Page 68 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
My blood turns to ice water. Stunned, I stare at him. “You don’t mean that.”
He says slowly, “Look at my face, Chloe.”
I am, and it’s scaring the hell out of me. Who is this man? I’ve never seen this side of Eric, and I have no idea how to handle him. I edge away from the counter, trying to put distance between us. “I told you before, I’m not together with him.”
Eric moves closer, his gaze level, and so very dark. “You know what I used to love most about you, Chloe? You never lied. You weren’t that kind of person. But you’ve changed, and I know what made you change. I know who.”
“I think you need to leave now.”
“Oh, is that what you think? Because I think you should get down on your knees and do something to convince me not to make his life a living hell.” His hand drops to the fly of his trousers. A bitter little smile disfigures his mouth.
I’m so afraid I begin to shake. Though his tone is calm, the malice and madness glittering in his eyes make him look totally unhinged. My heart pounding, I walk slowly backward, heading toward the front door. “You’re drunk. This isn’t you, Eric. I know you—”
“This is what you’ve made me,” he hisses, following as I retreat. “I love you, Chloe. We’re good together. We fit. Until you decided to take a detour down whore alley, everything was perfect. I’m willing to forgive and forget, but you have to earn my trust back. And you’re going to start by getting down on your fucking knees and begging me to forgive you.”
He unzips his pants and pulls out his erection.
I don’t know where it comes from, but the outrage that blasts through my veins is like electricity, sizzling hot and blazing, lighting me up from inside. I stand up straight, walk to the front door, yank it open, turn back to Eric and shout, “Get the hell out of my house!”
At that moment, my upstairs neighbor walks down the stairs. She’s an older woman, single, recently divorced, the one who pounds on the wall if I’m too noisy. I’ve always thought she disliked me, and she takes the opportunity to prove it.
She takes one look at me standing in the doorway, and says, “You know, if you’re going to keep having screaming orgasms every night at two a.m., you might want to buy the rest of the building some earplugs.” She sends me an evil smile, then turns and continues on her way.
There’s a split second before Eric reacts when I think it couldn’t possibly get any worse. Then he lunges toward me, snarling, and proves me wrong.
He slams shut the door and wraps both hands around my neck. He pushes me against the wall and starts screaming. “You lying whore! You fucking bitch! You filthy little cunt, I’ll kill you!”
Over and over, he bangs my head against the wall. He’s breathing alcohol fumes into my face. His lips are peeled back over his teeth, his eyes are wild, and I’m convinced I’m going to die. The room gets fuzzy. I claw at his hands, desperate for air. I can’t breathe.
Then I jerk my leg upward, hard, and knee Eric in the balls.
He cries out in agony and doubles over, staggering back. I fall to my knees, gasping and coughing, one hand on my burning throat, the other splayed on the floor, supporting my weight as I struggle to stay upright. Eyes watering, I crawl forward, reaching for the door handle, but Eric has recovered. He lunges at me again. He drags me to the floor, falls on top of me, and starts tearing at my clothes. When I fight him, he backhands me across the face. Pain explodes across my cheekbone.
His class ring. That’ll leave a nasty mark. My brain is somehow removed from what’s happening to my body.
Eric savagely rips open the front of my cardigan. Buttons pop off and clatter over the wood floor. He leans over me, panting, snarling obscenities, grabbing my breasts and squeezing them hard. My hands flail at his face, but he easily knocks them away.
And suddenly I’m floating above myself, looking down. The strangest sensation of calm sweeps over me, like I’ve flown into the eye of a hurricane, where everything is silent and still. My mind is clear, detached, and I can think.
I remember a newspaper article about my father that ran in the Los Angeles Times last summer, after he’d been hired to defend a famous basketball player from charges of domestic abuse. All charges were eventually dropped when my father unearthed the plot between the player’s wife and her lover t
o try to cash in on the thirty-million-dollar contract the player had just signed. Subsequently, my father filed extortion, blackmail, and conspiracy charges against the wife.
The headline read, “Carmichael Goes for the Jugular.”
I look at Eric’s throat, pale and vulnerable above the open collar of his shirt.
Then I punch him in his Adam’s apple.
He makes an awful gagging noise and clasps his hands around his neck. I get enough wiggle room to move, and shove him off me. As he coughs and retches, I stagger to my feet, run to the kitchen, rip open the junk drawer, grab the bottle of pepper spray my mother gave me when I moved in, and run back over to Eric. I spray the crap out of him, all over his face and upper body.
He screams. Clawing at his eyes, howling and sputtering, he falls from his knees to his ass and starts rolling on the floor.
Panting, I stagger to the door. I have to get out of here. I can’t think of anything else but get out get out get out. I run out of the apartment, leaving the door wide open. Eric’s bellowing follows me out into the hall. I fall against the wall next to the elevator, banging my fist on the call button. Blood drips from my face onto my arm. There are splatters of my own blood all over my chest, my bra, the sleeves of my sweater. My throat is on fire; it’s almost impossible to breathe. Badly shaking, I pull the sides of my torn sweater together over my chest, and start to cry.
When the elevator doors slide open, A.J. is standing inside.
He takes one look at me and makes a sound I’ve never heard a human make before, a guttural rumble of pure rage. Sobbing, I fall forward, collapsing into his open arms.
