Read Online Promiscuous by Isobel Irons - Free Book Online Page B

ass.”
    When he’s done talking, he doesn’t pull back. He just stays there, hand over my mouth, full weight against me. I can feel his dick pressing into my hip through all the layers of our clothing, and the truth is, in that moment I’m too nauseated to feel scared.
    Stupid . The voice in my head that’s something like a conscience—the one I usually ignore—berates me. He was all talk before this. You took it to a physical place when you hit him. Now it’s open season on your ass. You’re fair game to him now, and probably his friends, too.  I hope you’re happy.
    Black spots dance across my vision, and that’s when I realize I haven’t breathed in a while. I squirm away from his touch, trying to turn my head away. He presses harder. I try to bring my knee up and kick him in the balls, but he deflects my pathetic attempt.
    “Bitch, please. I’m wrestling state champ. You can’t win against me.”
    He lets go and takes a step back, probably to prove how confident he is. How little I scare him. I suck in a breath, preparing to hurl all kinds of dangerous words. Insults, threats, comments on the pathetic size of his undoubtedly diseased meat stick. But before I can, he puts a hand on my chest—just one hand—and shoves me back against the truck.
    “You’re not fooling anyone, Tasha,” he says, lips parting in a disgusting smile. “You can act tough all you want, but you know what? I can feel you shaking. You’re scared, but I think you’re excited, too. Deep down, I think you want it.”
    Shaking with rage, to my very core, I reach up and push his hand away as hard as I can.
    “Go ahead, motherfucker. Prove to the world what a big, strong man you are by raping me right here in the parking lot. Maybe Principal Shoemaker will happen by and film it on his phone.”
    I’m not sure why I said that. If I thought my blatant use of the R-word would shock him, or make me sound like a badass with nothing to lose, or make him think twice about what he was threatening, I was dead fucking wrong. He just laughs in my face.
    And then he just stands there, sizing me up. For a second, he actually considers it, I can tell by the look on his face. Cruel and hungry. Animalistic. The worst part is the look in his eyes, because that’s the moment I realize how wrong I was. Trent Gibson is much smarter than he looks. He’s also right: I’ve never been more scared in my life.
    But then he laughs. Sniffs. Takes a step back.
    “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Ha. Maybe later. If you play your cards right.”
    With that, he turns and walks around his truck. Gets in. Starts it. Drives away.
    After he’s gone, I retrieve my keys from the dirty pavement and finally manage to unlock my car. I get in and lock all of the doors again, not caring whether or not they’ll be stuck this way now. I’m shaking all over, shuddering. The asshole Jiminy Cricket voice in my head is laughing at me.
    You shouldn’t have run your mouth off, it says. Now he thinks you want it.
    But the voice is wrong. Sure, I might have made things worse for myself. But if Trent is as sick as I think he is, it was only a matter of time before he came after me on his own. Because I’m wrong, somehow—dirty, as Gretchen used to say.
    As my false bravado crumbles into nothing, my eyes prickle with hot tears of self-loathing. But I don't cry. For two reasons. One, because on the rare occasions that moisture escapes from my tear ducts, my eyes have a tendency to swell up to roughly the size of Angelina Jolie's lips...and two, because in the shark tank that is my life, tears are the equivalent of blood in the water. Or maybe a flood gate.
    Fuck if I know which analogy is appropriate for this situation. I'm too busy trying to make my hands stop shaking to think all that clearly. Finally, I manage to start the car. When I pull out of the parking lot, I can't help wishing I could just turn onto the highway and keep driving. Forever.
    But then, maybe that