulnerable, and alone.

I should call Briar or Alice, but I don’t want them to see me like this or for any of the guys to know what happened. And they would.

For a moment I consider calling my mother, but the truth is she’s probably drunk or comatose by now.

I climb to my knees and pull myself together. When I get home I can fall to pieces. Right now, I’m not safe. I quickly order an Uber.

Then I glance down at my tied hands and wonder how I’m going to explain this. I know I should call the police, but I just want to go home where I feel safe.

That’s when I spot the rock.

On my knees, I move over to it and lower my hands, scraping it against the fabric until it begins to rip. Over and over, it begins to loosen until the restraint falls to the ground.

I stop, just before kicking it away, and roll it up and put it in my pocket. That fucker is not getting away with this.

I will not let him break me.

I won’t let any of them fucking break me. Anger replaces the feeling of being victimized and I tell myself I was right not opening up to Marshall.

Fuck him.

Fuck him for not answering the phone.

When the Uber arrives, I curl up in the backseat and let the tears flow some more.

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THE NEXT MORNING, I make the decision to ring Briar. She is my best friend, and I can’t go through this alone.

“Good morning, sunshine. How’s your head?” she asks.

“Roger raped me last night. I need you to come with me to get a rape test done,” I say, then break down into loud sobs.

There’s a moment of silence, then Briar replies, “Fuck. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Fifteen tops.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

MARSHALL

I stare at the three missed calls from Trina as I bite down on my toast the next morning, and resist—for the tenth time—calling her back.

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