I stumbled to the side. “Martin…”
“You don’t listen to anything I say.” He dug the tips of his fingers into my skull and shoved again, and I almost dropped the brush. “Is it so hard? Just doing what I tell you to do?”
He pushed me in the head again like I was stupid, and I fell to the side, dropping the dish and brush into the sink. I waited for the slap, but he just grabbed my wrist and yanked me to the table.
Pushing me down in the seat, he grabbed a handful of the spaghetti and stuffed it to my mouth.
Tears swelled my throat, and I squeezed my eyes shut, holding it back.
“As if we don’t have enough problems, you go and get a reputation for being one of their little whores,” he said, stuffing another fistful into my mouth. “Thinking you’re going to be one of them. Thinking you’re better and them thinking they’re better because they get to play with you like a toy!”
Spaghetti flew in my face, dirtying my glasses as he stuffed handful after handful at my mouth, the noodles pressing down my throat so hard I couldn’t breathe.
Silent tears streamed down my eyes. I twisted my head away, trying to spit it out, but he grabbed my face and squeezed my jaw to open me up again.
I couldn’t stop crying as I gasped for air. I couldn’t breathe, and I gripped the sides of the table, my teeth cutting the insides of my mouth.
I tried to think of my gazebo. If Will helped me build it.
How nice that might be someday.
Will and the gazebo… Will and the gazebo…
The breeze on my face was warm, and the leaves in the trees smelled like summer.
But as Martin yelled, and I gagged, spaghetti choking me, I couldn’t muster another single coherent thought.
I couldn’t think. I couldn’t remember what Will looked like. What my gazebo looked like.
I didn’t have a gazebo. There was no Will Grayson.
There was nothing but this.
There was nothing but this.
Emory
Present
Wrapping the towel around me, I ignored the eyes I felt through the glass and grabbed the clothes Micah had brought, taking them to the privacy—hopefully—of the bathroom. Of course, there could’ve been a two-way mirror in there, too.
Stripping off my soaked boxers and top, I dried my hair as best I could with the towel, brushed with the brush I found on the sink counter, and dressed, pulling on my clean underwear I’d washed out last night and hung to dry on the shower door, someone’s clean boxers over them, and their button-down white Oxford.
I rolled over the shorts to make them fit and buttoned the shirt, rolling up the sleeves. If I had to guess, I’d say these clothes were Rory’s, since he was the smallest.
I still swam in both pieces of clothing, though.
Heading back into the bedroom, I sheathed my knife and stuck it into my breast pocket. I still had no idea how I got the knife. Whoever brought me here might’ve wanted me to be able to defend myself, but if they didn’t want me hurt, why the hell dump me here in t
he first place?
I had so many questions.
Turning my head, I spied the wall of antique sporting equipment I’d vaguely noticed but hadn’t inspected. Plenty of weapons on that wall. Cricket bats, old blades from rowing teams, and…
I walked over, grabbing the shadow box of old fish hooks. Flipping it over, I pried out the backing and set it on the table against the wall, picking out four hooks and taking them to the dresser where Aydin had left the bandages.
Sticking each hook through the gauze, I wrapped the bandage around my knuckles, fitting the ends of the hooks between my fingers to pinch them in place, while the sharp, curved ends reached out like claws.