Page 12 of Jane Deyre
My eyes soak him in. Now two years older, he looks no different. Except for the hideous scar that covers half his sallow face. The skin pink and puckered. His right eye distorted. The remnants of a second-degree burn that makes him look grotesque. More monstrous than he was. His sinewy body is also a bit more filled out, a paunch budding. Still wearing his dirty-blond hair in a buzz cut, he’s clad in a grungy T-shirt with the name of a rock group I don’t know—Lock ’n Roll—and ill-fitting jeans. Strapped below his gut, there’s a multi-pocket utility belt holding various tools, including different size screwdrivers, pliers, a hammer, and a power drill. An electrifying bolt of fear zigzags down my spine. He could easily attack me with these tools. Bash my head with the hammer and then drill a hole in my heart. Especially since he’s smashed. In one hand, he’s gripping an almost depleted bottle of cheap whiskey. The sight of the bottle frightens me as much as the tools. I want to close my eyes and blank out the memory, but I can’t.
He takes a glug of the alcohol and staggers up to me. So close I can feel his fetid breath on my cheeks. Smell the nauseating mixture of booze and cigarettes.
He rakes his eyes over my body, lingering on my tits longer than need be. My blood pulses in my ears; my heart thuds. He smacks his lips and eyes me lasciviously.
“You look good, Jane. Life treatin’ ya good?”
“Yeah. Nice seeing you.”
I will myself to stay calm. I know what he’s capable of. And for what I did, I know he’s out for revenge.
While he takes another long swig of the whiskey, I dash to the front door, weighted down by my duffle, guitar, and backpack. I glance over my left shoulder, and to my horror, he’s about to hurl the whiskey bottle at me. Holding it high above his head, he flings it before I can duck. In his drunken state, he misses. The bottle flies over me and crashes through the front window. The glass shatters, shards falling onto the carpet. Part of me is relieved the bottle is gone.
Not looking back, I keep my eye on the front door. All I have to do is get the hell out of here. Fingers crossed Mr. Rochester is still waiting for me in his car. Though in this shit neighborhood, there’s a good chance he’s slumped over the steering wheel dead. Or been forced to go on a joyride with a gun pointed at his head. The gangs here would do anything to steal his fancy car.
My breathing labored, I reach the door and clamp my fingers around the knob. As I’m about to turn it, two hands grip me by my shoulders and flip me around. I gulp. It’s John Reed! He presses me hard against the slab of wood, and I can’t help noticing the track of purple needle marks crawling up his arms. The telltale signs of a heroin addict. When he’s not drinking, he’s shooting up. A lethal combination.
His dark, lustful eyes hold me prisoner. “Where do you think you’re going, Jane? Don’t you think we should catch up?”
“I’m moving out. I have a new job. A new place to live.”
Rage blazes in his eyes. Dropping his hands to my breasts, he squeezes them so hard I wince.
“You ain’t going nowhere.” He rubs his hideous scar. “You owe me, foster girl.”
Panic sets in. A memory stirs. In my head, I’m eighteen again, writhing and wailing beneath his weight. I try to stall him.
“Tell the landlord I’ll pay what I owe him. I promise!”
“You and your filthy lies and promises!”
“I mean it. Let me go!”
“Give it up, bitch!”
“I’ll be late for my job.”
“You’ve got a job right here.” To my horror, he shoves down his jeans along with his boxer briefs. “It’s called a blow job... Remember?”
My heart thudding, I keep my eyes on his marred face, hard as it is to look at. I can’t look down at his repulsive dick. I never want to see it again.
“Now, get down on your knees and suck me! Or I’m going to finish the jobIstarted and fuck your skank pussy withmypower tool.” He cups the fingers of one hand around his erection. “And then drill a hole in your ugly face... with this tool.” He gazes down at his power drill, hanging from the bottom pocket of his utility belt. He flicks the button with his thumb; buzzing, it vibrates loudly against his thigh.
An evil grin flickers on his face but only gets so far because of his scarred skin. The evil glint in his eyes makes up for it. He snarls.
“Maybe I’ll drill a pattern. Like an X across your face. It’ll be way more interesting than the scar you gave me. So much more creative... something you’ll appreciate.”
He slips the cordless yellow drill out of the belt pocket and holds it like a gun to my face. With a jab of his thumb, he switches it to drill mode. The silver drill bit at the end resembles a bullet. It spins around and around, the awful grating motor sound deafening. I’m seized by fear. Every muscle is quivering. Pinning me with his hips, he traps me against the front door.
“So, foster girl, what will it be? My cock in your mouth or a hole in your head?”
My heartbeat speeds up. My mouth goes dry.Think, Jane, Think!
Without overthinking it and with all I have, I lift my knee and jab it into his genitals. Then whack my guitar case over his head.
Cursing, he yelps in pain and lets go of the drill. Still buzzing, it falls to the floor. With one hand, he pats his head and with the other he rubs his crotch. His hand movements remind me of those that accompanied that silly song we sang in kindergarten, “Jelly Beaner.” Except we rubbed our tummies.
His face reddens with rage. “You twat! You’re going to pay for that.” He removes his hand from his head and runs the fingertips over his hideous scar. “And for what you did to me!”