Page 125 of Broken by my Bully
Okay, I feela littlesexy. My bare legs rubbing together under a soft hoodie that smells like my professor, who the fuck wouldn’t?
A massive shift from how I felt yesterday when I stopped atLookout Point. When I was still tender, stinging, aching, and so fucking stuck in my head, I didn’t know if I was coming or going.
…you like being used like this, don’t you?…
Fuck, I wish I was normal and sane, but I guess I’m not. Because it did feel good. Kai’s hand wrapped around my throat made me want to leave my body…and that was before he added his fingers to the mix.
When I step back and lift my hands to do something about my hair, I notice white streaks on my palms.
I hadn’t seen the ghostly traces of powder on the white granite countertop.
Baby powder?
Dried shaving cream?
…coke?
The last is a ridiculous thought, but I duck down until I’m eye level with the counter. As soon as I see the faint outline of the lines, my stomach grows heavy.
My uncle loved coke. Fuck knows where he got the money for it, unless it was some sub-par rip-off. He’d cut his lines anywhere he could find a clean surface. I don’t know how many times I’d get white powder on my school clothes when I leaned in to spit out my toothpaste in the bathroom sink.
I quickly wash my hands and then scrub them with a towel. I probably can’t get a contact high from just touching it, but still. I need a clear head if I’m going to remember where the hell I parked my car so I can get out of here.
Bastian’s hoodie is so warm and cozy I have to work up the motivation to change back into my sundress, but I can’t exactly leave with his clothes, either. I’m many things, but I’m not a thief.
That’s when I notice the stack of clothes beside the vanity. There’s a note on top of them.
These should fit better.
The pile yields a black t-shirt, so washed out that its print is illegible. A pair of sweatpants, just as worn. These feel like something you dig out of the attic, but they smell freshly laundered. Not a moth-eaten hole or rip in sight.
They’re a hell of a lot better than my sundress, so I slip into them and try to ignore the way Bastian’s laundry detergent smells on me.
There’s another note on the kitchen counter, on top of a few pages of stapled papers.
Hope you slept well.
Make yourself comfortable + help yourself to anything you desire.
I’m sure you’ll find this week’s study material most fitting.
Everything about it feels polite and professional…but my eyes keep darting back to one phrase.
…anything you desire…
Is this what being sexually frustrated feels like?
God, it’s fucking awful.
The house is so silent, it feels like it’s holding its breath as I wander into the kitchen to take a peek in Bastian’s fridge. And even though he gave me permission, it still feels all kinds of wrong to rifle through the contents, pulling out this and that.
Oat milk, cottage cheese, blueberries, free-range eggs, avocados, spinach. No wonder he’s in such good shape. The most decadent thing in here is the bottle of white wine in the door.
There’s frozen meat in the freezer compartment. Ice cubes. And a big tub of ice cream.
I fight back a squeal.
It’s rocky road.
