Page 33 of Shame

I shrug. “I let them use all of me.”

“After he had beaten me, when I lay tied, and bleeding. Do you think I wanted him to stick his cock in me?”

I think back, my memory of the same situation all too vivid. “No.”

“Then it’s rape, hon. If a boxer lies beaten, and the ring master has made the countdown, and the opponent punches him again, isn’t that assault? Even if it’s his job to get pummeled?”

“I guess.”

“There you have it. Don’t sell yourself short. You gotta think about what you’re good with doing, and what is too much. Then you don’t let anyone cross that border.”

“He has no respect for limits.”

“I know, but it doesn’t mean you just have to give and give. He’ll push you until he knows he’s passed every limit you had. He won’t be satisfied before that. You’ll end up more and more hurt, maybe permanently damaged, or dead. You hear me? Put down your foot, show him your limits.”

“Did you?”

Michaela spins me back so I face the mirror again, busying herself with my eyes again.

“Did you? Did it help?”

“I was too scared.”

I nod. He has that effect on people.

The last hour, the girls all avoid me as if I have the plague. I have a tight, little black dress on. No underwear at all this time. Nurturing a cup of tea, I wish I had something stronger. I wish Lucas had texted me. I’m too repulsed to take the initiative myself. I don’t know what to tell him. It’s going to be hell to see him, to ride with him to that house.

Finally, with half an hour left until pick-up time, I leave the common area downstairs and go back to my room. The men have started to arrive, circling the girls. Some have thrown interested gazes at me, but no one has dared to approach me. I bet there are the same invisible, poisoned thorns sticking out of me like the ones penetrating my heart.

I walk up to the window and stare at the garden, at the city skyline in the distance, my fingers tracing the outline of the book. We’re reading the second one. The fights are getting more intense. Pain spears my chest, as if I’d been hit by one of those arrows, and I double over, gasping. I can’t ever see Lucas again. I can’t share this with him. How can I have him come here and see his pain, knowing he wants to run away with me but that I refuse?

Looking at the clock, I jerk and spin on my heels. It’s time.

No one says anything. It’s rare for a girl to be called there a second time. It’s in their brief, shy glances: it’s as if they’re saying goodbye.

I step out on the porch and walk down the stairs to the waiting driver. I can’t meet his gaze. It hurts too much.

“Just do it,” I say, and wait for him to open the back door.

Lucas

When Ivan has disconnected, I throw the phone into the nearest wall. It falls to the floor, and the front glass shatters against the hard, wooden floor.

“Fuck!”

Running to the bathroom, I slam open the toilet lid and throw up. I shake as I sit back, still nauseous, but empty and spent. My beautiful little angel. This delicate exotic flower who has so much more to give than just her body, so much more than she thinks she’s worth. My chest tightens and the panic makes my limbs feel boneless. I’m to drive her to slaughter. I’m to pick up the pieces after.

I scream, wordlessly. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life, not even when they had me almost killing that woman.

Washing my face, I then pull on the trainers and dart out in the afternoon heat, my feet pounding the pavement, block after block. My heart is racing, my mind even worse. Every scenario I imagine ends with disaster.

The thought strikes me that I can just keep driving. I’ll take her in my car, and then drive until we run out of gas, switch cars and drive until we hit the other coast. Surely his reach can’t be that vast?

I run until every breath burns in my throat and when I look around me, I’m not even sure where I am. The apartment complexes have been replaced by villas with green, lush hedges and large lawns. I’ve run uphill for a long time, and I realize I’m running in the direction of the Salvatore residence. My fists are so tightly clenched that I have to force them open.

What am I doing? I’m not even thinking. I rip off my sweat-drenched T-shirt, wipe off my face and begin to jog back home. Constructive thoughts only, please, not cowboy scenarios.

When I push open my door, my mind is clearer, and I’m calmer. I have a plan. She won’t like it one bit, but I am taking her with me, no matter what she says. We don’t need much. I have some cash. We’ll have each other. It’ll be all right. I’ll take her to my grandparents’ farm in Iowa, and then we’ll just stay under the radar.

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