Page 105 of The Cruelest Chaos
The pain bleeds through again, just like the warmth on my back, trailing down to my pants.
The next flick of the whip and I go to my forearms, forehead against the cool cement of the garage floor.
Father Tomas pauses. I squeeze my eyes shut, breathe in the few seconds of relief.
But he’s good. He’s so good.
He doesn’t stop for long.
Chapter Twenty-One
The bar is surprisingly full,considering it’s nearly one in the morning on a Wednesday. I hitched a ride, and the men I rode with are here, too, ordering shots and grinning at me like they think I’m going to pay them back at the end of the night.
Maybe I will.
I took off my sweatshirt when I left Maverick’s, dropped it in his yard. I’m in a white cami, black leggings and worn sneakers. But no one seems to care that I’ve been in a Guinea pig shed, and no one knows I watched a man I thought was god fuck another girl inches from me on the same bed.
The guards outside of Maverick’s neighborhood questioned me when I walked out, but despite their guns and their grisly appearance, I told them to go fuck themselves. And damn, did that feel good.
Much like tossing this third shot back in a bar where no one IDs anyone feels good.
The bartender is the same one from when I came here with Maverick and his friends, and he’s eyeing me curiously, but he doesn’t stop pouring tequila shots for me and the two men on either side of me.
“Ella?” one asks me, twisting on his stool to face me.
I knock back another shot and feel my stomach burn, the room sway in front of my eyes as I turn to take him in. He’s probably in his thirties, with a five o’clock shadow and a white t-shirt and jeans, muscled forearms.
I nod once. “Yep,” I say, that single word thick on my tongue. “And you?” I didn’t ask their names. Didn’t ask them shit. They said they were on their way home from a late-night restoration job, but when I requested this bar by name, they were all too eager to join me.
“Mark,” the guy says, his fingers curling around a half-full beer. He’s taken as many shots as I have but he’s not swaying on his stool like I am. “Where did you come from, Ella?”
I wait for him to say something about me falling from heaven and I think I’ll fall right the fuck off this stool if he does, drunk or not. That’s too cringey. But he just waits.
He just waits for me to answer his nice, normal question, with a nice, normal smile on his face. Nothing to make me want to gauge my own eyes out. To cut my heart out of my chest and give it to him while I beg him to love me.
He wouldn’t hit me. Probably not even if I asked him to. Probably not even if I begged him.
“West Virginia,” I answer him, and his eyes light up.
“Which part? My parents are from West Virginia, we go back a lot.”
I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, feeling the warmth in my face and my blood from all of that tequila. Too fucking much. But I force myself to focus on Mark’s deep brown eyes. “Beckley. What about you?”
He takes a sip of beer and shakes his head once. “You’re not going to believe this, but Glen Morgan.” He laughs softly to himself, taking another drink.
“Wow.” And I actually am surprised. What are the chances we’d both have roots to little towns right off the Turnpike?
“Looks like tonight was fate.” His eyes dart behind me, to his friend who is talking animatedly to someone else, then come back to me. “What’re you doing for the rest of the night, Ella?”
I stifle a yawn, rub my eyes and glance down at Mark’s lap. He’s more muscular than Maverick, taller than me, but not quite as tall as him. He’s got no tattoos that I can see, and he has short brown hair, thick and coarse. His arms and face and neck are tanned, and I imagine it’s from working outdoors. I imagine he doesn’t have any wounds on his back but he’s probably got lots of nicks and cuts and callouses from his work.
I don’t even know if Maverick actuallydoeswork.
“It’s morning,” I point out, propping my head up on my fist, elbow on the bar. “I’m tired.” I don’t know why I’m saying that, why I’m suggesting maybe I want him to take me to a place with a bed. I know if I do that, if I end up in bed with him, he’s going to expect me to fuck him and I’m going to do it.
If only to get Maverick out of my head. That girl calling him ‘Daddy’. He’s never asked me to call him that. I don’t even know if he actually liked it, but I don’t care. I’ll probably hear that single word ring out in my head for the rest of my life.
I’ll probably never talk to him again and I’ll still hear it, and I’ll still hear him telling her he wants to fuck her in the ass and I’ll see her turn over and him roll his eyes at my silent ‘No’.
