Handcuffs or Jail?

Chapter 7- Starbucks

Chapter 7

Elizabeth’s POV:

I push myself up, and over to my bag. Randomly grabbing clean clothes, and slipping them on, while in a dream state the whole time. I shake my head back and forth lightly, so as not to hurt myself, but enough to enter back into reality.

I re-apply the make-up, using a hand held mirror, and get ready to back up my story of lies and make fake excuses so that more suspicion isn’t formed.

Just like I expected, as soon as I opened the door, I was faced just inches away from a huge, defined chest, and when I looked up to meet the eyes of the person I was met with an angry and calculating glare.

I figured I might as well start the conversation that was bound to happen, with the bottom line. “It’s nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘it’s nothing’ that’s the biggest d*mn lie I’ve ever heard! ‘It’s nothing’, I mean, come on, Elizabeth, your face is covered in bruises, you have a split lip in two places, and there’s other cut marks on your face, and what was that other stuff. I know I can’t have caused that, because it’s already healed. It looked really old, now tell me.”

He makes this so difficult. I don’t want to feed him more lines cr*p, but I can’t tell him anything. Maybe I can give variations of the truth? “Well I have a high pain tolerance, so it doesn’t hurt too bad, so it’s really nothing. Besides you would catch hell from your family if they saw that, and I know you don’t want that happening.” I’ve so got him there.

“I don’t give a sh*t if my parents know. In fact, I wish they knew so that they could help you. I can’t believe I actually hit you.”

That last part was to himself, just thinking out loud, but it had me confused. I just can’t figure this boy out. First he hates me, and now he can’t believe he hurt me? No sense at all.

He looks so sad. I walk over and lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, “Kent, it’s alright that you hit me. We’re both at fault for what happened. Why don’t we just leave it behind us? Go get dressed.” I lightly pushed him into the closet, and I heard the light shuffling of someone moving around, inside.

After a few minutes he came out in light washed jeans and a worn blue t-shirt for a Rockdale track team, and another one of his upset and calculating glares sitting on his face.

I sigh, “What now, Kenton?”

Instead of responding a very strong arm pulls me roughly against his chest, and I arch myself away from him, but his arm is securely around my stomach so my upper back has no choice, but to be plastered to his firm chest. He brings the hood down from my face, and spins me around, leaving both hands on my shoulders.

I avert my face, but he takes his hand off my right shoulder and brings my face back around so I have no choice, but to look at him. “What happened to the marks?”

“Make-up works wonders.”

“What about my question that you didn’t answer?”

“What question?” I know perfectly well, by the way. I’ve purposefully been avoiding it, and hoping it would be forgotten.

“What are the older scars from?”

“I think that my business should stay my business, don’t you?”

“No, now tell me.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t deserve to know why they’re there.”

“Who are you to decide what I deserve and don’t deserve to know, huh?” He smirked, but still hasn’t removed his hand from my face.