Blood in the Water(110)

“I see you don’t feel like chattin’. That’s okay, darlin’. Garfield here’s goin’ to take good care of you for me ‘til your man brings your daddy to me.” He turned to the man that she’d recognized, who hadn’t moved from his seat on the edge of the other bed. She looked up but the lascivious smirk on his face brought the bile back, followed by a chaser of fear. The sickening knowledge that she wasn’t yet as hurt as she was going to be settled in her gut.



“Keep her in one piece. Remember, we’re next door and these walls are like paper. We can hear what’s goin’ on in here.”



“Yes sir.”



Even to her ears, numbed by misery, Garfield sounded less than sincere. She wondered if Spike heard the lie in his voice. She wondered if he cared. Probably not. She didn’t see what reason she could have for hope. Her daddy was being served up on a platter and would be overwhelmingly outnumbered if this was the same motel that the rest of the Rabid Dogs were staying at. And that was if he wasn’t hurt already.



She didn’t want to believe that Paul could do what he was being accused of. She wanted to believe that there had been something true and honest between them. It had felt as though there had been. But she hadn’t wanted to believe that Matthew could cheat on her, either, or that he would discard her so callously. But he had. She hadn’t been enough once. No reason to believe she had been anything more than that again. She should have listened to Dean and stayed away from Paul. Thoughts about her brother, that she’d ignored his advice, that she couldn’t tell him he had been right, that he couldn’t hold her and comfort her, added fresh acid to the blades that were slicing through her heart.



She curled into a ball on the bed and sobbed. She was past caring if the man sat across the room watched her fall apart. She knew she didn’t have the physical strength to get away from him, and she sure as hell didn’t have the strength or the speed or the energy to outrun however many men were out there waiting. She’d be shot or worse. At least if she waited she’d get to see her daddy one last time, maybe hopefully. If she had the chance to tell him she loved him before they were both killed, it would be enough. If she had the chance to spit in Paul’s face, that would be bonus, but her sorrow was drowning her anger.



“Now, now, darlin’. He ain’t worth all them tears.” The voice was right beside her.



She jerked up and nearly hit her head on his. He was leaning right over her. The only reason she hadn’t was that he’d stepped back at the last minute. He was holding out a wad of tissue paper to her. She eyed it suspiciously, but took it and blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Crying had only made her head hurt worse. She was fairly sure she’d have a bruise somewhere from the Chief’s punch. She was sure she could add swollen and puffy.



“There, there, beauty.” She flinched imperceptibly when the used the pet name that Paul always called her. She wasn’t sure if it was on purpose or not. She cringed away when he reached his hand out to stroke some of her hair behind her ear. She stayed statue-still as his fingers tucked the lock into place, but when his hand dropped to brush the curve of her breast through the fabric of the sweater she batted it away.



Fast as whip he struck, backhanding her across the face. A flash of pain and the taste of blood, and Ashleigh knew he’d split her lip. The cry of pain and shock had barely left her lips when his hand smothered her mouth and he dropped on top of her, using his weight to pin her to the bed.



She could feel the blood smearing under his palm, and she could smell old whisky in his sour breath. He was clambering over her, pressing her flat into the bed. She tried to struggle, but there was no strength in her limbs. She felt as weak as a newborn kitten. Tears of frustration leaked from her eyes. She didn’t want to be defeated, she didn’t want this to happen, but it would. She couldn’t stop it. She wished fervently that she’d put more clothes on before answering the door, at least then he would have more layers to fight through and she would have had more chance to recover herself, but there was very little in between him and his goal.



He had scrambled on top of her and was wedging himself between her legs. She tried to keep them closed, but the hand over her mouth was making it difficult for her to breathe and in addition to the physical and emotional rigors of the day she was beginning to get lightheaded. She felt him reach down, between their bodies. She wriggled and struggled, trying ineffectually to dislodge him. When his hand found its target she gagged against his palm. He was rubbing, hard, hurting her, his jagged nails catching on that sensitive skin. Then he was fumbling at his belt and fly. She went limp as the energy to fight deserted her, replaced by a hopelessness so complete that she was surprised her heart could beat past the thick fog of despair.