Still Beating

“Wakey, wakey.”

I jolt awake, thinking that for one exquisite moment, it was all a dream.

A sick, horrible dream.

But the man is looming over me with breath that now reeks of tobacco and dirty socks, and his lips are curled up into a grotesque smirk.

I’m definitely in a nightmare, but it’s not one I’ll be waking up from any time soon—and it’s only just begun.

I slither back on the cool cement, the soles of my heels scuffing against the floor. I try to twist my way around the pole, as if he won’t be able to reach me somehow, but he yanks me by the hair and pulls me up to my feet. I shriek in protest, my scalp burning.

“Get the fuck away from her,” Dean shouts from the opposite corner.

I use the temporary distraction to knee the motherfucker in the balls. If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging. The man howls in pain and releases my hair, then slaps me hard across the jaw with the back of his hand. The pain radiates through my entire head, and it feels like my brain might start oozing out of my ears.

“Silly little cunt,” the man barks, then spits at my face.

His saliva dribbles down my cheek and I almost puke.

“You’re a feisty little kitten, aren’t you?” he continues, plucking my chin between his fingers and forcing me to look at him.

I return the gesture and spit right back at him, watching it hit him in the eye. Then I brace myself for the inevitable punishment to follow.

The man freezes for a solid five seconds, completely blindsided by my actions. He wipes the spit from his eye, gawking at me, his expression unreadable.

And then he laughs.

He doubles over laughing, his voice squeaking and breaking, his butterball hands clasped around his knees. I glance over at Dean, who’s watching the scene with cautious interest, a frown etched between his eyes and his arms still tugging at his restraints.

“Kitten likes to play.”

The man lunges at me, tearing my dress straight down the middle.

God, no.

“You’ve been waiting to play with Earl, haven’t you?” he goads, his slimy hands palming my newly exposed breasts sheathed in a turquoise lace bra.

Earl. The bastard’s name is Earl.

My head falls to the side, my gaze catching Dean’s. He’s watching in horror, helpless, as Earl fondles me like I’m a fucking science project.

Earl is going to rape me. I’m about to get raped, right here, right now, with Dean Asher as my audience. Nausea swells and swirls inside me, and I force it back, tears trickling from my eyes. “Please don’t do this,” I whimper, trying to flail my legs to kick him away.

Earl forces his huge, obese body against me, pinning me to the pole so I don’t move, his hands tweaking my nipples through the lace.

“Such a pretty kitten…” he murmurs, practically drooling all over my cleavage.

Dean starts growling again, slamming his chains against the pipe with immense force. “I swear to God I will kill you if you fucking touch her. I will find a way out of this, and I will put your fat ass in the ground.”

Earl chuckles, but doesn’t look up. He’s too focused on my breasts, as he leans down and jabs his thick tongue between them.

I cry out, squirming back and forth, stomping my stiletto heels against his boots. They hardly make a dent. Nothing is going to stop this from happening.

I’ve never felt so helpless.

Earl’s hands reach beneath the hem of my torn cocktail dress, sliding up my thighs. I squeeze them together, trying to resist him, trying so hard to fight back.

“I bet my pretty kitten has a pretty pussy,” he whispers against my ear, his breath curdling my stomach.

I whack my chains around, stomp my feet, twist and writhe and scream until my lungs physically ache. “Please,” I beg. “Let us go. We won’t tell anyone, I swear. Just let us go…” My God, I sound like a terribly scripted crime TV show. I always thought I’d be more creative if I found myself in harm’s way. More convincing.

But there is no reasoning with this man. There’s no bond I can form with him, no carefully established connection I can fake. My instincts tell me he is too far gone. He has no conscience—no soul. No trace of sympathy I can try to manipulate.

Earl tugs the panties from my hips until they fall at my ankles. My entire body tenses up, doing everything it can to resist the vile act that’s about to occur.

Dean is still protesting beside me, screaming and yelling colorful obscenities and idle threats. They fall on deaf ears. Earl pays him no mind.

My eyes make their way back to Dean as everything else starts to fade out. I put up a wall, like a defense mechanism—a mental block. I completely zone out, staring at Dean, who is trying so hard to lunge at us as Earl assaults me in the worst possible away.

“Look at me, Cora. Keep your eyes on me. Listen to my voice,” Dean orders, doing everything he can to maintain my attention. To distract me from the fact that I’m being defiled right before his eyes. “We’re going to get out of here, you hear me? I’m going to get us out of here. Just focus on me. I’m the only thing that’s real right now. It’s just you and me, Cora. Focus, okay? Look at me… focus on my voice…”

Dean’s voice starts to dissolve, my entire mind shutting down and turning to fog. I keep my eyes on him, his movements wayward and clipped. His mouth is still moving, but I can no longer distinguish his words—everything is murky. Confusing. I think I’m underwater, sinking, drowning, fading away…

I think the ocean has finally found me.

I think I like it here.

Drip. Drip. Drip.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

I listen to the steady drips from a leaky pipe as I lie sprawled out on the hard floor. My head is resting against the stone wall to my left, my legs splayed out in front of me.

Seventeen minutes and twenty-two seconds.

That’s how much time has gone by since I was desecrated. Used up and tossed to the ground like a piece of trash. I’ve been counting the seconds as they tick by in perfect time with the drips.

“Cora.”

Dean’s voice interweaves with the steady drops, and I blink slow, my gaze fixated on absolutely nothing.

“Cora.”

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I don’t move. I force myself to breathe, just so I can stay alive.

“Talk to me, Corabelle.”

What am I supposed to say? Dean knows exactly what happened. He had a front row seat to the play-by-play. I finally work up the strength to pull my head upright, and I stare at the foot of the staircase on the far side of the room. I’m dreading the moment those clunky, black boots reappear—a prelude to a new set of horrors.

“Are you okay?”

This finally grabs my attention and I force my eyes to the right. Dean is leaning back against his pole, fully facing me, his arms locked behind him. My gaze works its way up from his heather gray running shoes to the mess of tousled, dark brown hair atop his head. It’s starting to curl just below his ears. I remember Mandy complaining that his hair was getting too long and she was about to trim it herself.

I swallow. “I’m fine.”

I’m usually a terrible liar, so I’m impressed with how honest that sounded. It’s not the truth, of course. It’s the greatest lie I’ve ever told.

Dean is fully aware of this. “You’re not fine. You can talk to me.”

An eyebrow raises on instinct as my lazy stare continues to assess him. His jacket was removed at some point, so he’s only wearing a baby blue t-shirt that matches his eyes and faded jeans. “I can talk to you?” I release a grating chuckle. My throat feels raw from all the pointless screaming I’ve been doing. “Because we’re such good friends, right?”

I take in the way his eyebrows pull together, a look of indignation scrawled across his face. “I’m the only friend you’ve got right now,” he says tightly.

“I’d rather be alone.”

Another magnificent lie.

I don’t want to be alone. But Dean is here, and I don’t particularly like him, so I’m going to take all of my fear and trauma out on him. It’s the only sense of control I have right now.

It’s my only power.

“Listen,” Dean continues, his voice low and splintered. “I know we’ve had our issues, but we need to work together. Once we get the hell out of here, you can go back to hating me, but this is life and death, Corabelle. Get over this fucking resentment you have with me and let’s put our heads together.”

“Don’t call me that.” I pull my eyes away, dipping my chin.

A scathing laugh fills my ears. “Of course that’s the thing you focus on.” I can see him shaking his head out of the corner of my eye, then he slams his cuffs against the pole, and I jump in place. “You woke me up in the middle of the night to come pick your ass up, after we already offered you a ride home. But I came anyway, because believe it or not, Cora, I do fucking care about you. We’re going to be family.”

Tears rim my eyes at his words. Funny—I didn’t think I had any left.

“I picked you up at almost two in the fucking morning, and I end up here. Chained to a goddamn post, waiting for whatever that asshole has in store for us. And now you’re giving me attitude?”

“I was just raped!” I seethe through gritted teeth, my voice cracking as it rises in pitch. “Raped by that disgusting pig. Do you have any idea what that’s like?” My own derisive laugh slips through as I swing my head to the side. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

He’s quiet for a moment, absorbing my words, and then, “I told you—you can talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you! I don’t like you!”

“Fine!” Dean smacks his chains with a grunt of frustration. “Fucking hell. I’m only trying to help.”

I sniff back my tears before they break free. “Maybe if you started helping fifteen years ago—started caring about me like you claim you do—I’d be more inclined to open up. But all you’ve ever done is tease me, hurt me, and tear me down. I have no reason to trust you right now.” My chest is heaving up and down, burning and stinging, as my anguish mingles with so many years of bottled up bitterness.

Dean considers my reply for a long time. The only sounds permeating the space between us are our intermingled breaths and the dripping pipe. Then he scuffs the sole of his shoe against the dusty floor and regards me from the other side of the room. “It’s always been our thing,” he murmurs. “I give you shit and you give me shit.”

“I never had a choice,” I counter. “I’m programmed to defend myself around you. My sword is always drawn, ready to fight.”

“Because it’s fun.”

“It’s not fun. You were terrible to me.”

I spare him a poignant glance, taking in the way his eyes dance away from me. Dean scuffs his shoe again, forward and back, and the faint noise of sole against grit sounds so loud in this empty room. It’s jarring.

“I was an ass back then,” he finally responds, still looking off to the side. “I was a stupid teenager. But it’s not like that anymore. I mess with you because you give it back just as good, and it’s harmless, and it’s us.” Dean glances my way with his piercing blue eyes. “You can’t tell me you don’t enjoy our pranks and our banter and all the dumb shit we do to each other.”

My reply is quick. “I don’t.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying, Dean. I don’t enjoy getting picked on. I don’t enjoy always having to be on high alert around you, wondering what ‘dumb shit’ you’re going to pull on me.” I pause for effect, simmering on my final words. “Or wondering how you’re going to sabotage my next relationship.”

His eyes flicker with something I can’t exactly pinpoint. It’s not guilt or remorse. It’s not enjoyment either. “Whatever.”

My eyebrows pull up, expecting more than a brush off. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say for the role you played in ending my four-year relationship?”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

I can feel the flames spreading up my chest like wildfire, lighting up my neck, my ears, my tongue. “You’re a fucking jerk.” I twist my body to the left, trying to get as far away from Dean Asher as I possibly can. I curl my body up towards the wall and retreat into the confinements of my own mental prison.

I hear him let out a sigh from behind me, and I’m not sure what it means. Then he mutters under his breath, “I’m the only jerk you’ve got.”

I was wrong.

I’d rather be alone.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but the sun looks like it’s setting in the sky as an ambient orange glow penetrates the dusty window above us. I envision myself breaking free of the handcuffs and climbing the wall, punching the window with a determined fist and squeezing out through the narrow opening. I’ll run free, not even caring where I end up.

Anywhere is better than here.

Dean and I have not spoken since our argument, which must have been a few hours ago. He fell asleep shortly after, his back to the pole and his head against his shoulder. He looks peaceful, and I catch myself staring at him every now and then. I’m jealous that he’s somewhere else right now. I haven’t been able to fall back to sleep—every time I close my eyes, I can smell my captor’s nasty breath against my cheek as he humiliates me.

I also really have to pee, and I’m not sure what to do about it. Are we supposed to just soil ourselves down here? Is getting chained up like animals, raped and tortured, not good enough for that sick bastard? I squeeze my thighs together, knowing I won’t have any choice but to let it out soon. The apples of my cheeks burn just thinking about it.

I thought I’d be hungrier by now, but the hollow hole in my stomach just makes me feel queasy instead. What I wouldn’t give to chug a glass of water, though…

I daydream about guzzling down ice cold water and it makes my bladder tickle. I suck in a deep, calming breath.

And then the basement door swings open and those dirty, steel-toed boots come stomping towards us. It’s enough to wake Dean from his slumber, as I hear his chains jangling behind me. I contort myself further into the corner, cowering from whatever horrors are about to unfold.

“Potty break,” Earl announces, hiking his khaki pants up over his swollen belly.

I sit up straight as a tingle of hope sweeps through me. My bladder starts doing a happy dance, which isn’t exactly a good thing, considering I’m about to burst. “You’re letting us use the bathroom?” I scoot my butt around the pole so I can make eye contact with Dean, who is already standing. His eyes flicker my way, then dart back to Earl.

“One at a time. No tricks or I’ll shove my pistol down your throat and watch you paint my walls red.” Earl pulls a gun out from behind his back and waves it around for emphasis. “Don’t want you doing your business all over my floor. Smells bad and takes me out of the moment, you know?”

The moment? Jesus. Our pain and terror is a moment for him.

But I don’t show my disgust for fear he’ll change his mind. I nod my head and inch my way to my feet, my legs weak and shaky as they try to support my weight. “Thank you.”

Earl unleashes a roar of laughter as he advances on me, tucking the gun back into the hem of his trousers. “Don’t thank me, kitten. You’re still going to die.”

My gaze shoots to Dean. I’m certain my skin has turned ghostlike and my green eyes have dimmed to gray. He stares back at me, looking equally hopeless, equally distraught, as his eyelids flutter closed and a hard swallow bobs in his throat.

Earl clamors over me, unfastening my restraints with boorish grunts. I can’t help but contemplate an escape attempt. Maybe if I can get the upper hand somehow, grab his gun or steal a sharp object from the bathroom, I can overpower him. But as soon as the thought skips across my mind, the barrel of the gun is pointed at my temple when my cuffs fall loose. The cuffs are attached to chains, which are secured to metal rings in the wall, and they echo through the cellar when they hit the cement.

“Try anything dumb and you can say goodbye to that pretty little head of yours.”

Earl jabs the gun against the side of my face as I massage my chafed wrists. I tug my torn dress together to shield my breasts, hugging myself tight. “I won’t.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll be easily trained, after all.” Earl looks at Dean, who is watching us with skepticism and a tense jaw. “You’re next, handsome. Don’t worry.”

Dean and I lock eyes before I’m pushed forward by a husky hand, and I almost trip on my stilettos.

“Cora…”

I glance over my shoulder before I reach the steps. Dean is pulling at his chains like he’s trying to reach me somehow. His eyes are swimming with worry and unease. It’s the same look I saw earlier when he was talking me through the worst moment of my life, trying to comfort me in the only way he could.

I bite down on my bottom lip as our eyes hold for another beat. Then the cold gun collides with the center of my back, ushering me up the staircase.

I can’t help but mull over Dean’s words as I’m guided through the small house with olive green carpet and outdated walls.

Believe it or not, Cora, I do fucking care about you.