Married to the Bad Boy(15)
The bed shifts with his weight and the pressure on my shoulder increases so that I lie flat on my back. A moan shakes from my lips as the pounding ache in my abdomen doubles. He hangs over me in a black t-shirt, the alcohol finally purged from his bloodshot eyes. His face bends lower and I flinch from his closeness. He pauses.
“I’m sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have laid a hand on you—should never.” He stops for a moment to swallow. “I love you.”
The words sound so empty. Once, I believed them.
How many times must we go through this? The beatings, the apologies, the gradual buildup, the beatings.
I knew the moment that fuckface hit me that he was no good, but I couldn’t leave him. It was the first time he left a bruise. When it happened, I stayed at my mom’s house. He marched over there with flowers and sweet-talked my mother into agreeing with him that I should “give him another chance” and then I really had no choice but to follow him back to his apartment.
“I love you, too.”
His fingers lightly stroke my cheek. “You just make me so pissed off sometimes.”
Fuck you.
“I’m sorry.” I hate myself for apologizing to him, but it’s necessary.
Kill or be killed.
“I forgive you.”
Fuck your forgiveness.
He says it with a slight smile on his face, and I try not to make my smile a grimace. God, I’m so pissed off that I’m praying he doesn’t notice anything. I hope he’s too blinded by his own arrogance to notice that I hate his fucking guts.
“Elena, I love you.” He repeats it again as his lips fall on my bruised ones. I turn my head away with a cry of pain, but he continues kissing me in that passionate, possessive way that used to thrill me.
Everything he does hurts me. His weight presses into mine, and he’s either oblivious to my injuries or doesn’t care. His cock grinds into my thigh, painfully digging into me like yet another weapon he uses against me.
Oh God, no. Not now. I can’t handle this.
My thoughts get more and more hysterical as he gropes his way down my body, and then his cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. He lifts his head, stopping for a moment. It rattles noisily on the wood.
“Fucking hell.”
I swallow my sigh of relief as he rolls off me and snatches the phone, pressing it to his ear. “Yeah? All right, I’ll be there.”
Profound relief almost makes me throw up right then and there. Raf tosses the phone back on the table and rips back the covers, swearing.
“Fucking Nicky always has the worst timing.” He stands up and pulls a suit from the closet, quickly getting dressed as I pull the covers back over myself, feigning sleep.
When he shrugs on his jacket, he moves to my side of the bed and leans over, kissing my cheek.
“I’ll be back for supper.”
Good. Gives me plenty time to escape.
“Make something nice for dinner, something with meat. See you later, hon.”
I take a good look at him as he turns around, whistling a merry tune. As his shoes flash around the corner, I realize that I’m not sorry to see the back of him.
Hopefully, I’ll never see you again.
* * *
Elena, where are you?
I found the empty drawers. Where the FUCK are you? What makes you think you can just leave me?
CALL ME BACK RIGHT FKING NOW YOU STUPID BITCH!
How about I visit ur mother? I bet she’ll tell me where you are…
Sickened, I click on all the texts and hit the delete button. The vague threat toward my mother has me worried, but I hope that Vincent keeps an eye out for her. She won’t hesitate to complain to him if Rafael gives her any shit.
It took me hours to dig up the carefully wrapped rolls of hundred-dollar bills in the backyard and then replace all the dirt. I did it right under my mom’s nose, which probably bothers me the most. There wasn’t enough time to say goodbye.
It’s for her own good. If she knew where I’d gone, she would tell him, and then I’d be dead. The flashing blue light illuminating the depths of my purse sends another wave of sickness through my body. I end the call, but it’s no use. He just calls again. Voice mail after voice mail pops onto the screen, until finally I shut the damn thing off and settle into my seat.
“Any coffee, miss?” The train conductor tries to stifle a gasp at the look of my face. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
Not really.
Her face crinkles with sympathy as I just stare at her. “I fell down.” I’ve no energy to summon a less lame excuse. “Ice would be great.”
“Of course, yes.”
Stares from the other passengers just make me want to throw a hood over my face.
Montreal. I wonder what it’ll be like. I know French is the official language there, and I’m a bit worried about getting by. I place my hand against the windowpane, the cold stinging my skin. I’m probably not dressed for the harsh Canadian weather. I just grabbed whatever I had—a single wool coat, some shirts and jeans, panties, etc. No matter. With the money I have, I’ll be able to buy everything I need.