Promiscuous (21 page)

“I said don't scream,” he repeats. “There will be plenty of time for that later, you filthy little slut.”

Closing my eyes, I bring my knee up toward his crotch as hard as I can. But he blocks it, again, and my head gets slammed even harder against the wall for my trouble.

I blink, and I'm down on the ground.

I blink again, and he's on top of me.

I'm losing time, and even though my brain seems to be moving in slow motion, I know what's about to happen.

I try to raise my arm, but the muscles only twitch.

I try to scream, but only air comes out.

Suddenly, I'm blinded by yellow light, and Trent's weight is no longer crushing me. I struggle into a sitting position, pulling myself up against the wall, eyes wildly searching for my attacker. But all I see is the porch light from next door, and a pair of old, brown slippers a couple of feet away.

In that moment, I condemn Rule #1 to the deepest circle of hell.

“Don't worry girl,” Mr. Ellison, my next-door neighbor, says gruffly. “I scared him off. You want me to call the cops?”

For a few long seconds, I think about it. I really do.

But as much as I'd like to see Trent's ass get fried for what he just tried to do to me, not even my dizzy, possibly concussed brain can imagine a scenario where he doesn't take me down with him. I
attacked him first
. It's on
record
. There were
witnesses
.

No one in their right mind would believe me if I said he's threatened me before. And earlier, at the ice cream shop, I was actually
polite
to him. I’ve gotten too good at pretending. Ramona didn't even suspect a thing.

“No, I'm okay,” I tell him.

And because he's not only a war vet, but also a veteran trailer park dweller, he nods and turns to go back inside his house. No questions asked.

“Hey, Mr. Ellison?” Slowly, gingerly, I pull myself to my feet.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks, for not minding your own business.”

He grunts at me, which I think is kind of like a ‘you’re welcome.’ Then he goes back inside, and slams the door behind him. I can still hear him calling for Patches as I bend over to pick up my keys. I keep my back to the door as I unlock it, searching the dark for any sign of movement. When I’m inside, I lock every conceivable lock, on every conceivable point of entry.

But it's still not enough.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

My brain feels fuzzy, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I'm not supposed to go to sleep. We learned that in health class. No sleeping after a head injury—you might have a concussion.

But here's the thing: I don't know if I have the ability to control whether I fall asleep or not.

Fuzzily, I sit down on the couch and examine my options. My mom won't be home for hours, even if she
doesn't
end up shacking up with What's His Name for the night. I could go over to Margot's, but then I'd have to tell Nana what happened, and she would FTFO. I can't call Margot to come and sit with me, because she's still in loony bin lockup.

That only leaves one person.

And considering what just happened, I do
not
want to call him.

However
, my rapidly failing Jiminy Cricket voice reasons,
if it's between calling him and slipping into a coma, I guess that's not much of a contest.

Slowly, with numb fingers, I dig through my bag for my phone. Then, I call him from the kitchen, while standing—or, more accurately, leaning against the counter—so I don't fall asleep.

I don’t remember much of the phone conversation, but I do remember that I made him memorize a password, so I would know it was him. Then, I must have blacked out for a little while, because it seems like only seconds before he's here. Banging. Loudly.

Ouch, my head.

I pull myself up off the kitchen floor and lurch over to the door, like a zombie. Then, I wait until I can hear his voice before I do anything else. It takes me a second, but I figure out how to unlock everything. My fingers feel funny. When he sees me, his eyes go wide.

I must look pretty bad, right?

“Tash, what happened?”

“Oh, just some guy. He attacked me. Hit my head on the wall a couple times.” I sway slightly to the side, as his face turns into a very un-Grant-like frown.
Angry Grant. Grant smash things
. I wave a hand at him, feebly. “It's cool. I just need you to sit with me for a few hours so I don't die.”

He grabs me by the shoulders.

“Tash, your lip is bleeding. I think you might be in shock. I'm going to take you to the hospital, okay?”

Hospital, yeah that sounds okay. No. Wait.
Hospital means questions. Questions mean cops. I can't go down with Trent for this. Not when I'm so close.

“No.” I shake my head, and it makes me feel like I'm going to throw up. “No hospital. I can't. They'll want to know things. No dice.”

I head for the couch, and he jerks me back. It's déjà vu, the bad kind. But instead of hurting me, he cups my chin in his hand.

“Tash, please. At least let me call my dad.”

“
And let him see my house?
No, I don't think so.”

Grant’s eyebrows push together again.
Whoops, I might have said that part out loud.
I feel drunk. Like that time Margot and I got into Nana's not so secret stash of peppermint schnapps.

“Don't worry, I won't tell Nana. I'm taking you back to my house though, okay?”

Is anything in my brain private anymore? Whatever, at this point I'm too blitzed to care
.

I follow Grant out the door on wobbly legs. He puts his arm around me, helps me down the stairs.

When I get into his car, he closes the door and runs to the other side. It's warm here. Smells nice. Feels safe.

“No, Tash, stay awake.” He's suddenly there next to me, shaking me. We're moving.

“Don't fall asleep yet, okay?”

“Okay, I won't.” But after a few more seconds, it feels next to impossible.

“Grant, tell me a story.”

“And put you to sleep?” He laughs, a short nervous laugh. “No, I don't think so. How about you tell me one?”

“Okay.” I think about it for what seems like a few seconds. But he shakes me again, so it was probably longer. The scenery outside the car changes, every time I blink.

“Once upon a time, there was this girl named Gretchen Cader. She was an evil bitch. And that's why I hate eggs. The end.”

Grant is looking at me funny, but the car is stopped. “Can I go to sleep now?”

“No.” He gets out of the car and pulls me to my feet, toward the porch of the biggest, most beautiful house I've ever seen.

“Jesus Fuck...you actually live here?”

He doesn't answer. He seems embarrassed. I blearily follow his eyes to where he's looking. To where an older version of him is standing in the doorway, illuminated by light.

“Hey Dad, this is…my friend. Natasha.”

He smiles down at me, like an older and more commanding version of Grant.
God, is that you?

“I think we've met.” Dr. Blue steps to the side and grabs my arm as Grant pulls me up the stairs and into the front room…entryway? More like fucking Grand Foyer.

Where did I learn that term? Oh, right. Gone with the Wind.

Grant makes me sit down at the table and take my coat off. He makes a sound when he sees me. I look down. My shirt is ripped a little in the front. I didn't notice that before.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

Nope
. “Fell. Down the stairs. Lot of stairs.”

Grant stands up and pulls his dad aside. His face is angry again. Even in my fog, I can hear him whispering.

“She won't tell me what happened, but I think someone attacked her.”

“ Does she know who it was?”

“I don't think so. She lives in...kind of a bad part of town.”

“Okay, well we'll worry about the details later. How long ago did this happen?”

“I don't know. She got off work at around nine, I think.”

“Okay, son.”

As they're having a heart to heart, I'm staring at the chandelier above the table. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Like diamonds, only the size of eggs. They keep winking at me.

Fuck you, smarmy diamond eggs.

Dr. Blue comes over and starts poking and prodding at me. He shines a light in my eyes and asks me a lot of really stupid questions. Name. Date. Who is the president? I tell him his questions are dumb, and he actually laughs.

Grant chimes in, adding a few. Like, ‘Name all 31 flavors.’ I start to do just that, but I get distracted when Dr. Blue starts prodding my neck.

“Do you feel any tingling or pain?”

“No. My fingers felt a little weird earlier, but now they're okay.”

He holds a bottle up to my nose.

“Can you smell this?” It's acrid, like floor cleaner. I wrinkle my nose.

“It smells like ammonia.”

“Good.”

Dr. Blue stands up, turns to Grant. “Okay, I think she'll live. But let's go ahead and keep an eye on her tonight, just in case. Will you go ask your sister to make up the guest room?”

Grant nods, and leaves the kitchen.

I look at Dr. Blue, suddenly full of fear, again.

“But...I'm not supposed to sleep. Won't I like...die, or something?”

Dr. Blue smiles kindly. “No, I don't think you have a concussion. But even if you did, that's sort of an old wives’ tale.”

“Oh. Well that's...good.”

He ducks his head, lowers his voice, just like Grant that first day in detention. “Natasha, are you sure you don't want to tell me who did this?”

I look at his face. He seems so nice. But then, so do a lot of people.

“No...I'm sticking to that stairs thing.”

He sighs, looking more sad than disappointed. “Okay.”

Just like that. Like he's trusting me to know what's best for me. He's letting it go.

I wish my mom would learn a thing or two from Grant's dad.

Grant comes back with a stack of blankets. "Gen's busy studying. I'll go ahead and get everything ready."

"Okay, but consider your feet glued to the floor tonight, buddy."

“What?”

My head hurts so bad. I must be addled, because that made no sense. Grant just nods though, like it made perfect sense.
Perfect family. Perfect sense. I don’t belong here, it’s obvious.

"Yes, sir."

Grant gestures for me to follow him, so I do. He takes me down the hall, and I can't help but stare at all the family pictures I pass. Grant's family is like the freaking model family of America. All they're missing is a fluffy dog with a red bandanna around its neck, for fuck’s sake. He leads me into a bedroom that's bigger than my living room and kitchen, combined. And yet, for some reason, he seems embarrassed about it. How is that possible?

“Um, there's a bathroom through that door.” He hands me something soft and light blue. I realize it's a nightgown, one of those old fashioned ones with the crochet around the top. Like Nana wears.

“You're kidding, right?”

He smiles. “Sorry, it's my mom's. I didn't think you'd want anything of my sister's. She wears a lot of pink.”

Touché
.

I go into the bathroom, and close the door behind me. My mouth almost hits the floor. The towels match. The soap is shaped like sea shells.

If I didn't already know that Grant and I were from two completely different worlds, this seals it. Even his soap is too good for me.

I change quickly, and wash my face with a green nautilus. Then I hunt through the drawers until I find a towel that doesn't look like it’s part of an elaborate home shopping channel display. When I’m done using it, I fold it neatly and leave it on the counter, sparing only a quick glance at the mirror and my face—which looks paler and puffier than usual—before turning to leave.

Grant is waiting for me, in the chair by the bed. He's made it all up for me, turning down the sheets and everything. When I come in, he's looking at me funny. I look down at myself, thinking that he couldn't possibly be checking me out. Not in this granny number. But I find myself blushing, anyway.

He's holding something in his hand—a remote. He gestures to a flat-screened TV on the wall.

“I thought you might want to watch a show or something, before you go to sleep. You know, so you don't have any messed-up dreams.”

My chest hurts. “Okay.”

I crawl into the huge, unbelievably comfortable bed, and tuck myself under the covers. The mattress is so wide and the pillows are so huge, I feel small. Worst of all, I feel like I might start crying. So instead, I do what I always do. I attack.

“So. Why didn't you come to Baskin Robbins earlier?”

Grant immediately looks guilty. I feel my wits sharpen.
What is he hiding?

“I had a bunch of errands to run,” he says, sounding sincere as ever, “and they kind of went over. I'm really sorry. I should've called.”

Yeah
, I think, somewhat bitterly.
Maybe if you had, I wouldn't have almost gotten
....

But my mind rebels. I can't even
think
the R-word in front of Grant, let alone say it.

“Are you really not going to tell me what happened?”

I just look at him. He keeps turning the remote control over and over in his hands, like a nervous gesture, but much more precise. He’s counting, I realize.

“Okay, will you at least tell me, has anything like this happened to you before?”

I shrug.
He really has no idea what kind of girl I am, does he?

“Was it...I don't know, your step dad, or?”

I sigh, closing my eyes to block out his sympathetic face. “My dad is dead. I don't have a step dad. And no, I'm not involved in an abusive relationship—at least, not that I'm aware of.”

“Okay. I get it. You don't want to tell me.” He points the remote at the TV. It flicks to life, electricity buzzing through the room a split-second before the sound of music. “What do you feel like watching?”