When I'm With You (Little Hollow Series, #2)(43)

“But mommy said-”

“How about we go get my mom to make us some dinner then we can go to the fort?” He interrupts me, instantly changing the subject, and I hesitate before taking his outheld hand and nodding.

“You fucking psychopath! You need professional help,” I shout through my tears.

“Hmm, you’re right, a professional might be able to tell me where I’ve gone wrong.” He bends down and picks up the discarded mirror and pushes it in front of my face.

“Tell me what you think.”

I snap my eyes closed. I don’t want to see the damage that he’s done to my hair. When I lived back home, my hair was a chocolate brown with a few flashes of red running through it. It was cut into a long bob with choppy layers. I wanted to get away from that image of myself and dyed my hair black and grew it out, using it much like a shield to hide myself away from people. He’s taken that away from me.

He yanks my head back. “I said look at it and tell me what you think,” he spits, crouching low near my face.

I shake my head roughly and he forces one of my eyelids open. I gasp.

“What have you done?” I cry out, opening my eyes fully.

“What? Don’t you like it?” He leans close to my ear. “Now we’re even.”

I stare at my butchered hair in the mirror being held up by his dirty hand. There’s bits cut to only about four inches short, slightly longers bits, then he’s left some of the length still on. I can’t bear to look at myself any longer, not that I can as tears blur my vision.

I sob uncontrollably, not even caring that he’s enjoying every salty tear that stings the cuts on my face. How much more is he going to torture me before finally ending it? Something tells me he’s just getting started, if there’s a way to get out of this, to end it all, I will take it with open arms.

He cuts the rope and I fall to the floor with a thud, landing in a pile of my hair. I clutch at it and it sticks to the wet trails the tears have left on my body, that bastard!

“Let’s go,” he says, but I hardly hear him over my sobs. “Don’t ignore me, sweet girl. You know what happens when you don’t do as you’re told.”

I have one last pity party before steeling myself and standing up, brushing the hair off my hands.

On the outside, I probably look like a rabid, wild animal. But inside, I’m feeling a sudden strange sense of calm wash over me. As long as I’m alive, there’s a chance I can get away. So I limp ahead of him into the room that has become my prison, and I slide down in the corner again, not giving him the time of day.





I wake up the next morning to Jacques puking his guts up in my bathroom, at least he made it there in time, I’d of kicked his ass if he hadn’t. I stretch out my achy muscles and rub a hand down my face, running my fingers through my beard. Getting up, I stretch once more and make my way over to the bathroom and lean against the doorframe. He has his hands braced against the porcelain, head straight down the toilet, retching. I laugh to myself and he flips me off.

“Fuck… You,” he says in between retches.

I wet a wash cloth and drape it over the back of his neck. “It serves you right for drinking half the bar last night. What the fuck got into you? And don’t think you’re not telling me about those bruises on your face.”

I see his back tense up and it’s nothing to do with puking. He pulls off the washcloth and wipes his mouth with it.

“Nothing you’ve never done before,” he states weakly.

Can’t argue with that, I’ve been in this state more times that I’d like to count. “Still, I wanna know where you were.”

“Let it go, man. I’m allowed to party, I’m eighteen,” he coughs out.

“Technically, you’re not. The law says twenty-one, dipshit. Now get a shower, then I’m taking you for a ride.”

He rolls his eyes but pulls himself up off the floor and starts to peel off his clothes, shaking uncontrollably. I back out to give him some privacy, I want to give him a beating for not answering his phone all day yesterday, but I feel like a hypocrite. It’s always alright when you’re the one doing it, but when the shoes on the other foot, you see how damaging it is for people to worry about you all the time. He’s never really been a drinker, sure, we’ve got drunk together a couple times, but never anything like the state he was in last night. And the talking in his sleep? That was some disturbed shit.

I hear the shower turn off and he walks out with a towel wrapped around his waist, looking paler than usual. “Got any aspirin? It feels like my heads gonna explode,” he moans, rubbing his temples in a circular motion.

“This won’t help then,” I say mischievously, turning my speakers up full blast so heavy metal booms out of them.

I just can’t help myself and I feel satisfied as he groans and clutches at his head.

“Hunter!” He grinds out.

I chuckle. “Alright, alright.”

I turn it off and watch as he flops back on the bed and I point at him. “I’m taking a shower, you better be dressed and ready to go by the time I get out.” I raid my closet and grab the first pair of jeans and t-shirt I see, then I point at him. “I mean it, Jacques.”

I told him I was taking him for a ride but I didn’t tell him where. He won’t be happy with me when he finds out and I couldn’t give a shit, she’s the only person who’ll ever get him to open up properly.