I pant as I pick up speed.

She could wake up at any second and find me like this, getting myself off to the sight of her with her used panties wrapped around my cock. It almost makes me angry that she isn’t waking up at all. She’s not even stirring. Anyone could come in here and do exactly what I’m doing, and she wouldn’t even know.

My grip tightens at the thought. Maybe I should wake her. Push myself up against her entrance and bite down on her perky tits. I could make her wake up screaming from pleasure or while coming on her face. She’d fight the second she’s awake, then smile right before I claim her mouth and fuck her until she comes, crying out my name as she does it.

The very idea of it sets me over the edge. There’s nothing I can do to silence my groan as I release myself into her panties.

I hunch over and pant, then hold my breath when she turns over and pulls the blanket over her shoulder. My high doesn’t last long.

On her bedside table is the reason why Bella is dead to the world: Xanax.

Why is she taking it? How long has she been taking it? What the hell happened to her that she had to start taking prescription medication?

Annoyance zips through me as I glance at the window. What if it wasn’t me who climbed through it? Putting a chair under her door handle will stop anyone from inside getting to her, but the ones on the outside are the real threat.

People like me.

My irritation flares as my lust-blind mind finally clears, and I notice more of her room. There are drawings on the walls, just like before I left.

I tuck myself back into my pants, pocket the panties, and take a closer look. They’re drawings, alright. Not mine—hers.

Where my pen strokes are harsh, her graphite lines are soft. The proportions of the faces are spot-on, and the shading is blended and smooth. It’s realistic—far better than my drawings.

I’m not sure if I should be jealous.

Okay, I am. Just a little.

Before I left, she wouldn’t draw anything but the occasional doodle. Now she’s out here sketching like she’s been doing it since birth? I’m proud, but what the fuck? Who taught her how to draw like this, because it sure as hell wasn’t me?

I pull myself away from the drawings and investigate the rest of the room. Other than the art and the supplies, nothing in this room has changed.

Oh, and the Xanax. Couldn’t forget about those. I consider throwing the pills away. Though, she could just refill. But that’s money she wouldn’t spend on food or things for herself.

Later, I think to myself.

Soon, she’ll know I’m back and coming for her. Then, I’m going to find out why she’s been ignoring me.

And if she has, she’s going to regret it.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter 14

ISABELLA

The Day of the Incident

Roman: 22 years old – Isabella: 20 years old.

It’s my birthday today.

Not that anyone remembers.

It’s not like it matters anyway.

I'm three years older than when Roman left, but I feel I’ve aged at least ten years. They always said there is nothing worse than growing older, and I will live life chasing my youth, wishing for the day when I could drink as much as I want, party, and wake up without responsibilities.

I never had those four things, so I don’t long for them. Sometimes I miss the girl I was when Mickey was around. The one who was delirious and incapable, who questioned everything in the name of insecurity, but nothing that really mattered.

It’s kind of pathetic that I haven’t felt a glimmer of happiness since the day he disappeared, and there doesn’t seem to be any joy waiting for me in my future.

What’s even more pathetic is wishing he’d taken my virginity before he left so it could be forever immortalized as the day I lost everything.

“Thank you, love,” the customer, who has been eyeballing me since he walked into the store, says when I hand him the receipt. He drops his business card and smirks. “You should call me sometime.”

I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

He nods. When the door rings shut behind him, I drop his card in the trash without reading it. I found that one word works best. Thanks. Short, sharp, to the point. Say too much, and they think you’re leading them on. Say the wrong thing, and they might kill you.

The joys of womanhood.

Marcus is getting bolder with his advances every passing day. It’s only a matter of time until groping doesn’t cut it, then he’ll take another part of me I’ll never get back.

He’s developed even more entitlement now that I’m no longer property of the state. I live under his family’s roof without paying rent. In exchange, I work at this crappy hardware store while Marcus and Greg work in the garage next door.

I want to leave. With every fiber of my being, I want to escape this horrible family and abominable city and never turn back. The only thing holding me back is the knowledge that, if I leave, there’s no one to look after Jeremy. Millie is too busy most of the time, Greg and Marcus won’t take care of him, and the state isn’t doing jack about it, no matter how much I complain.

I’m losing more battles than I can win.

Scratch that; I don’t think I’ve won a single battle in a long time.

One day, I’ll get out of this god-forsaken city. I don’t know when, how, or where I will go, but anywhere is better than here. I’ll monetize any hobby I have, whether it’s knitting, painting, or sculpting. I’ll keep building on doing drawing commissions, and hope one day it’ll be enough for something.

I may not have any college plans like Roman did with fixing up motorbikes and cars, but I have my own aspirations… of sorts. I want to live a life with a full heart. As immeasurable as it is, I’ll know when I get there.

If I don’t, I’ll be a girl wasting away at a hardware store owned by a predator.

With no one needing me at the counter, I return to stocking the shelves. The place is rundown, with dreary brick walls and linoleum floors. The only good thing about the store is the big bay windows—with safety bars—mainly because of its metaphorical appearance. I pretend I’m outside, under the sun, and not a caged bird.

My days are monotonous. Wake up, make breakfast for everyone, work, make dinner for everyone, sleep, then repeat. But there are good days, too. Those are when someone pays cash, and I manage to pocket some of it without anyone being any wiser. Not much, though; five dollars here and there. Better than nothing when it’s the only money I’m saving after buying food.

Stale cigarette smoke and diesel fuel assault my senses, and bile lurches up my throat when Marcus grabs my ass.

“These jeans suit you,” he purrs in my ear.

The blood rushes from my body. He puts his arm on the shelf by my head, caging me in.

“One day, you’re gonna want me back.” He pushes his body against me, and I cringe back as far into the shelf as I can possibly go.

“I need to work,” I whisper, forcing myself not to gag.

He disgusts me. Just because I live under his roof—his parents’ roof—doesn’t give him any right to put his hands on me. But I can’t do a thing about it. I can’t push him or tell him to stop. I can’t scold him or give him a piece of my mind.

I slapped his hand away once, so he gave me a black eye in return.

He’s a pig. The weakest people are the ones who lash out when they get rejected. That’s another thing I’ve learned now that Roman isn’t shielding me from the world. I don’t forgive him for leaving, but it was the wake-up call I needed.

“You aren’t working tonight.” Marcus presses the bulge in his pants against my ass. “In fact, your bed’s been pretty empty. You must be getting cold at night; I can warm it up for you.”