Page 7 of Creeping Lily
Lincoln glances at his phone, brows knitting before he forces a casual tone. “Friend’s broken down on the freeway. Needs a jumpstart.”
He lingers like he doesn’t want to leave. For a second, I think he might just say no. But then?—
“I won’t be long,” he says, and he’s gone, the front door closing with a click that sounds far too final.
The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s swollen. Watchful.
Back home, my grandmother’s presence was a constant backdrop—pans clattering, the hiss of boiling water, the radio crackling a sermon or a ballad. Here, the quiet is a void.
Even with state-of-the-art security, the fine hairs on my arms prickle. My gut clenches with that primal knowing: something is wrong.
I box up the cards, slide them onto the shelf. Maybe I’ll read until Lincoln gets back. Or write. Or—if my mother returns before him—finally see her after so long apart.
I cross the short walkway to the guesthouse. My hand is already lifting to push the door open?—
—when a solid weight crashes into my back.
Air whooshes from my lungs as I stumble forward, hitting the rug with burning palms.
Laughter follows me in. Low, predatory.
The door bangs shut. Three men step in. I know them—Bentley’s college friends. Faces I’ve passed in the hallways during summer visits. Faces that now twist into something wolfish.
They reek of beer, sweat, and expensive cologne gone sour with alcohol. Bottles hang from loose fingers, liquid sloshing. Their grins are sharp and mean.
“So this is Bent’s little secret,” one slurs.
My pulse thunders in my ears. I back away.
“Sexy little thing, aren’t you, Lil?” another says, raking his gaze down my body. “All grown up now.”
“Pure, tight perfection,” the third murmurs, and the words crawl over my skin like insects.
“Leave. Please.” My voice sounds small, brittle.
One swigs from his bottle, foam clinging to his lip. Another closes the distance in two strides and shoves against me, his palm cupping between my legs.
My stomach flips with revulsion. I slap his hand away. They laugh—loud, jeering—drunk on more than alcohol.
“Leave me alone,” I hiss, but it’s too late.
Fingers hook under my skirt. A hand clamps over my mouth. The smell of beer and sweat fills my nose. My back hits the dining table with a jolt.
I bite down on the hand silencing me—hard enough to taste blood, metallic and hot—but he doesn’t let go.
A foot kicks between mine, forcing them apart. The hem of my dress rides up, my skin exposed to cold air that stings like ice.
Fabric tears at my shoulders—my favorite yellow dress falling in limp ribbons.
“Please,” I whimper.
The first man rips my underwear away. And then—pain. Sharp, splitting pain as he forces himself inside me.
The table shakes under us. My nails scrape wood, bending back painfully as I try to push away. The hand over my mouth swallows my scream, turning it into a strangled moan.
The smell of beer mixes with the sour tang of his sweat. My eyes water from the effort of holding on to myself—of not breaking.
He finishes quickly, hot breath fanning my cheek. No condom. Panic spikes sharper than the pain.
