Page 17 of A Little Jaded

My eyes trail to his bloodied knuckles as Drake throttles the steering wheel like he’s wishing it was Everett’s neck. It’s quiet. Nothing but the roaring engine and the whooshing of my racing heart pounding in my ears. I can’t do this anymore. Can’t sweep this under the rug or brush it aside. I can’t.

I’ll pack my things tonight, then sneak out once he falls asleep. He can’t stay awake forever. I just need to survive the drive. I’ll figure out the rest once I’m…anywhere else. Everything will be fine.

Everything. Will be. Fine.

He hasn’t said a word.

Not a single word since we left the party.

It isn’t helping my nerves.

He’s stewing. Probably making up what he thinks he saw or weaving together an alternate reality, painting me as the villain.

I know I should’ve stayed at Everett’s house. I’m not stupid. But everything I own—my clothes, my toiletries, my sketchbooks—is in the apartment. And I have a feeling aftertonight, Drake won’t let me retrieve my things without a fight. And a battle with Drake is always a nasty affair. One I really don’t want to tackle if I can help it.

Way to go, Raine. Procrastinate more. It won’t blow up in your face at all.

I scoot a little further down in my seat, attempting to make myself smaller.

While Drake was busy having an all-out brawl in the bathroom and hallway, his buddies were having their own fight in the family room. I can’t decide if Drake’s pissed at me or if he’s mad at his friends for not having his back when he needed them.

That’s a lie.

Of course, he’s pissed at me.

I can feel it. The rage. The way it clings to him. Radiates off him. Like a scorching heat. Like a blazing fire. One I can feel down to my bones.

“You gonna tell me what the fuck that was about?” Drake finally snarls.

I tuck my hair behind my ear and face him fully. “Drake, I promise?—”

My head swings to the side, and stars explode behind my eyelids.

Shit.

The hit was so fast I didn’t even see it coming. Slowly, I lift my hand and touch the side of my face. I feel like I took a baseball bat to the mouth.

“I can’t lose you, you dumb slut,” he spits.

I’d laugh at the contradiction of his words if my lip wasn’t throbbing. You can’t lose me, but I’m a dumb slut? Does he even hear himself? This isn’t the guy I fell for. It isn’t the guy I moved in with. This is…this is a fucking asshole.

Pressing my fingers to my tender skin, I wince and look down at my crimson stained fingertips.

I’m bleeding.

The realization makes me want to cry. Or maybe it’s the pain from being backhanded. At this point, who the hell knows? It’s like a sick, twisted game of deja vu. A replay of the last nightmare I’ve relived for weeks. I’m both livid and shocked, yet not surprised at all. It’s confusing and dizzying and disappointing and rage inducing. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to fucking scream.

How is this even happening?

Forcing myself to stay calm, I whisper, “You promised you wouldn’t hit me again.”

“And you promised you’d never leave me!”

I blink back my tears. “I didn’t leave?—”

“Did you let him touch you?”

I stay quiet. The light reflects off my fingertips, showcasing the blood clinging to them as I carefully lick my bottom lip. It stings. And throbs. So much so, I can feel my heartbeat in it. It feels like it’s three times the size it should be.