Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Seventeen

"I'm not," I breath out, having no power behind my voice. I don't want him to know that I'm scared but I'm rooted to the spot, I can't fake an ounce of confidence.

He takes another step forward, then another and I pray for my phone to ping or to hear a beep of a horn from outside, but neither come.

He smells of strongly of alcohol, expensive whiskey and stale cigarettes when he stands directly in front of me, his shiny shoes bumping into the front of mine. He bends down, closing in the space between us when suddenly his hand snaps up and he grips my cheeks in between his fingers, and I hear myself whimper. They dig in harshly, my cheeks puckering and pushing painfully into my teeth on the inside of my mouth.

I'm shaking in terror, my cheeks are wet with tears and I know that Kyle can feel both beneath his hand but his stoic glare doesn't waver.

His nostrils flare as he looks over me, before he juts my jaw toward him, mushing his lips messily against my own. I don't kiss him back, I just cry and wait for him to stop. His mouth tastes revolting, that coupled with what's happening and the flashbacks to that night that are threatening to cause bile to burn up my throat.

I attempt to pull away to tell him I'm going to be sick, but he grips me harder at the movement and I groan sickly against the sensation. I pull in deep breaths through my nose to keep the vomit down, my eyes wide open the entire time.

It feels like it goes on for an eternity, but what is probably only a minute later he pulls back, pushing my face away from his forcefully. Discarding me like a dirty tissue.

"Good," he sneers. "I don't share. Do you understand?"

I wonder if he thinks women should find that attractive; that sort of forceful, domineering attitude. But it's anything but.

I nod, too afraid to argue. Now isn't the time to tell him I never want to see him again. That whatever arrangement we had between us was absolutely over. Not when he's drunk and we're alone. I had to be smart about this, and I wasn't above lying to get him out of here as quickly as I could.

My phone pings just as I hear tires rolling over the road in front of my house and I could drop to the ground in relief.

"Your car," I croak and it isn't until I struggle to push the words out that I realise that I'm still crying.

Kyle looks me over with nothing but contempt and disapproval with my sorry state, in my lilac Bowie jumper that he no doubt despises, still wearing a hot pink knitted hat.

He grasps my chin, brushing his thumb roughly over my lips before he leans in with an unwelcome kiss to my cheek. Then he begins walking out of the room toward the hall and front door. I clasp my arms around myself, waiting for the sound of the front door shutting behind him, but before it does he beckons back to me.

"Oh and Riley?" I stay silent, but he continues anyway. "If I see you with Styles again, I'll kill him."

The door slams and with it my knees buckle beneath me. I slump to the ground in a mess, my arms gripping at the coffee table to keep my torso up and deep, ugly sobs wrack my body. I'm drawing in rasping gasps of air, chest heaving in and out furiously. The vomit I'd been holding in finds it's way up and out onto my carpet. I don't have the strength to move to clean it, overwhelmed with another round of nausea and flashbacks from ten years ago.

The smell of bleach.

A tap dripping.

Jason's heavy breaths and grunts in my ear.

I'm sick again, loudly and my muscles ache with the force of it, my temples squeezing with a headache.

My entire body has erupted in a cold sweat but I can't seem to control my arms well enough to tear my sweater from my body.