Chapter 12: The Last Attempt
The sharp polyester of her old button-down scraped against Amy’s skin like sandpaper. She stared hard into the vanity mirror, the harsh bulb overhead flattening her features. Glasses. Baggy jeans. A faded t-shirt proclaiming a science fair victory two lifetimes ago. It felt like a bad Halloween costume. Her reflection swam, distorted and wrong.
A wave of nausea rolled through her, thick and sour. Disgusting. The word echoed in her skull, Chad’s voice layered over her own frantic thoughts. No one wants a brainy bitch, babe. His sneer was practically painted on the glass. She flinched, fingertips instinctively brushing the phantom ache beneath her collarbone where his handprint had bloomed purple in the library yesterday. The memory of his fingers digging in, the way Tiffany had giggled… a hot flush of shame warred with a darker, creeping thrill.
She ripped the glasses off, tossing them onto the cluttered vanity. They clattered against empty bottles of glitter nail polish and sticky perfume samples. Her dorm room mocked her. Frilly pink throw pillows lay discarded on the floor beside stacks of fashion magazines. Inspirational quotes about beauty and confidence screamed from sticky notes plastered haphazardly on the wall above the desk where her Bunsen burner used to sit. PRETTY = POWER, one declared in sparkly gel pen. Another: SMILE! IT CONFUSES PEOPLE.
Her trembling hand hovered over the jumble of makeup. Mark. He was picking her up soon. He’d see her like this. His quiet disappointment would be worse than Chad’s loud contempt. She could see Mark’s face in the library yesterday – the way his pencil snapped, the raw hurt as she’d walked right past him, ignoring his tentative “Hey Ames,” to settle onto Chad’s lap. She’d felt Mark’s stare like a physical weight, burning into her back as Chad whispered something crude about fishnets and accessibility.
“God, I look like… like me,” she whispered to the reflection, the sound strangled. The old Amy. The one who got excited about quantum theory, not contouring techniques. The one Mark fell for. A pang, sharp and surprising, pierced the fog of self-loathing. She loved him.Still. Buried deep beneath layers of… whatever this was. This need that clawed its way up her throat, demanding she be looked at, desired, approved of, especially by… him. Chad.
She couldn’t face Mark looking like a relic. Not today. The thought of his kind eyes searching hers, seeing the mess beneath the surface, was unbearable. He’d try to understand. He’d be gentle. He’d remind her of the girl who built a solar-powered rover, not the girl who melted when Chad called her ‘sweetheart’ while his hand slid too high under her skirt.
No. The refusal was primal. She grabbed the foundation, the familiar ritual calming the tremor slightly. Swish-swish of the brush on her cheeks. Tap-tap of concealer under her eyes, hiding shadows that weren’t just from lack of sleep. Each stroke was an erasure. Peach blush. Heavy black liner winging out, sharp enough to cut. Lip gloss thick and sticky, the scent sickly sweet. The transformation was mechanical, desperate. Her reflection began to soften, blur, conform.
She wrenched off the offensive jeans and shirt, kicking them into a corner already overflowing with discarded outfits. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of a black lace bra. She needed armor. Something tight. Something that screamed look at me. She spotted it – the leopard print miniskirt Chad had whistled at last week. And the cropped lace top. Yes.
“Way better,” she murmured, turning sideways to check the skirt’s micro-length in the mirror. Perfect. The nervous energy crackling under her skin began to shift, morphing into a brittle sort of anticipation. The thrill of the performance. The surrender. Chad’s voice purred in her memory: That’s my good girl. It sent a shiver down her spine, a forbidden warmth pooling low in her belly. She loved it. Hated that she loved it. Craved it anyway.
She spotted the spiral-bound notebook on her desk, half-buried under a sequined clutch. Her own neat handwriting, pages filled with complex equations and observations. A relic. A reminder of a self she couldn't, wouldn't, be anymore. With a sudden, violent sweep of her arm, she sent it flying. It hit the wall, pages fluttering open before sliding to the floor, its spine cracked.
As she shoved her feet into strappy stilettos, her gaze snagged on a single pink sticky note partially hidden behind a framed photo of her and Mark at the planetarium last year. His arm was around her shoulders, her smile wide and genuine, eyes bright behind her glasses. In Mark’s familiar, looping script, it read simply: A+M 4Ever? Probably. <3
Her breath hitched. Just for a second. Just long enough for a sharp, painful ache to bloom in her chest. Then Chad’s voice, lazy and irresistible, overlaid the image: Ditch the dork, gorgeous. He bores you. You know it.
Yeah, she thought, the ache hardening into something colder. He does.
She snatched the sticky note off the frame, crumpled it into a tiny pink ball, and tossed it towards the overflowing trash can. It bounced off the rim and rolled under the vanity, lost among dust bunnies and a stray false eyelash.
The final touch: a heavy spritz of cloying vanilla perfume, a cloud engulfing her. She checked the mirror one last time. Old Amy was gone, buried under layers of paint and lace. This girl was polished. Expected. Desirable. At least, she hoped so. Her phone buzzed. Mark.Here. Ready? She hesitated, thumb hovering. The image of his hopeful face waiting downstairs tightened her throat.
A car horn blared outside. Loud, impatient. Chad’s Jeep.
Her decision crystallized. She typed quickly, the valley girl lilt echoing in her mind, shaping the words: omg sooo sorry! got tied up. u go ahead. catch u later? xoxo
She hit send before she could think. The guilt was immediate, sharp, but quickly drowned out by the frantic drumming of her heart. Chad was here.Now. The pull was magnetic, irresistible. She grabbed the tiny clutch, didn’t look back at the crumpled note under the vanity, didn’t glance at the ruined notebook. She clicked across the room, the sound of her heels sharp and final on the linoleum.
She flung open the door, the zipper pull on the miniskirt biting cold against her hip as she stepped out. Behind her, the dorm room remained, a chaotic shrine to a girl disappearing faster every day. And the only sound was the fading echo of Chad’s voice in her head, a promise and a command: That’s my girl. Come lose.
The dorm hallway’s sterile light felt harsh after the cloying perfume cloud in her room. Chad’s black Jeep idled at the curb, bass thumping faintly through the rolled-up windows, vibrating the pavement under her stilettos. She clicked towards it, the leopard print skirt barely grazing her thighs.
His grin flashed white through the windshield, predatory. "Took you long enough, princess," he called out, leaning over to shove the passenger door open. "Thought maybe you were actually gonna hang with Captain Cardboard." He gestured dismissively towards the empty space where Mark’s sensible sedan usually parked.
"Ew, like, totally not," Amy said, forcing a giggle that sounded tinny even to her own ears. She slid onto the worn leather seat, the scent of cheap cologne and stale fast food thick in the confined space. "He’s just… boring." She pulled the door shut, sealing herself in with him. The thumping bass intensified, rattling her teeth.
Chad’s hand clamped onto her knee before she could buckle up, his fingers digging into bare skin just above the fishnet stocking. "Knew you’d see sense, babe," he murmured, his thumb tracing a rough circle. His gaze raked over her, lingering on the lace top, the miniskirt. "Lookin’ hot. Like you actually give a shit."
He peeled away from the curb with a squeal of tires, accelerating hard. Amy gripped the center console, the force pressing her back into the seat. Her phone buzzed again in her tiny clutch – Mark, probably. She ignored it, the vibration muffled against the leather.
"So," Chad said, his voice suddenly casual, conversational, as he navigated campus streets. His right hand dropped from the wheel, resting on his thigh, palm up. An unspoken command. "Where we headed? Your place? Mine?" He glanced at her, a smirk playing on his lips. "Or… wanna make the drive interesting?"
His meaning slammed into her. Unbidden, the image flashed: kneeling, bent over, exposed. The familiar cocktail surged – revulsion warring with a dark, needy thrill that made her stomach clench. The craving flared, hotter than the shame. She needed it. To please him. To feel owned. It was the only thing that quieted the screaming dissonance inside.
"Yeah?" Chad prompted, his tone light but edged with steel. His fingers tapped impatiently against his jeans. "Or you wanna be boring?"
The word boring was a switch. It cut through the hesitation. Mark’s face, hurt and confused in the library, flickered uselessly. "Like, whatever," Amy breathed, the valley girl lilt brittle. She forced a smile, meeting his eyes. "Make it interesting."
"Atta girl," he purred, satisfaction dripping from the words. He cranked the music louder, drowning out any possible thought. "Go on then. Show me how much you missed me."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she unbuckled her seatbelt. The Jeep lurched around a corner. She pushed herself up off the seat, awkward in the confined space, her stilettos tangling on the rubber floor mat. She maneuvered herself onto her knees, facing him, the center console digging into her ribs.
Chad spread his legs slightly, adjusting his position. He kept his eyes mostly on the road, one hand loosely on the wheel. His other hand settled possessively on the curve of her hip, guiding her down. "That's it," he encouraged, his voice low and rough now. "Get comfy."
Her knees sank into the passenger seat cushion. She bent forward, the short skirt riding up drastically. The cold air from the AC vent hit her exposed skin. She wiggled slightly, settling her weight, pushing her backside out towards the passenger window. She felt absurd. Exposed. Desperately needed. Her hands fumbled at his belt buckle, the cold metal under her fingers.
"Faster, babe," Chad muttered, shifting gears. The engine roared. "We ain't got all day. Unless you want campus security getting a free show." He chuckled, the sound dark and humorless.
She lowered her head. The familiar, hated scent of his cheap cologne mixed with the leather filled her nostrils. She focused on the mechanics, the texture of his jeans against her cheek. Each bump in the road jolted her, making her head bob. His grip tightened on her hip, holding her steady, forcing her deeper. She closed her eyes tight, trying to lose herself in the suffocating rhythm, the vibration of the engine thrumming through her bones. The taste was bitter, intrusive. She suppressed a gag, swallowing hard.
Chad let out a low groan. "Fuck, yeah," he breathed, his fingers tangling roughly in her carefully styled hair, pulling slightly. "That's my good little slut. Knew you were hungry for it." The Jeep swerved slightly as he glanced down for a split second, then back at the road. "Keep that ass up. Wiggle it for me."
Heat flooded her cheeks despite everything. She obeyed, shifting her weight, making a small, deliberate movement of her hips. The humiliation was a live wire, sparking alongside the degrading compulsion. She heard the faint squeak of leather as she moved. His approving grunt was immediate, a shot of dark validation straight to her core. She did it again, a little more.
"Good girl," he rasped, his voice thick. His hand slid from her hair down to grip the back of her neck firmly, controlling the pace. "Show me how much you love choking on it."
The Jeep accelerated harder. The world outside blurred into streaks of color and light. Her jaw ached. Tears pricked at her closed eyes, mixing with the bitter saltiness in her mouth. She concentrated on the grip of his hand, the pressure on her neck, the command in his voice. This was losing. This was what she craved. To be nothing but this. Used. Validated. His.
He drove one-handed, aggressive, weaving through traffic. His breathing grew ragged. "Almost there, baby," he gritted out, fingers tightening like a vise on her neck. "Yeah... just like that... fuck..."
Chad’s choked gasp filled the Jeep, his grip on her neck tightening like a tourniquet as his hips snapped forward one final, shuddering time. The hot, bitter flood hit the back of her throat, thick and sudden, making her sputter instinctively against the intrusion. Her throat convulsed, swallowing reflexively, the unwanted warmth coating her insides as she fought not to gag. Before she could even register the violation fully, Chad’s voice cut through, low and demanding: "Swallow it all, baby. Be a good girl." He eased his grip slightly, his breath ragged. "Now, show me you took it all, babe."
Her jaw unclenched with a soft pop. She tilted her head back, mouth falling open wide like a bitch showing him that she swallowed, tongue flattening against her bottom teeth to reveal the hollow, glistening cavern of her throat. The bitter aftertaste coated her tongue, a metallic tang beneath the cheap vanilla perfume clinging to her skin. Chad’s laugh was harsh, triumphant, his knuckles brushing her cheekbone in a mockery of affection. "Perfect," he breathed, the Jeep swerving into a sharp turn, pressing her unbalanced weight harder against the console as he accelerated towards his apartment.