Kevin dragsme toward his apartment door. Metaphorically, at least. He didn’t lay his hands on me. My feet follow down the dilapidated path. Weeds reach toward the sky through cracks in the concrete. Overgrown bushes droop over the sidewalk. Maybe part of me wants to go with him, but I mostly want to knee him in the nuts, steal his car, and get out of Dodge.
He opens the door, and a woodsy scent engulfs me. Like how my grandpa’s house used to smell. The cabinets and appliances look like they could have belonged in my grandpa’s house, too. Old and sad and barely clinging to life. Dirty dishes and cardboard trays and bags from fast-food places litter the countertops.
“You could try cleaning, sometime,” I say.
“I could,” he says with a tight smile.
Kevin flips on the kitchen light, and a loud hum erupts from the fluorescent bulb overhead. He grabs my face and gently lifts my chin. His fingers graze the bruise, and I step out of his grasp.
“I don’t like being touched.” I cross my arms and put more distance between us.
He stares at me with a scowl before reaching out and grabbing my arm. I try to pull away from him, but he pushes my sleeve up my arm and exposes a mosaic of purple bruises.
“Who does this to you?” he demands. His words roll so powerfully off his tongue that I drop my gaze. “Skye, tell me.”
“I don’t have to tell you shit.” I tug my sleeve down.
“That’s fine, but you aren’t going home tonight.”
“Well, I’m not staying here, either.” I grab my backpack and swing it over my shoulder.
“Fine. I’ll pay for a hotel room tonight. Come on.” He ushers me toward the door.
I am not staying in a hotel. Terrible things have happened to me within the rented walls of hotel rooms. The thought makes my heart race.
“No, I’ll stay here tonight, but I’m not having sex with you!”
He cocks his eyebrow and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. That’s not even on the table.”
Yeesh. Why not? Am I that bad? Maybe he’s not into broken women. Shit, I wouldn’t want me, either.
Kevin disappears into a back room and calls to me. I follow his voice into the bedroom where he’s changing the sheets on a bed. When he’s finished, he grabs a shirt from a drawer and tosses it to me.
“I’ll be on the couch,” he says before leaving me alone in the room.
I look around, trying to follow the overpowering scent swirling through the room. I find his uncapped deodorant sitting on the dresser, so I replace the cap. A tear runs through an American flag on the wall. I step over the discarded bunch of clothes beside a hamper. Men. I trip over a set of empty glass alcohol bottles on my way to the bed.
I expose countless bruises as I take off my clothes. I hide them again beneath the oversized shirt. The sleeves don’t cover the fading marks on my lower arms. The shirt hangs past my knees, concealing my cuts. I climb into bed. I’m in a stranger's house, yet I somehow feel safer than I ever have in my own home.