Page 22 of Not Made to Last

It takes thirty minutes under a scalding hot shower for me to finally convince myself that everything will be fine. I just have to keep my shit together, which is entirely doable. Besides, it’s not as if I’m unfamiliar with the act of lying. I lie to Dominic every day… about a myriad of things, and he has no clue about any of it.

My biggest lie:I’m good.

After a heavy exhale, I leave the bathroom, flicking off the light as I pass, and sit on the edge of the bed.

Then I reach into the drawer of my side table and pull out the cash. There’s so much I can do with this amount of money, but I can’t, for the life of me, come up with a single reason that would justify keeping it. It’stoomuch. So much it feels wrong even to hold it.

My phone goes off with a text, and it takes a moment for me to realize that it sounded fromthephone. Notmyphone.

I pull it from the same drawer where the money was and quickly open the text:

Not Fridge Guy

You would not believe the night I’ve had.

I stare at it a moment, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

It’s late… but you got me intrigued. Tell me everything!

I’m okay, don’t panic…

I got hit by a fucking car.

Okay, not hit, but like… it bumped me, and I was too stunned to react so I just lay there in the middle of the road until the driver came out to check on me.

I laugh under my breath and get comfortable in my bed, phone in one hand and wad of cash in the other. Both of which led to a new version of Rhys I’d never met before.

I reply:

I hope the car’s okay.

You’re such a smartass. How was your night?

Mynight? With a smile, I close my eyes and allow myself to get lost in the image, the memory, of Rhys’s solid body beneath me, his mouth so close to mine I can almost taste his kiss. I stutter an exhale, my mind working, my heart racing, all while the truth weighs heavy on my chest.

A truth that I could only ever admit to myself.

If I’d known how the night would turn out, I probably would’ve done it for free.

PART II

12

Rhys

The pain is instant. So is the blood that fills my mouth and coats my tongue with copper. I keep my lips sealed, refusing to let him see the bloodshed he caused. I don’t fight back. That would be pointless. But I’ll never truly surrender, either. I’m trapped—not just in the corner of the room, but in the darkest recesses of my mind. I’m on my hands and knees, the blows to my stomach putting me there. Blood drips from my nose and other places I can’t even comprehend. My head pounds, thud thud, thud thud, and pain sears across my ribs when he kicks me there. Once. Twice. Three times. I struggle for breath, finally allowing the blood to fall from my mouth. I try to inhale, but all I can do is cough. Gurgle. Cough some more.

Darkness falls every time my lids become too heavy, and I suppress my grunt when he yanks my hair, pulls it from its roots. His hot breath coats my face when he sneers, “What now, you pretty-boy faggot?”

I shut my eyes just in time to block the spit in my face.

He releases my hair, letting my head drop between my shoulders. “Get up!”

The cement blocks feel cool against my palm, and somehow, I get to my feet. My chest rises, falls, the remnants of my beating painting the floor crimson. I lean against the wall and try to square my shoulders, preparing for the blows that will inevitably come. I’ll take every one of them. Wear them like badges of honor.

“The fuck are you smiling for?” He’s mad. So mad. And when I try to focus, I can’t tell if there’s one or five of him. With one eye swollen shut, I can’t make out shit.

I spit blood on his shoes. “You, you fucking pussy.”

---