Page 113 of Trick or Treat Nurse at My Feet
"He's not playing anything.” The words come out fierce while I struggle against his hold. "And neither am I. Let Me Go!"
Ryan's grip tightens. "Those pictures did you a favour," he hisses. "They showed you who he is before you got in any deeper."
The words hit the air and just hang there. "What do you know about those pictures?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
Something flickers in his eyes before he schools his expression. "Nothing. Just that they must have shown the truth, given how upset you were."
"The truth," I repeat. "How would you know what the truth is, Ryan? You weren't at that party. You've never been to any of the frat parties, have you?"
His lips press into a thin line. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that we can start fresh now. Forget about Tyler Landis and his bitch sorority girlfriend."
As I stare at him, the pieces begin clicking into place. "You had something to do with those photos, didn't you? You and Cher."
"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffs, but there's a nervous edge to his voice. "There's no proof of anything."
The slip is all the confirmation I need. "Let me go," I say again, keeping my voice steady while not showing how pissed off I’m getting.
"Not until you listen to reason," he insists, crowding me further against the lockers. One of his hands is on my arm, the other wrapped around the front of my throat. "We're getting back together, and we're going to forget all this crap ever happened."
I've had enough. In one quick move, I slam my knee up between his legs. Ryan folds over with a pained gasp, his grip getting loose enough for me to push him away.
"Fuck off, Ryan," I say, breathing hard. "We're done. Forever."
Before he can recover, the locker room door swings open, and Sylas appears, looking worried.
"Ethan? You were supposed to meet me—" he stops, taking in the scene, Ryan hunched over, me backed against the lockers. "What the hell?"
"We need to go," hands snatching my bag. "Now."
Ryan lunges forward, grabbing at my shirt. "You little?—"
Sylas moves quicker than I've ever seen, pushing Ryan backward so hard he falls flat on the floor. "Don't you fucking touch him!" he shouts, stepping between us like a shield.
Ryan struggles to his feet, gripping his balls, rage contorting his face. "You're going to regret that," he spits, advancing toward us.
Sylas grabs my arm and yanks me toward the door. We rush into the hallway while Ryan yells curse words behind us, threatening to hurt us as his voice bounces off the walls.
We nearly collide with a campus security guard rounding the corner. He looks alert and concerned, probably responding to the noise from the locker room. Relief floods through me at the sight of his uniform. He has perfect timing.
"What's going on here?" he demands, looking between us and the locker room where Ryan's shouting continues.
"He attacked my friend," Sylas says breathlessly. "In the locker room. He was threatening him."
The guard's face gets all serious when he sees how freaked out we look and hears Ryan still yelling threats from inside. "Stay right here," he tells us, grabbing his radio to call for help before he heads into the locker room.
What follows is a blur of activity. A second securityguard arrives and runs into the change room. The two men restrain Ryan, who's still red-faced and shouting obscenities. I'm aware of how I must look, my shirt partially torn at the collar, visible marks on my arms where he grabbed me, my hair messed up from the struggle. Even though he's still bent over from me kneeing him in the groin, Ryan still gives me this look so full of hate that I can't help but back up a step.
"You'll pay for this," he hisses as they lead him away. "Both of you."
Then comes the endless process of statements, first to campus security, then to the actual police when they decide Ryan's threats plus assault warrant the 911 call. We tell our story over and over: how Ryan trapped me in the locker room, how he grabbed me, how he admitted he was behind the fake photos, how he threatened us when we tried to leave.
The police take photos of the bruises that have blossomed on my arms and throat.
By the time they let us go, it's already evening. The university counsellor who talks to us seems nice but tired, giving us pamphlets and telling us about assault survivor support options that I can barely focus on. All I want to do is head back to Blake's place and crash.
"You okay?" Sylas asks as we finally leave the administration building, the campus is dark around us.
"I don't know," my voice comes out tired and a bit strained. "I think Ryan helped fake those photos of Tyler. He kind of admitted it."
