The Drazen World: Dominate (Kindle Worlds Novella) (6 page)

“I don’t need to see a damned therapist.” I took a hesitant sip before slamming the glass on the counter.

Grrr. I knew what a therapist would want me to do. Talk about it. I didn’t want to talk about it. I just wanted to forget that painful night and focus on my career.

He held out his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’m sorry.”

“Look,” I groaned, raking my fingers through my hair, “I have a long day tomorrow. You should go.”

He leaned against the counter, lines framing his eyes and mouth as he continued to stare at me. “I can’t rest, knowing you’re upset.”

“All right.” I threw up my hands, yelling at the ceiling. “I was raped, okay?”

For the briefest of moments, it felt liberating to get that off my chest. For five long years I’d kept the painful memories from that night buried deep inside the cavity of my battered heart.

Fuck. Why had I told him? Telling him would only lead to more questions. More prodding into my past. My chest heaved as I fought back tears. I would not let him see me cry!

I stomped a foot, screaming like a madwoman. “Are you happy now?”

His face paled as if he’d seen a ghost. “No.”

“We need to get some sleep.” Anger fueled my movements as I stomped into the front room. I jerked open the door and waved toward the porch. “You need to go.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked over to me. “I don’t want to leave you like this.”

Too bad he was so cute, because I was never having sex with him again. “Please leave, Brad,” I said through a stiff jaw.

“Okay.” His shoulders slumped as he walked past me and out on the porch. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”

I didn’t bother to answer him as I slammed the door in his face. Back stiff and head held high, I returned to the bedroom, feeling as if I was marching to my own funeral.

I slowly lowered myself onto the bed, the same bed where I’d lost myself to Brad’s passionate kiss, momentarily forgetting I was the one in control. No man had ever mesmerized me like that before, and I was determined not to give Brad the chance to do it again.

* * *

I
woke up to a pounding headache. I draped an arm over my eyes before rolling onto my side. The banging in my head persisted, louder and more urgent. It took me a moment to realize the sound was coming from my front door.

Mierda.
Brad. 

I heaved myself out of bed and grabbed my robe off the chair, slipping into it before padding to the door. “Hold your horses!” I called before checking the peephole and unlocking the door. 

He was standing there with a pained smile, balancing a bag of donuts and a tray with two steaming cups of coffee in one hand.

Damn. I could so go for a chocolate-glazed donut and something warm and caffeinated to wake me up.

I leaned against the doorframe, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Brad. I can’t see you anymore.”

“Ariana, please don’t do this.” When he jutted a foot forward, I was afraid he’d try to push his way inside.

I clutched the handle, ready to slam it in his face if necessary. “It’s nothing you did. I just need to focus on my career right now.”

“You think my career doesn’t require focus?” His voice rose an octave, and his cheeks flushed bright pink. “It’s called multitasking.”

Clearly I was pissing him off. Why had I expected him to be different from all the other pendejos I’d dated? “Brad, please. I just need some time alone.”

He blocked the door with his foot when I tried to shut it and jerked the handle out of my hands. “You need help.” His declaration cut through the fog in my brain like a hacksaw.

“Why should a girl need help just because she likes to be in control?”

“Because of the
reason
you like to be in control.”

Hijo de puta.
“I’ve got a long day today. I can’t do this right now.”

I was about to kick his foot when he stepped back, holding up the donuts and coffee in mock surrender. “Okay, but you know where I am if you need to talk.”

Nervous laughter bubbled up in my throat, spilling over as I slammed the door behind me. This guy was relentless. Couldn’t he see I was never going to talk about it? Just like I was never going to give up control in the bedroom. This was who I was. Who the hell was he to try to change me? Who was he to think I needed help? He was a cardiologist, not a therapist. And even if he’d been a therapist, so fucking what?

I didn’t need to talk about it. I didn’t, even though telling Brad about the rape had felt somewhat cathartic. There was no one else I could have told, but he was gone now. I’d shut him out like I’d done with all the other guys who’d tried to get too close. 

Somewhere deep inside, I suspected Brad was right. I needed help, but a therapist would make me bring all of those buried emotions to the surface, and I wasn’t ready to face those demons. Not now. Not ever.

I
didn’t know what my sleazeball director was expecting from me in return, but when I showed up to work, I had several more lines. I even had a name—Carmelita. It sounded like an ice cream topping. At least my lines were good, though painful. I had to describe to the detective the brutal details of the night my pimp beat and raped me.

Since the change to the script had been made last minute, I only had about an hour to go over my part. The prostitute’s story and mine had too many eerie similarities. I knew I could do this, but that would mean I’d have to go deep inside myself and drag out that terrified and confused high school girl, exposing her to the director, the cameramen, and the whole world. 

You got this, Ariana. You can do it. 

For several years I’d been preparing for my big moment on television. I’d studied the techniques. I could scream as if the very bowels of hell had opened up, threatening to suck me under. I could play a hard-nosed bitch, stuck in survival mode and not afraid to claw someone’s eyes out if I felt threatened.

But what I could play best was the victim. I could fall down, shuddering and withdrawing into myself, tears streaming down my face while that dark pit of emptiness threatened to swallow me whole.

All I had to do was summon memories of Bud Boudreau ripping off my jeans and rutting me from behind like an animal in heat. The stink and sweat on his filthy fingers when he’d covered my screams with his calloused hands, and the pain lancing through my body as he pushed his way inside me, ripping me open like a butcher knife slicing through raw meat. The agony of him squeezing my breasts so hard, the bruising had taken weeks to heal. But most of all, the rancid smell of foul whiskey on his breath when he’d licked my cheek, breathing hot into my ear while threatening to deport my mother if I told a soul.

Yeah, all I needed to do was visualize the night Bud Boudreau raped me, and I could play the victim just fine.

I sat alone in an abandoned prop room and rehearsed my lines until they called me. I walked onto the set and sat at a table beneath the glaring lights opposite the pale blonde Detective Garza and her partner.

The cameras were rolling. She spoke briefly with her partner before turning to me, asking me to describe the rape in great detail. I inhaled a shuddering breath, looking at my hands fisted on the table. Then I turned to her with watery eyes and told Carmelita’s story—my story. 

* * *

A
fter we finished filming the scene, the crew congratulated me for a job well done. A few of the women were crying. The actress playing Detective Garza said she’d almost broken character and started bawling. My slimeball director gave me a standing ovation, eyeing me with a new sense of appreciation. Maybe he’d finally realized I wasn’t just a pussy with legs and I should be treated like a professional.

The courtroom scene wasn’t until the next morning, so I picked up a cup of coffee and a muffin and went into my little prop room to prepare. I was going to have to tell a similar story to the judge. I didn’t know how I would make it through the night with Carmelita in my head.

I turned on the video phone and recorded my monologue, playing it back a few times and critiquing my facial expressions. I was recording my final take when a knock on the door startled me. I threw down my script and turned around. Before I had a chance to tell him to take a hike, Sebastian Hendrix had slipped inside my cramped space.   

“Hey, that was amazing. My producer is going to be—” he paused, tapping his bearded chin as if he was thinking of the right words to say, “—shocked when she sees it.” He ended with a predatory smile, the kind that made kids hide behind their mothers’ legs.

“Thanks.” I shifted uncomfortably as a warning siren went off in my brain.

Without asking, Sebastian pulled up a folding chair and sat facing me, his knees rubbing against mine. “What are you doing after work?”

I made a big show of scooting back, grumbling as I scraped the chair across the tiles. “Going to bed.”

“Really?” His eyes widened, then narrowed, like a wolf honing in on a lone rabbit.

I arched back, scowling. “Not with you.”

“Oh, come on.” He laughed, then scooted closer to me, as if this was all a big fucking game.

I gestured at my script on the table, covering the phone that was hopefully still recording. “I have to get back to my lines.” 

“Wait.” He grabbed my sore arm, digging in hard as if he was trying to rip open my stitches. 

“Ouch!” I snapped, shaking him off me.

“Sorry.” He ran a hand through his greasy hair. “I’m trying to work out an angle for you. Undercover detective working as a prostitute.”

The only angle he was trying to work was getting laid. “You already have a female Latina cop.”

“The execs are saying she’s not Hispanic enough.” He threw up his hands, rolling his eyes. “Whatever that means. I should have cast you in the first place.” 

I raked a hand down my leg, fighting the urge to slap him. “A little too late for that.”

“It’s never too late, Ariana.” He lunged for me, grabbing the back of my head and trying to pull my face toward his.

I fell out of the chair, landing on my knee with a painful crack and slapping his hand away. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Do you want the job or not?” he growled.

My heart beat like a stampede in my eardrums. “Not on these terms.”

“Don’t lie to me, Ariana. I know you like to suck dick.” He jumped from his chair, grabbing my hair by the roots and thrusting his crotch at my face.

I hauled off and punched him right in the
cajones
. 

He fell to the floor, curled up in a fetal ball. “Fucking bitch!”

I stood on shaky legs. “Touch me again, and I’ll kick your balls into your throat.”

* * *

I
didn’t know if I should’ve been relieved or disappointed Brad’s driveway was empty. Sometimes he worked until late at night. I hoped that’s where he was, and not at some bar picking up a girl who wasn’t too controlling in bed.

I’d just come from a big blowout with my agent. The pendejo tore up our contract after learning I’d punched my director. What the hell did he expect me to do? Open wide so Carmelita could get a few more lines? Now I was without an agent, and very soon I’d be without a job. I didn’t wait around for Sebastian to fire me, but I was sure he was planning on it, right after his nuts dropped.

Despite my horrific afternoon, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. I rubbed my scarred knuckles. From now on, whenever I looked at that hand, I wouldn’t think of how Bud Boudreau had stomped on my hand when I’d tried to get away. No, I’d think of the time my fist had plowed into my director’s junk, and how Sebastian Hendrix curled into a ball on the floor and wept like a baby.  

As I stared at my fist, I had a new sense of empowerment. I hadn’t needed to tie Sebastian up to protect myself. I’d known how to exploit his weakness, just as he’d tried to do to me. 

W
hen I showed up to work the next day, I was surprised security let me into the parking lot and through the studio doors. I was equally shocked when nobody handed me a pink slip.

Weird.

Had Sebastian had a change of heart, or was he at a hospital somewhere, having his cajones extracted from his bladder ?

There was no sign of Sebastian on the set. I spun around when one of the assistant directors whistled at me, waving me over. She was a woman of about fifty, tall and skinny with a crooked nose.

My legs felt heavy as I trudged over to her. I was about to get fired. No doubt Sebastian had hired her to do his dirty work. She thumbed at the door behind her. “The producer wants a word with you.”

Fuck.

I hadn’t met the producer yet. A few of the crew members mentioned she’d had a family emergency. Apparently she was back. I assumed her first order of business was to hand me a pink slip. Sebastian had probably made up some wild story just to get me fired.

I hesitantly knocked on the door before poking my head inside. “You wanted to see me?” I squeaked, hating the mousy sound of my voice.

“Come in,” she drawled from behind an oversized leather chair that was facing away from me.

After closing the door behind me, I walked up to the desk. My jaw dropped when she spun around. I was momentarily shocked into silence before jutting an accusatory finger at her chest. “You cut my arm. Eight stitches, plus a tetanus shot.” 

She folded her hands in front of her, eyeing me through slits. “I can do more than cut your arm, bitch. I can cut your entire career.”

I slapped a palm on her desk, turning my wound toward her. “The deductible was a hundred and twenty, not to mention there’s going to be a permanent scar.”

She didn’t even bat a fake eyelash as she leaned back. “As in you’ll never work in this town again.”

I glared at her. Seriously, what could the bitch do to me that Sebastian hadn’t already done? “What
was
that, a pocket knife?”

“A silver cross I was going to give to my mother.” She puffed her hair helmet. “It fell out of the wrapping.”

Oh, shit, a cross? I could never tell Mamá. She’d say it was a sign I needed to repent, then she’d force me to get on my knees and recite a hundred Hail Marys. “Couldn’t you have boxed it first?”