Be with Me (Wait for You #2)(8)

A dull pain flared in my knee as a reminder.

Slowly, I lowered the pillow. The door across from me, leading to the other bedroom that shared the suite, remained closed. I hadn’t seen our suitemates, not once, since I started school. I was partially convinced that they were invisible or were llamas or under the witness relocation program, forced to hide in their rooms. I knew they weren’t dead because I heard them sometimes while I was in the living room. They always quieted when they heard me moving around in the suite.

Weird.

Propping the tan pillow against my chest, I reached into my purse and pulled out my cell phone. I briefly considered texting Sadi, but I hadn’t spoken to her since I left the dance studio in July. I hadn’t spoken to any of my friends since then.

Most of them were in New York City. Sadi was starting at the Joffrey School of Ballet, the same school I had a full scholarship to attend. They were living my life—-my dream. But the scholarship hadn’t been canceled. The instructors had placed it on hold, promising me a spot next fall if my injury was healed.

I dropped my phone back in my purse and then leaned back, holding the pillow close. Dr. Morgan, the specialist at WVU who’d done my surgery, believed I had a ninety percent chance of healing completely, as long as I didn’t suffer another injury. Most -people would think those were good odds, but that ten percent scared the crap out of me, and I refused to even consider it.

Forty--some minutes passed before the bedroom door opened, and Debbie stepped into the suite, running a hand through her shoulder--length brown hair, smoothing the ends down. She saw me, and her face flushed red.

Debbie cringed. “Oh! You haven’t been out here too long?”

“No. Just a -couple of minutes . . .” I trailed off, taking a closer look at Debbie while she straightened the hem of her floral blouse. Her eyes were red and puffy. They’d been fighting. Again. They must’ve made up, but they fought so much I wondered how they had any time for anything other than arguing and makeup sex.

Erik appeared, his fingers flying over the screen of his cell. His short, dark hair stuck straight up. He was good--looking, I’d give him that, but I didn’t understand his appeal. At all. He was big in the frat that Jase belonged to, was somewhat of a local basketball star during his high school years, but he had the personality of a cornered hyena.

Sliding his phone into his jeans pocket, he smiled at me, but it was a nervous smile, one that made me antsy.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“Of course she is,” Erik answered, laughing.

I stared at her pointedly, ignoring him, but she nodded quickly. “Yeah, I’m perfect. We’re going to get something to eat before we head to the party. You want to come?”

My mouth opened, but then Erik also answered for me. “She looks like her knee is bothering her, so she probably wants to stay here.”

I snapped my mouth shut.

Debbie looked uncomfortable as Erik started to usher her toward the door. “You coming to the party?”

I hadn’t really been invited, but I knew if I showed up, no one would say anything—-no one except Jase, and I didn’t want to see him. I shrugged. “I’m not sure yet.”

She lingered. “Okay, well—-”

“Babe, come on, I’m f*cking hungry.” Erik grabbed her arm, causing the flesh under his fingers to indent. “It’s getting late.”

A low burn started in my stomach as I looked at that grip. How many times had Jeremy grabbed me like that? Too many to count. Seeing that made me feel nauseated. Made me want to think about things best left forgotten.

Debbie’s wobbly smile faltered. “Text me if you want . . . or need anything.”

Erik grumbled something under his breath, and then they were gone. And I was sitting there, with my leg propped up on the coffee table, staring at the door, but my thoughts had skipped back a -couple of years.

“You know I’m f*cking hungry,” Jeremy said, leaning over and grabbing my upper arm. He squeezed until I cried out. The car suddenly felt entirely too small. There wasn’t enough air. “What were you doing that took so long? Talking on the phone?”

“No!” I knew to remain still, to not pull away, because that only made him madder. “I was only talking to Cam.”

He relaxed, his fingers loosening their hold. “He’s home?”

I shook my head. “I was talking to him—-”

“On the phone?” In a second, his features turned from cute to monstrous. I winced as his fingers dug in through my sweater. “I thought you weren’t on the phone?”

I shook myself out of the memory, happy to discover that all I felt was the residual anger. For the longest time, I would get sick to my stomach even thinking about him, but those days had long since passed.

Jeremy had been an abuser, but I was no longer a victim.

I was over what he’d done to me. Over. Over. Over.

Pulling my gaze away from the door, I squeezed the pillow until my arms ached. I didn’t have proof that Erik was hurting Debbie, more like a sixth sense about it, and I knew that most bruises wouldn’t be visible. Not if Erik was smart, like Jeremy had been.

I spent the rest of the evening eating out of the vending machine from down the hall and thumbing through my history text before crashing early. As I lay there, floating in the la--la land of almost sleep, I felt pretty damn lame. Here I was, a few months shy from turning nineteen, it was a Saturday night, and I was almost asleep before ten.