CHAPTER ONE
CHARLOTTE
*This book contains sensitive subject matter. If you are affected by triggers or have experienced serious trauma, it may not be for you.
Not recommended for persons under 18 years of age.
Not recommended for persons under 18 years of age.
My lids are heavy as gravity fights to hold them down. They feel swollen. Listless. I blink a few times to test their strength, but I’m forced to close them again from the bright, flashing lights filtering around the doorframe through the dark. I shield my eyes against the sharpness, but it’s too late. A throbbing is already building in my head, and if the steady pulse is telling me anything, it’s saying to expect it to be debilitating.
I try once more to open my eyes as my body trembles, using the tiny slits to narrowly peer around my surroundings, to take them all in. But everything seems foreign. Unfamiliar.
The dark navy comforter. The grey walls. The corner desk.
This isn’t my room.
Lethargic and confused, I look around again, seeing the masculine decorations, the man’s space I definitely don’t recognize. I continue scanning the unknown belongings as my other senses slowly appear, and the musky scent of a man’s cologne—along with a mixture of other indistinguishable odours—assault my nose.
My stomach begins to revolt, and I swallow it down, forcing the queasiness away so I can sit up. But the room starts to spin, becoming a cyclone around me, and the nausea comes back full force.
Lurching over the side of the bed, I empty the contents of my stomach on the floor, unable to make it to the waste can on the opposite side of the room. When I’ve finally rid myself of everything inside, I wrinkle my nose against the putrid smells polluting the air and tortuously swing my legs around, feeling like I’ve been sliced up through my centre.
Arms banding my middle, I force myself to stand on rubber legs, but pain radiates throughout my body so intense—so paralyzing that I’m forced to fold over in agony.
The cramping is just too much.
My eyes naturally fall just past my waist, and that’s when I see it. My nakedness. The blood. The bruising. The sticky substance coating my inner thighs.
Oh, God! Please, no! I internally cry out, feeling the room spin again as I witness the evidence of what happened graphically painting my body.
Focusing on a spot on the floor, I blindly slap at the nightstand until I have a few tissues in my hand. I clean myself up the best I can, mentally trying to block out the reality of what I’m actually wiping away, then stumble my first few steps like a baby deer. Somewhat balanced, I take a few more, trudging toward the scattered pile of clothes on the floor a few feet from where I stand--my clothes.
With pain so excruciating my knees nearly buckle beneath me, I grab them with an extreme need to be modest. Hidden. Painstakingly slow, I cover my body—piece by piece—then flick my gaze toward the door, terrified to find what’s waiting for me on the other side.
I turn the knob slowly, hoping the music is too loud for anyone to hear me. Then, peering around the edge of the door, I wait until no one is walking by, then reluctantly stumble out into the hall. The instant I’m out in the open, I immediately feel everyone’s eyes latch on me, hooking into my skin. Like a lit fire, their theories about my appearance jump from one person to the next, their judgement instantly turning my stress and confusion into full-blown panic.
Heart pounding.
Ribs shrinking around my lungs.
It feels like the walls are closing in around me as their harsh words fade in and out.
Slut… Whore… Skank… Tease!
Did you hear what she did?
I heard she begged them for it.
I heard she wanted them to take turns.
Cackling laughter and pointed fingers chase me as I frantically search for an escape. The second my eyes land on a closet, my feet rush toward it, needing the barrier to separate me from the rumours. The theories. The hurtful words that can’t be real. I close myself in and pant with laboured breaths, knowing there’s no way I can sneak out of this house without becoming the main attraction.
If what they’re saying is true, it means… No! I wouldn’t have done that.
I wouldn’t!
I try to make sense of everything, but my memories are detached at best—confusing.
Hazel eyes. Dimples.
A light chuckle.
I think I might have had a little too much to drink. A man’s voice breaks through the fogginess suppressing my memory.
I sway on the spot as my vision blurs, allowing me to focus on the pain throughout my body. It’s everywhere. In places that never hurt before.
Nothing makes sense, and the more images flicker through my head while I feel the phantom handling of my body, the more I question what I thought I knew about myself. It feels too real to be untrue.
Me naked. Hot breaths. Groping hands.
Your skin is so soft. Just like I imagined. The deep, disembodied voice forms a new memory, and I scream. It’s shrill even for my own ears in the enclosed space. But no one hears me. No one cares.
Each and every flashback that resurfaces gets knotted in my throat, and they’re so crushing and painful that every time I inhale, my breaths scarcely make their way past. With my chest heaving, the four tiny walls surrounding me start to move like before. Shrinking in on my shoulders. I’m mere seconds away from hyperventilating because it’s all too much.
I fall back against the wall behind me for support. Unable to stand. My equilibrium is off, and the room has joined the carnival in my head, forcing me to slide down the wall to the hardwood floor beneath me. I wrap my arms around my legs to give me an added layer of protection, but it does nothing to filter the noises in my head.
Music. Laughter. Voices.
The darkness of the closet shields me from everyone’s amusement, but the solitude only confirms the reality that I’m alone.
My friends are gone. They’ve moved on. Started new lives.
“Where is she?” the familiar, demanding voice of the man known for getting fully under my skin roars nearby. “I’ll give you one second to tell me where Charlotte Reese is before I put your ass behind bars for obstruction!”
A strange relief settles in my limbs from Kaden’s closeness. But then I startle when a body slams into the surface in front of me.
“Where is she?” he repeats, grinding the words through his teeth, barely containing his composure.
I envision the guy’s face pressed against the wall, his hands pulled behind him, his shoulders lifted to their limit, and Kaden breathing down on him, threatening more force.
“I don’t know, man! The last time I saw her, she was coming up here with someone. But the flashing lights made it hard to see who it was. That’s all I know. I swear!” His voice gets higher with each forced word that tumbles from his mouth.
A fist smashes into the wall next to where the body hit, making me know Kaden’s growing agitated.
As a lieutenant of the Los Angeles Police Department, he holds the power to make a substantial amount of trouble for this guy. Though the fear I hear in the pinned man’s voice tells me he was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he’s telling the truth.
He doesn’t know anything.
I clumsily wipe away my tears, and use all of what little strength I have left to call out Kaden’s name, then hit the door once with my fist.
Then again.
Only a second passes, and it flies open.
I’m instantly bathed in the warm light from the fixtures above, and a large silhouette fills the opening. I immediately know it belongs to Kaden.
He easily lifts and secures me in his strong arms, pressing me tightly against his solid chest. My eyes scan over his wavy blond hair, trimmed beard, and stunning blue eyes to bask in the familiarity of him. The safety of him. My fingers desperately grasp onto the thin cotton of his shirt, needing the tether—the tangible handhold connecting me to him. To asylum.
I don’t feel so alone.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” he lowly consoles, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating against my cheek like a kitten’s purr, calming me. “They won’t get away with this. I swear to you; I will throw every possible charge at them until one sticks.”
They?
Charges?
The promise cracks slightly in the back of his throat, and he pulls me tighter against him—with his hulking arms engulfing my tiny frame.
“I just want to go home, Kaden,” I manage to whimper. “Please.”
He moves without hesitation. Everyone fans apart, giving him a wide berth while their whispered accusations and insults rise above the music. Some have looks of amusement. Some have looks of pity. And others look like they despise me for what I’ve done.
The moment Kaden storms out of the house, he already has his phone pinned to his ear, and he’s barking orders to shut down the party and start an investigation into the rumours. I’m too tired to protest, so I curl into him and let the weight of the night drag down my lids again, falling into a fitful sleep.
I try once more to open my eyes as my body trembles, using the tiny slits to narrowly peer around my surroundings, to take them all in. But everything seems foreign. Unfamiliar.
The dark navy comforter. The grey walls. The corner desk.
This isn’t my room.
Lethargic and confused, I look around again, seeing the masculine decorations, the man’s space I definitely don’t recognize. I continue scanning the unknown belongings as my other senses slowly appear, and the musky scent of a man’s cologne—along with a mixture of other indistinguishable odours—assault my nose.
My stomach begins to revolt, and I swallow it down, forcing the queasiness away so I can sit up. But the room starts to spin, becoming a cyclone around me, and the nausea comes back full force.
Lurching over the side of the bed, I empty the contents of my stomach on the floor, unable to make it to the waste can on the opposite side of the room. When I’ve finally rid myself of everything inside, I wrinkle my nose against the putrid smells polluting the air and tortuously swing my legs around, feeling like I’ve been sliced up through my centre.
Arms banding my middle, I force myself to stand on rubber legs, but pain radiates throughout my body so intense—so paralyzing that I’m forced to fold over in agony.
The cramping is just too much.
My eyes naturally fall just past my waist, and that’s when I see it. My nakedness. The blood. The bruising. The sticky substance coating my inner thighs.
Oh, God! Please, no! I internally cry out, feeling the room spin again as I witness the evidence of what happened graphically painting my body.
Focusing on a spot on the floor, I blindly slap at the nightstand until I have a few tissues in my hand. I clean myself up the best I can, mentally trying to block out the reality of what I’m actually wiping away, then stumble my first few steps like a baby deer. Somewhat balanced, I take a few more, trudging toward the scattered pile of clothes on the floor a few feet from where I stand--my clothes.
With pain so excruciating my knees nearly buckle beneath me, I grab them with an extreme need to be modest. Hidden. Painstakingly slow, I cover my body—piece by piece—then flick my gaze toward the door, terrified to find what’s waiting for me on the other side.
I turn the knob slowly, hoping the music is too loud for anyone to hear me. Then, peering around the edge of the door, I wait until no one is walking by, then reluctantly stumble out into the hall. The instant I’m out in the open, I immediately feel everyone’s eyes latch on me, hooking into my skin. Like a lit fire, their theories about my appearance jump from one person to the next, their judgement instantly turning my stress and confusion into full-blown panic.
Heart pounding.
Ribs shrinking around my lungs.
It feels like the walls are closing in around me as their harsh words fade in and out.
Slut… Whore… Skank… Tease!
Did you hear what she did?
I heard she begged them for it.
I heard she wanted them to take turns.
Cackling laughter and pointed fingers chase me as I frantically search for an escape. The second my eyes land on a closet, my feet rush toward it, needing the barrier to separate me from the rumours. The theories. The hurtful words that can’t be real. I close myself in and pant with laboured breaths, knowing there’s no way I can sneak out of this house without becoming the main attraction.
If what they’re saying is true, it means… No! I wouldn’t have done that.
I wouldn’t!
I try to make sense of everything, but my memories are detached at best—confusing.
Hazel eyes. Dimples.
A light chuckle.
I think I might have had a little too much to drink. A man’s voice breaks through the fogginess suppressing my memory.
I sway on the spot as my vision blurs, allowing me to focus on the pain throughout my body. It’s everywhere. In places that never hurt before.
Nothing makes sense, and the more images flicker through my head while I feel the phantom handling of my body, the more I question what I thought I knew about myself. It feels too real to be untrue.
Me naked. Hot breaths. Groping hands.
Your skin is so soft. Just like I imagined. The deep, disembodied voice forms a new memory, and I scream. It’s shrill even for my own ears in the enclosed space. But no one hears me. No one cares.
Each and every flashback that resurfaces gets knotted in my throat, and they’re so crushing and painful that every time I inhale, my breaths scarcely make their way past. With my chest heaving, the four tiny walls surrounding me start to move like before. Shrinking in on my shoulders. I’m mere seconds away from hyperventilating because it’s all too much.
I fall back against the wall behind me for support. Unable to stand. My equilibrium is off, and the room has joined the carnival in my head, forcing me to slide down the wall to the hardwood floor beneath me. I wrap my arms around my legs to give me an added layer of protection, but it does nothing to filter the noises in my head.
Music. Laughter. Voices.
The darkness of the closet shields me from everyone’s amusement, but the solitude only confirms the reality that I’m alone.
My friends are gone. They’ve moved on. Started new lives.
“Where is she?” the familiar, demanding voice of the man known for getting fully under my skin roars nearby. “I’ll give you one second to tell me where Charlotte Reese is before I put your ass behind bars for obstruction!”
A strange relief settles in my limbs from Kaden’s closeness. But then I startle when a body slams into the surface in front of me.
“Where is she?” he repeats, grinding the words through his teeth, barely containing his composure.
I envision the guy’s face pressed against the wall, his hands pulled behind him, his shoulders lifted to their limit, and Kaden breathing down on him, threatening more force.
“I don’t know, man! The last time I saw her, she was coming up here with someone. But the flashing lights made it hard to see who it was. That’s all I know. I swear!” His voice gets higher with each forced word that tumbles from his mouth.
A fist smashes into the wall next to where the body hit, making me know Kaden’s growing agitated.
As a lieutenant of the Los Angeles Police Department, he holds the power to make a substantial amount of trouble for this guy. Though the fear I hear in the pinned man’s voice tells me he was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he’s telling the truth.
He doesn’t know anything.
I clumsily wipe away my tears, and use all of what little strength I have left to call out Kaden’s name, then hit the door once with my fist.
Then again.
Only a second passes, and it flies open.
I’m instantly bathed in the warm light from the fixtures above, and a large silhouette fills the opening. I immediately know it belongs to Kaden.
He easily lifts and secures me in his strong arms, pressing me tightly against his solid chest. My eyes scan over his wavy blond hair, trimmed beard, and stunning blue eyes to bask in the familiarity of him. The safety of him. My fingers desperately grasp onto the thin cotton of his shirt, needing the tether—the tangible handhold connecting me to him. To asylum.
I don’t feel so alone.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” he lowly consoles, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating against my cheek like a kitten’s purr, calming me. “They won’t get away with this. I swear to you; I will throw every possible charge at them until one sticks.”
They?
Charges?
The promise cracks slightly in the back of his throat, and he pulls me tighter against him—with his hulking arms engulfing my tiny frame.
“I just want to go home, Kaden,” I manage to whimper. “Please.”
He moves without hesitation. Everyone fans apart, giving him a wide berth while their whispered accusations and insults rise above the music. Some have looks of amusement. Some have looks of pity. And others look like they despise me for what I’ve done.
The moment Kaden storms out of the house, he already has his phone pinned to his ear, and he’s barking orders to shut down the party and start an investigation into the rumours. I’m too tired to protest, so I curl into him and let the weight of the night drag down my lids again, falling into a fitful sleep.
