The Prologue (5 page)

“I’m really trying here, Tony,” I continue softly. Of course, even though Tony hits me, pushes me, grabs me and shouts at me and pulls me around by my hair and kills me inside, I’m the issue with our relationship. It’s me who isn’t trying, who doesn’t show love or affection or even basic consideration. Tony, obviously, is perfect in every way. For two years, I’ve been fighting desperately against sinking into the belief that he’s right.

“Noted and appreciated,” he says, swooping in and kissing the tip of my nose before I have time to react. The dark look is gone from his eyes and as always I feel as though I imagined it. It will return soon enough.

He takes a step back to look me over, in my emerald satin dress and silver high heels. “Have I told you yet how beautiful you look tonight? Your eyes are stunning with that dress.”

I smile before I can help it, and then I want to kick myself. But this is playful Tony of the past, the one I fell in love with, and he has always been able to charm me.

“Several times, but I’ll treasure each one,” I tell him sincerely.

“You wanna dance?” he asks, and I nod my head because I have no other choice but to say yes, even if it’s going to make my ribs ache.

I put my hand in his, holding back a wince at the direct contact. His hand is big, warm and reassuring; it doesn’t seem at all capable of the violence I’ve seen from it. He leads me to the middle of the floor and twirls me around before pulling me close against him.

Twinkle lights sparkle above us, and to my left the bride and groom are dancing. I don’t know them well, they and their parents only run in the same circles as Tony’s and my parents, but they look blissfully happy, lost in each other’s eyes. I used to think Tony and I would end up like that.

I never would have guessed, back in the ninth grade when he passed me a note in English and melted my heart with his blue eyes and quick grin, that I would end up like this.

Scared. Empty. Alone. Helpless. Violated.

Trapped.

Finally, after three slower dances, they pick up the pace of the music and my ribs are on fire. I have to stop or I know I’ll collapse. I make myself rise up on my tip toes and kiss Tony’s cheek before murmuring that I could really use a drink, and to my relief he leads me off the dance floor. Unfortunately, it’s straight toward a group of our friends, and my heart sinks at the thought of dealing with all of them tonight, when I already feel so out of sorts.

Luckily, Jenny is there, and I take a spot next to her as Tony goes to get us drinks. Jenny and I have been friends since second grade, when we met at Madame Bella’s dance studio and were in the same class. We’d been joined at the hip all those years, until eighth grade struck. I’d quit dancing just as it began to consume most of Jenny’s time, and we’d drifted slightly apart as we had started dating boys, and extracurricular activities and school had taken up most of our time.

We’d never been further apart than we were now, with my relationship with Tony, but I couldn’t let anyone close enough to see the truth. Regardless, Jenny is still my favorite person and my closest friend. The other girls in our immediate group, Tiffany, Chantal, and Grace, are all the privileged kind of girls I hate. They remind me of my stepmother; rich, entitled, condescending, and never satisfied. Aaron, Josh, and a few of Tony’s other friends are all right, if you can overlook the fact that they are brainless rich kids as well, but they’re harmless.

Unlike Tony, I think with a shiver.

As if summoned by my thoughts, he appears at my side and hands me a glass of white wine. It’s an open bar and they aren’t asking for ID’s, and I can already see that most of our crowd has taken full advantage of this. The girls are all giggling, even Jenny, and the boys have big, dopey grins on their faces and arms slung around the girls’ waists.

I let out a little sigh and think longingly of college, just a year away. It will be my escape, my saving grace. I don’t know yet where I’m going, but I know it will be far, far away from anyplace these people are going. Away from Tony. I’m thinking California, maybe Stanford or USC, someplace where the sun is shining all the time, and I can feel carefree, like a new person.

Someplace I can wear damned neon pink toenail polish if I damned well feel like it. I look down at my feet, the nails now painted a plum color so dark it’s almost black, and curl my toes under so I can’t see them.

“This wait staff leaves a lot to be desired,” Tiffany drawls as a uniformed waiter passes us, and she clumsily grabs a glass off of his tray, causing him to almost drop it. She snickers, along with everyone else but Jenny and me.

I glance at the waiter, and see its Dominic Alverson, one of Zeke’s friends. He glares daggers at Tiffany’s back as he rebalances his tray, and I look down at the floor again as a smile touches my lips. Curious, I ignore the chatter around me, which has turned into a discussion about the ‘riffraff’ the club hires on, and examine the rest of the staff intermingling between all the guests.

And there he is. Zeke Quain is over near the bar, waiting as the bartender loads up his tray with fresh drinks. He’s easy to pick out by his tall figure, and as his head turns out toward the room, I quickly look away. No way can I allow us to make eye contact and have Tony notice. My ribs give their sharpest twinge of the day, and I smile so hard my teeth ache, focusing back on the lame conversation before me, trying to distract myself.

Jenny edges closer to me so she can whisper in my ear. “Koby came and talked to me yesterday, after you left. At dance.”

I look at her in surprise. “Really? What did you talk about?”

She shrugs, swaying a little as she takes a sip from her own wine glass. “School. Nothing too special. It was cute though.”

“
He’s
cute. Maybe you should just have a secret love affair,” I say jokingly.

Jenny looks thoughtful. “Maybe,” she says slowly, like she’s seriously thinking about it.

I laugh nervously, hoping I haven’t given her the mother of all bad ideas, and take an overlarge sip of wine. It ends up going down the wrong pipe and I start coughing before I can stop myself, and my ribs feel ready to explode from my body. The girls titter and Tony pats my back, and I close my eyes, feeling tears squeeze out as I struggle to regain my breath.

Finally, I’m taking deep, wheezing breaths, and now the tears are from the pain in my ribs, though I’m glad no one will think them strange. Tony rubs my back soothingly, even though his touch makes it harder to catch my breath.

“You all right, miss?” a dry voice asks, and I open my eyes to meet a pair of startling green ones, set in a dark face.

Zeke Quain is looking at me, one sardonic eyebrow raised.

“Fine,” I say hoarsely, surprised by his concern.

“Then if you wouldn’t mind…” he trails off and gestures to the floor.

I look down and realize that my drink had spilled during my coughing fit. Zeke is holding a wet rag so he can clean it up, but I’m blocking his way.

“Sorry,” I mutter, and take a step back. Zeke bends down to mop up the floor, then stands and looks at my dripping glass.

“Would you like a towel and a fresh drink, miss?” he asks, and his voice is slightly mocking.

Tony scowls at him. “Yeah. On the double.”

Zeke stares at Tony for a long moment, and then his eyes flick to me again. Deliberately, slowly, his eyes rake up and down my body, checking me out as an out and out slap in Tony’s face. Finally, he winks at me, smirks at Tony, and walks away.

“Of all the nerve!” Tony splutters, and I feel my face flushing red.

The others all burst out in indignation as well, and even Jenny looks startled. Conversation dies immediately when Zeke returns with a wet washcloth, walking up to us slowly and without any hint of intimidation. He plucks the glass out of my hand and hands it off to the passing Dominic, then takes my hand in his. We’re all struck dumb as he carefully and thoroughly cleans the sticky wine from my hand, staring into my eyes the whole time. When my hand is thoroughly clean, he grabs a fresh glass off the next passing tray and presses it into my hand. And then he is gone, after smirking once again at Tony.

With that final smirk, my stomach flips over in my stomach, and I slowly turn around. The dark look is back in Tony’s eyes, darker and more menacing than before, and I know I’m going to have hell to pay for Zeke’s taunting of him.

“Gives a whole new meaning to the term hand job,” Grace finally says, and there’s an explosion of laughter.

“Guy has got some balls,” Josh says. “Can’t deny that.”

“I’ll show him balls,” Tony bites out. “Who the hell does he think he is, anyway? I’m reporting this to the manager. That’s so disrespectful.”

“Reporting what? That your girlfriend spilled her wine and he was nice enough to clean it up and wash her hand?” Jenny points out dryly, clearly not impressed with Zeke’s boldness. She’s the only rational head, and butterflies rage around in my stomach as I see the fury snapping in Tony’s eyes at her casual disregard of the matter.

“It
was
pretty rude, the way he did it,” Chantal argues.

The matter of Zeke’s rudeness is deeply discussed as the evening goes on, along with the usual contemptuous talk of, well, everything. I talk less and less as the look in Tony’s eyes gets darker and darker, and I know what is coming.

I can feel it whenever he touches me, with stiff, distant fingers. They are shaking slightly, and his movements are jerky with ill-concealed rage. My ribs have begun throbbing again, even though I’ve been standing still for over an hour, watching Tony pound back beer after beer.

Drunk. He’ll be drunk, tipsy at the very least this time, and it’s always worse when he’s been drinking. He has less control then, isn’t careful about where and how hard he hits me. My own hands have begun shaking, and I stop drinking after I finish the glass that Zeke gave me. Doubtless it would have helped to dull my senses, but I want all my wits about me if Tony isn’t going to have any.

Suddenly I want to run, fast and hard, as far away from this place as I can. I want to go up and shake Zeke Quain for provoking Tony, even though he had no idea of the consequences. I see my dad across the room and want to run to him, beg him to take me home and keep me safe. But I know I can’t. Just like yesterday, I’ll stick around and take it. I’ll numb myself to the pain, escape reality and retreat into my head, and wake up bruised and battered.

Just like yesterday, and just like last week. Tears sting and burn at my eyes as I remember last week, that horrible moment when Tony did something I’d never thought he was capable of. Suddenly I’m back in that moment, my arms high above my head, iron hands capturing my wrists, big body sitting over me, holding me down. Empty house, where no one can hear me screaming. The trickles of blood on me afterward.

Fuck. I can still feel them, the wet drips trickling down my thighs, the feeling of it all being absorbed into my body, the fear and shame and hurt and violation sinking right into me, poisoning me. I haven’t felt clean since. I don’t think I ever will again. I’ve felt wooden and hallow ever since, even more so than I ever have after one of Tony’s episodes, and only the pain when he has hurt me since then assures me that I’m still alive.

Sometimes I think I need it to reassure myself I’m still a living, breathing creature. I need the stinging pain in my ribs right now, to let me know that blood, even if its poisoned, is still pumping and pounding and flowing through my body, that I’m still sending out brain waves and my lungs are still taking in air and then releasing it. That I’m not a marionette, with Tony pulling all my strings, putting on a stunning façade in front of my family and even my best friend. Maybe that’s why I don’t fight it. Because without the sharp pain, the fear that chokes me, I’m not sure I’m really alive.

Or maybe I’m just as scared as a mouse trapped between a cat’s paws. Or maybe I’m still in love with who Tony is during his saner moments, who he was, who I know he’s possibly capable of being. Or maybe I don’t try and save myself because I don’t even know if I’m alive enough, worth enough, to be saved.

I don’t know anymore.

All I know is that I want to run, fast and hard, away from this place at this moment. The pain in my ribs is enough to ground me, to keep me sane, and I know that I don’t want more of it at Tony’s hands. I want to run far, far away. To a beach, where I can curl my toes in the sand and let the surf pound my body, not Tony’s fists. Where I can feel the warm sunshine on my skin, and let it be the thing to tell me I’m alive. Where I can wash with salt water, and maybe, finally, get this dirty feeling off my skin. Scrub myself with sand, shed the poisoned layers, and emerge a new person, untouched by such ugliness.

But I don’t run. I stay at Tony’s side. I don’t even flinch when his hand resumes it’s position on my neck, holding me tightly so I can’t get away. My stomach is churning, raging around like a hurricane, and I feel I might vomit. Finally, I can stand it no longer. Only Josh and Chantal are still at the wedding, and I make my excuses, saying I need to use the restroom.

I’ve barely made it three feet away before Tony excuses himself as well, and I can feel the heavy footsteps following me. It’s time. There’s no escaping it. I wrap an arm around my aching ribs and swallow hard, willing the sick feeling to go away. I blink back the tears of fear and keep a careful, slow stride toward one of the exit doors, and stand waiting, as one at the gallows.