They Never Learn, page 13
He’s so close to me now, and we’re all alone out here. Well, there’s a Honda hatchback a couple feet away that’s rocking slightly, so not completely alone. We’re almost to Wes’s car now. It’s so chilly out. We could get inside, crank the heat up. Talk some more, or—
I swallow, the cold night air burning in my lungs. “Have you and Allison ever—”
“Slept together?” Wes says.
“No,” I blurt out. “I just meant, have you ever… anything.”
“We kissed once, when we were twelve. Spin the bottle.”
He laughs. I try to laugh too, but the sound gets stuck in my throat.
“I’m not trying to rag on her,” he says. “I mean, she’s my best friend. But I don’t want you to get hurt either.”
I’m shivering harder now, even though I barely feel the cold on my skin anymore. Wes puts his hands on my shoulders and starts rubbing up and down, trying to warm me. Eventually his rhythm slows and he’s no longer looking me in the eyes. He’s looking at my lips, and I wonder if that bright lipstick is still there or if it’s faded, smudged, red bleeding out at the corners of my mouth.
Someone over on the patio lets out a screech, echoing into the night. I can’t tell if it’s celebratory or a call for help, but I don’t turn my head to check, either. I’m frozen, staring at Wes—focusing on his lips now too, the chapped bit in the center where he bites down when he’s thinking during class.
Wes’s hands press down harder on my shoulders, drawing me in. He’s going to kiss me. Oh my God, he’s going to kiss me, and part of me wants him to, but another part, a stronger one, wants to get as far away from him as possible.
“I’m sorry, I—” I say, and Wes stops pulling me toward him, but he doesn’t let go of my shoulders. So I shake him off—harder than I needed to, than I meant to. He stumbles back, stones crunching under his feet. “I can’t.”
I’m already running, my boots kicking up gravel to sting my shins through the fishnets. I don’t even know where I’m going, until I find myself back inside the house. The partygoers crush around me, and a scream builds in my throat but I don’t let it out. I keep pushing through the crowd until I get to the stairs and then I climb, climb, climb.
I dart down the dark hallway, feeling my way along the wood-paneled walls, looking for somewhere, anywhere I can be alone. Finally I find a knob. It won’t turn, but the door isn’t latched right, and it swings open when I push.
The lights are already on inside, and I’m blinded for a second, but then I blink away the stars in my eyes and see them.
Allison and Bash.
He’s pressing her against the sink. One hand up her shirt, the other shoved down her unzipped jeans. Bash sees me, but Allison doesn’t, because her eyes are shut.
She’s unconscious.
29 SCARLETT
I let Kinnear lead me down the hall, pretending I don’t know my way to his bedroom.
When we cross the threshold, Kinnear stumbles forward and grabs my waist to steady himself. The drugs have fully taken hold now, but he thinks he’s drunk.
“Guess I can’t hold my Scotch like I used to!” He laughs but doesn’t let go of me.
I laugh too, but if he weren’t so out of it, he’d be able to hear the false note in it. I’m not bothering to hide the coldness in my eyes anymore; I’m studying him like the insect he is. But he’s totally oblivious. As far as he’s concerned, he’s having a great night: pleasantly intoxicated, about to get lucky.
Kinnear squeezes me tighter and takes another unsteady step forward, pushing me up against the bedroom wall. His hands are moving higher now, cupping my breasts. I’d hoped I could maneuver him into position without letting him touch me, but I can tolerate it for a few more seconds to get him where I want him.
“Y’know I always thought…” His words trip over themselves. “Ever since the first day I met you—but you held out on me, didn’t you?”
Kinnear grasps at my thigh, fingertips sliding under the hem of my skirt. This dress is brand-new, picked out especially for tonight—same with the black lace lingerie underneath it. He’ll never get far enough to see it, of course, but it makes me feel powerful. Armored.
I keep my hands down at my sides, but I arch my back, letting him think that I’m aroused by the way he’s pinned me against the wall, stabbing his sorry excuse for an erection into my hip. When he moves in to kiss me, I turn my face away. I have to do it three times before he finally backs off, stumbling a little like he’s going to keel over backward.
He looks at me, bewildered, eyes unfocused. “What’s w—”
“Take off your pants and lie down on the bed.”
At first he just gapes at me, and I’m afraid I’ve overplayed my hand. He likes women who fawn over him, not order him around. For this next part of my plan to work, though, I need him to do what I say.
But a second later, his face lights up with a wobbly grin, and his hands go to his belt buckle. “Yes, Professor.”
Kinnear takes a few halting steps before managing to fully step out of his pant legs. When he reaches the bed, he more falls on it than lies down. But it doesn’t matter: he’s right where I want him now.
Once he’s sprawled on the mattress, leaning against the wooden slats of the headboard, he shoots me what I’m sure he thinks is a seductive smile. “Aren’t you going to join me?”
I stay where I am, arms folded. “Close your eyes.”
“But I want to see you.” He makes a suggestive little circle with his hips, grinding at nothing. “God, you’re gorgeous.”
I run my fingers along the neckline of my dress. “Close them.”
He gives me a shit-eating grin that makes me want to rip his teeth out with pliers and jam them down his esophagus, but he does what I’ve asked. I wait a few seconds to make sure he’s going to stay put before taking the gloves out of my pockets.
Kinnear shifts on the bed—starting to get uneasy, even through the drugged haze. He lifts one eyelid as I’m slipping the second glove on.
“No peeking,” I say, moving to the closet to pull two scarves off the hanger inside the door. I pick up Kinnear’s belt from the floor too and climb onto the bed, straddling him.
Kinnear keeps his eyes shut like I told him to, but he gropes around until he manages to get a handful of my ass. I grab his arm, pressing it back against the headboard. He opens his eyes just in time to see me winding one of the scarves around his wrist.
“What are you doing?”
I tug the knot tighter. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done this before.”
“Of course I have,” he says, even though he clearly hasn’t. “I just—”
I’m already tying up his other wrist. He starts to squirm a little, but he’s not panicking.
Yet.
“I thought this was what you wanted.” I grind down against him, pinning him to the bed as I finish lashing his wrists to the headboard slats. “Ever since the first day you met me.”
Kinnear blinks at me, like his brain is buffering, taking a second to catch up with what’s happening. He finally notices the gloves. “Why are you wearing those?”
I sit back against his pelvis and smile at him—merciless, predatory. My real smile. The one I save for these final moments. I wait until the fear in his eyes starts to roil like storm clouds, then rear back and slap him across the cheek. Hard enough to sting, but not to leave a mark.
“What the fuck are you—” He finally fights back, trying to throw me off the bed, but with his arms bound and the drugs in his bloodstream, he isn’t strong enough.
I lean over him, holding his wrists in place with my hands too. He’s tied securely, but I can’t risk obvious ligature marks on his limbs. Once he’s dead, I’ll untie him and put the scarves right back where I found them, to support the story that he did this to himself. I can see the headline now: Esteemed literature scholar found dead in his bed, an attempt at autoerotic asphyxiation gone horribly wrong.
I was going to use a scarf to strangle him too, but his belt was right there, coiled up on the floor like a venomous snake, and it seemed too perfect. This will hurt so much more, and above all else, I want him to suffer. I loop the leather around his neck.
He’s thrusting up against me now, a terrible parody of what he thought we were going to do in his bed tonight. I pull the belt tighter, and he’s so stunned with terror he goes still.
Kinnear has never looked at me like this—really looked at me. In all the years I’ve known him, eye contact was always a brief stopover on the way to ogling my tits, my ass. Reducing me to parts. This wild-eyed fear is the closest thing to respect he’s ever paid me.
Too little, far too late.
I can’t finish him until I see the realization dawn in his eyes. Until I’m sure he knows exactly who I am, and why I’m doing this to him. I cinch the belt under his chin, tilting his head up so he can get a better look at my face.
“Do you remember me now, Alex?”
30 CARLY
“Don’t.”
My voice is so quiet, Bash might not have heard me over the music. I’m still on the threshold of the bathroom. Frozen, helpless. But not as helpless as Allison is. Her head dangles over the sink, blue hair pooling in the basin.
I take a step forward. “Don’t touch her.”
Bash looks up, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. He looks me right in the eyes, and he doesn’t stop.
“Don’t fucking touch her!”
I’m screaming now, shooting toward him. Why did I hesitate, why did I let her go off alone with him in the first place? I should have known better, I should have protected her.
Bash finally takes his hands off Allison, and, without him holding her up, she crumbles toward the floor. On her way down, she knocks over the bottle sitting on the edge of the sink, spraying smoked-glass shards over the floor tiles.
She’s not just drunk. I’ve seen her drunk, and this is different. He must have put something in her drink. He did this on purpose, he drugged her and took her in here and shut the door. If I hadn’t walked in when I did…
Some of the partygoers are gathering outside the bathroom, drawn by my shouts. But none of them do anything except gawk at us, my red face and clenched fists and Allison crumpled on the floor and Bash backed up against the bathtub, regarding me with those lazy, sleepy eyes like he’s bored with the scene.
I get down next to Allison and try to help her up. My knees grind into the broken glass, but I barely feel it. Allison’s left temple is bleeding a little; she must have smacked it against the counter. The red drips down, tracing the line of her cheekbone. Her orange hoodie is on the floor too. Bash must have stripped it off before he—
No. I can’t think about that. I have to concentrate on helping her.
I shake the glass off the sweatshirt, then dab at Allison’s cut with one of the sleeves. She stirs a little, eyelids fluttering—not completely unconscious, but seriously out of it. What the fuck did he give her?
He’s still right next to us, close enough that I can smell his musky cologne—or maybe the scent is all over Allison.
I can’t let myself look up at him. If I look at him I don’t know what I’ll do.
Finally, a girl wearing an angular black wig and an oversize white button-down breaks off from the cluster of onlookers. “What’s going on?”
Bash gives her a lazy grin. “Hadley got wasted again.”
The girl doesn’t laugh, but some of the other students around her do. Mostly the guys. The low tones of their derisive chuckles vibrate down to my bones.
Suddenly I’m on my feet, facing Bash. His smile fades when he sees my expression. He takes a step backward, his heels hitting the base of the tub.
Someone moves behind me, around me. I’m vaguely aware that it’s Wes, pushing his way into the bathroom, kneeling down next to Allison. I’m furious, I’m on fire with it, prickling heat exploding over my skin. But a strange calm washes over me too—a curiosity, almost. I’m wondering whether, if I shoved Bash back into the shower, I’d be able to hear the crack of his skull against the tile, or if the music rattling the walls would drown it out.
Allison gives a little whimper, smacking Wes’s hand away from the wound on her head, and my surroundings click back into focus.
I crouch down next to Wes. “Help me get her out of here.”
“Did you see what happened?” he asks. “Did she fall, or—”
I don’t even look at him, too busy wrapping the bloodstained sweatshirt around Allison’s shoulders, bracing my arm against her waist. “Grab her arms.”
“Are you sure that’s—”
“Are you going to help us or not?” I snap.
Wes cowers a little, blinking at me. I know I shouldn’t take it out on him—he’s not the enemy here—but it felt good, letting a little bit of the rage break through. Like spitting out poison.
He takes hold of Allison like I told him to, and together we haul her up to standing, then awkwardly make our way toward the door with her arms slung over our shoulders. Wes keeps looking over at me, but I stay staring straight ahead, my jaw clenched. I want to get out of here. I should never have come here in the first place—except I don’t want to think about what might have happened if I hadn’t been here.
The crowd parts to let us through, but there are more than a few snickers, knowing looks exchanged. I hate them all so much. Bash most of all. That smug look on his face. I wonder how many times he’s done this before.
When we make it to the car, Wes leaves me supporting Allison’s full weight for a second while he gets the back seat ready. As soon as he walks away, she shifts against my shoulder.
Her eyes are open.
“Oh thank God,” I say. “Are you—”
“Don’t tell him.” Her voice is a wavering rasp, barely audible.
“What?”
She looks over at Wes, leaning halfway into the back door of the car to lay a blanket over the seats. “Promise me. Promise me you won’t—”
“I’m so sorry.” The words come out in a torrent, flowing like tears. “I shouldn’t have let you go off alone with him, I should have—”
Allison is terrifyingly lucid now, her blue eyes sharp as icicles. She grips my shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Promise me.”
I blink at her. I don’t understand why she would want to keep this a secret from Wes. He’s her best friend. If he knew what Bash did to her, if he’d seen what I saw, he’d be furious. He would want blood too.
But I don’t want to upset her any more, not after what she just went through—what she’s still going through—so I nod. “Okay. I promise.”
Wes shuts the car door and circles back. “Hey,” he says to Allison. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” She’s slumping harder against me, though her grip on my shoulder stays firm.
“We should take her to the hospital,” I say.
“I said I’m fine.” But she isn’t—the lucidity of a few moments ago is fading, her eyelids growing heavy again.
“You hit your head. You could have a concussion.” That’s the thing I’m least worried about in this situation, but obviously I can’t mention the real reason she should see a doctor without breaking my promise.
“I just wanna go home,” she says. “Sleep it off. C’mon…”
“We could keep an eye on her tonight,” Wes suggests. “Go to the doctor in the morning.”
“Yeah, my head barely even hurts.” Allison nods vigorously as if to demonstrate.
“No.”
I’m not shouting like before. The word comes out quiet, but there’s a threat underneath it. You don’t want to argue with me right now. I’ve never heard myself sound like this. It’s as if someone else’s voice is speaking through me.
Wes and Allison are silent. They both seem a little scared of me. Usually I would trip back over my words, apologize, try to make sure no one was offended. But right now I don’t give a fuck.
I start steering Allison toward the car. “Come on, let’s go.”
Wes hesitates, worrying his keys between his fingers.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m…” he starts. “Well, I mean I’m not drunk, but I think I might have had too much to—”
I grab the keys out of his hands with an exasperated sigh. “Help me put her in the back.”
Wes and I awkwardly stuff Allison into the back seat. She’s gone deadweight again, her eyes shut. Whether she’s really hurt or in some sort of shock, we have to get her to a doctor. I’m worried we’ve waited too long. Who knows what Bash gave her, what other effects it might have.
Wes slides in beside Allison, maneuvering her head onto his lap. I get into the driver’s seat, and as I’m adjusting the rearview mirror, Wes and I lock eyes, the way we did on the ride to the party. But everything’s different now.
My hands squeeze the steering wheel, and I wish it was Bash’s throat.
31 SCARLETT
“You don’t even remember my name, do you?”
Alexander Kinnear’s mouth gapes, red and wet as a wound, but he doesn’t speak.
“You remember what you did to me, though.” I press down harder, grinding my knees into his rib cage. “Or maybe you can’t remember that either, I was one of many, too insignificant to—”
“Carly.”
It comes out in a gasp. I smile and wind the end of the belt tighter around my knuckles.
“B-but wait,” he says. “You, you—”
His eyes rove over my face, my body. He’s seeing it now: the awkward girl I used to be, with the frizzy brown hair and the too-skinny limbs, still saddled with my father’s last name instead of the one I gave myself.
The first semester I worked here, I spent every day sick with dread, waiting for someone to put the pieces together—to recognize me as Carly Schiller, even though I’d changed almost everything about myself since leaving Gorman in the middle of my freshman year.
No point in telling the whole story to Kinnear, though. He’ll be dead in a few minutes.
