Chapter 5: Scene 1
The Jeep’s tires crunched over the shell-strewn path away from the grey house, each rotation carrying Lisa further from the charged silence of the kitchen. The memory of it lived in her body—a deep, tender ache, the phantom sensation of being filled, the sticky residue on her thigh. She watched the dusty palms blur past, saying nothing.
James drove one-handed, his other arm resting on the open window frame. He hadn’t tried to talk. The quiet between them wasn’t empty; it was dense, packed with everything they’d done and everything they’d recorded.
He dropped her at the curb near her rented condo, the engine idling. “See you tonight?” he asked, his voice casual, but his eyes weren’t. They searched her face, looking for regret, for a crack.
“Yeah,” she said, her own voice s
“Yeah,” she said, her own voice surprisingly steady, giving away nothing. She slid out of the Jeep, the afternoon sun harsh on her skin, and didn’t look back.
The silence of her condo was a physical weight. She showered, the hot water stinging the tender flesh between her legs, and watched the proof of him swirl down the drain. Her phone, face-down on the bathroom counter, remained dark. He was waiting, she knew. Let him wait.
By nightfall, the dread had melted into a low, thrilling buzz. The tequila from her solo pre-game helped. She chose a black dress, short and tight, and did her eyes dark. When her phone finally lit up—Come to the tent—a jolt went through her.
The party was a living beast, pulsing under a bruised purple sky. She found him leaning against a tent pole, a beer in hand, his gaze tracking her approach through the crowd. “You came,” he said, a statement, not a question.
“You recorded it,” she countered, stopping just close enough to smell the beer and salt on him. “Let me see.”
His smile was slow. He pulled out his phone, angling the screen so only she could witness the ghost of herself on the kitchen tile, back arched, face a mask of stunned pleasure. Hearing her own voice beg was a strange, powerful drug. “You’re fucking insane,” she breathed, her own arousal immediate and inconvenient.
“You asked for it,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. “You want the rest?”
She took his beer, drank deeply, and handed it back. “Yeah. But here. Now.”
A challenge flashed in his eyes. He glanced around at the swirl of bodies, the drunk laughter swallowing them. “Here?”
“You scared?” The tequila made her bold, made the idea of being seen, of being that girl, feel inevitable. He just shook his head, took her wrist, and pulled her into the deeper shadows at the back of the tent where the sand met ragged canvas.
It was darker, the bass from the speakers a tangible thrum in the air. He pushed her against a heavy cooler, the plastic digging into her spine. His mouth was on hers, hot and tasting of cheap lager, his hands already rucking up her dress. “No one can see,” he grunted against her neck, his fingers hooking into the sides of her thong.
“I don’t care,” she lied, her heart hammering against her ribs. The fabric snapped, a petty casualty. He turned her around, pressing her front against the cooler’s lid. The night air hit her bare skin.
His hands were rough on her hips. She heard the tear of a foil packet, the rustle of his shorts. “You’re wet as fuck,” he muttered, his fingers sliding through her, spreading her own slickness back, over her asshole. The touch there was a shocking intrusion, blunt and claiming.
“Do it,” she heard herself say, the words swallowed by the music. He positioned himself, the broad, rubber-tipped head of his cock nudging against that tight, forbidden ring of muscle. He pushed, just an inch, a burning, stretching invasion that stole her breath.
“Fuck, Lisa,” he groaned, his body curling over hers. He retreated, then pushed again, deeper this time, the slow, inexorable breach a white-hot brand. Her fingers scraped against the cooler. He was inside, a brutal, full feeling, a reaming possession that split her in two.
He began to move, short, deep strokes that felt like they were rearranging her insides. Each thrust was a ragged gasp against her shoulder. “Take it, you tight little ass,” he growled, the obscenity fueling her. She pushed back against him, meeting his rhythm, the pain blurring into a devastating, full-body pleasure.
His pace quickened, turning brutal, the slap of his skin against hers a sharp counterbeat to the distant music. He fucked her with a single-minded intensity, one hand fisted in her auburn hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. “Yeah, that’s it, take that cock,” he breathed, his voice ragged.
The world narrowed to that one searing point of connection, to the raw grind and the filthy, perfect way he was using her. The tension coiled, unbearable, a spring wound too tight deep in her gut. It shattered without warning.
A wave of blinding, convulsive pleasure tore through her, wringing a raw, ragged sound from her throat. Her body clamped around him, milking his length deep inside her as he cursed, his own control snapping.
He shoved into her one last, brutal time, his release hot and pulsing inside the condom, a final claim. They stayed like that, locked together, breathing in shattered unison against the cooler.
He pulled out slowly, the aftermath a dull, throbbing ache. He disposed of the condom in a sand-filled cup. Her dress fell back into place, a flimsy cover for what just happened. She turned, her legs trembling.
He looked wrecked, his hair sweaty, his eyes dark. He cupped her face, his thumb swiping her cheek. “You okay?”
Before she could answer, a flash of light blinded them. A phone camera, held by a grinning, drunken guy from the party. “Holy shit!” the stranger laughed, staggering back into the crowd.
James moved to lunge, but Lisa grabbed his arm. Her whole body was alight, humiliated, exposed. The violation was cold and complete.
SHE SCREAMS.