Still Beating

F I V E   Y E A R S   E A R L I E R

“Where did you learn how to do this? Never mind… I don’t want to know.”

Dean is picking the padlock of an old, abandoned house with some kind of small object—maybe a bobby pin. Maybe a piece of his devil horn.

Brandon tightens his arm around my waist, warming me up with his body heat. It’s only mid-October, but the air is unbearably brisk, giving our haunted house adventure the perfect spooky ambiance.

Mandy is huddled up next to Dean, watching him work the lock. She bounces her knees up and down while hugging herself with both arms. “Hurry up, babe. Someone is going to see us,” she says in a harsh whisper. “Plus, I’m freezing my ass off.”

“Why didn’t you wear pants?” Dean asks. “It’s thirty-five degrees out.”

“They didn’t go with my dress. Obviously.”

Leave it to my sister to dress up for a very illegal sleepover in a rundown, three-story Victorian. I shake my head with an exaggerated eyeroll. “Who are you trying to impress, sis? The ghost of Mr. Garrison?”

“Ha ha,” she barks back. “Unlike some people, I enjoy looking my best no matter the occasion.”

Mandy bestows a pointed once-over to my faded blue jeans, baggy hoodie, and scuffed boots. I give my messy bun a quick tug, ignoring the insinuation that my appearance is not up to society’s standards.

Breaking and entering was not exactly on my To-Do list for the day—or any day ever for that matter. But Mandy talked me into it. The foreclosed Garrison home is the subject of many twisted tales and sordid rumors in our small town, especially this time of year. Besides, Brandon sounded overly enthusiastic about the prospect of spending the night in the creepy house and I didn’t want him to think I was a coward.

I am, of course. I’m practically pissing myself with fear right now.

My eyes zone in on Dean’s break-in attempt as I tap the toe of my boot with impatience. “I thought you said this would be easy,” I mutter. “You’re a terrible criminal.”

“Almost got it.”

Click.

The lock slips loose and Dean shoots me a victorious wink. “You were saying?”

I crinkle my nose and shuffle past him. Brandon guides me forward with his hand on the small of my back.

“This is wicked,” Brandon declares, shining the flashlight on his phone into the darkened entryway. He leans down and kisses the space between my neck and shoulder. “Scared, baby?”

I shiver.

From the kiss—not from the mental image of fifty-thousand spiders scattering into hiding, waiting for us to fall asleep so they can crawl into our eardrums and build villages.

“I’m not scared. Just cold,” I lie.

I suck at lying, so Brandon spins me around and pulls me in for a quick kiss. “It’s okay to be scared. That’s why it’s fun.”

Dean sneaks up beside us, waggling his stupid eyebrows. “Yeah, it’s fun, Corabelle. You’ve read about fun in your books, right?”

“Wait. You know what books are?”

Mandy swats me on the arm, swaying her bleached blonde hair from side to side. “I was worried about the demonic spirits living in the walls taking us out, but I’m pretty sure you and Dean will end up killing each other first.”

I shrug.

She’s probably right.

Something tickles the back of my neck, and I’m pretty sure it’s a wolf spider or that demon from Paranormal Activity breathing on me.

I swat at my neck, then swing my head back and forth as goosebumps cover me from head to toe. Yuck. When I glance down to finish unrolling my sleeping bag, I see three huge, hairy spiders pop out of the cotton material, ready to suck my soul.

I scream.

Loud.

Then I feel another tickle on my neck and I jump to my feet, stomping my legs, shaking my arms, my hair, my clothes. I kick the sleeping bag with a shaky foot and back away, ramming right into a hard body. I scream again.

Familiar laughter assaults my ears.

I fly around and spot the feather in his hand, then immediately begin pummeling his chest with furious fists. “You asshole!” I shout, my heart spazzing out beneath my hoodie. “I hate you!”

Dean grabs my wrists, putting a quick end to my attack. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hate you more.”

My chest is still heaving as I narrow my eyes at him. “No, you don’t. There’s no possible way you could hate me more than I hate you.” I yank my arms free.

He doesn’t respond to that. He knows I’m right.

Dean’s smile is broad and devilish. “You didn’t like the spiders?”

I twist my head around to look at the hideous fiends, only to realize they are, indeed, fake.

Jerk, jerk, jerk.

I turn back to glare at him, and he throws his hands up. “You make it too easy for me, Corabelle.”

I don’t spare him another glance as I storm away to join Brandon in exploring the second floor. I’ll get him back later.

That’s a promise.

“Want one, Corabelle?”

I’m sitting in front of a plethora of candles, trying to stay warm with whiskey and fleece blankets. Mandy is in the bathroom fluffing her hair or something, and Brandon is playing on his new HTC phone in the other room.

“Don’t call me that.” I look over at Dean who has appeared on my left as he holds out a box of powdered donuts.

I love powdered donuts.

My eyes narrow in his direction, but his face remains stoic and unreadable. There is no mischief or nefarious intent gleaming out of those blue eyes. I remove one of my arms from the red and black checkered blanket and pluck a donut from the box.

I take a bite, then instantly spit it out when I inhale a mouthful of cornstarch.

This motherfucker.

Dean busts out laughing, and I’m about to shout obscenities at him, maybe start punching him again, but an idea pops into my head and I act quickly.

I wrap my hands around my neck and start coughing, my eyes watering, my entire body shaking. “I-I’m allergic… to cornstarch…” I sputter, clawing at my throat and wheezing, doubling over with impressive realism.

Dean’s face goes white as he kneels down beside me and starts patting my back. “Shit, Cora. I didn’t know. Are you okay?”

I shake my head, violently gasping for air. “I… can’t… breathe…”

“Fuck… shit!” he yells, shaking my shoulders, his eyes popping with terror.

I fall backwards onto my sleeping back, my fingers still curled around my neck as I pretend to give up the fight. My eyelids flutter closed and my head drops to one side, my body going limp.

Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh.

“Holy shit… Cora!” He keeps shaking me. “Cora!”

I wish I could see the look on his face right now.

“Mandy!” he shouts, and I hear multiple footsteps stomping into the room, joining us.

Dean cradles my face in his hands, lifting my head upright as his thumbs caress my cold cheeks. The gesture is strange and gentle, and it unnerves me as I lie there holding my breath.

“She just passed out, Mandy. I fucked up. Jesus Christ,” he stammers. “Cora!”

“What the hell happened?” I hear Brandon say as he approaches.

Mandy starts to panic, and I picture her flapping her arms like a bird in the way that she does when she’s freaking the hell out. “Did you kill my sister?” she demands of Dean.

“I didn’t know she was allergic to cornstarch!”

All of a sudden, a hot mouth descends upon mine, and it’s not Brandon’s. I’ve memorized the feel of Brandon’s lips, chapped and rough with a thin upper lip.

No, these are full and soft and taste like mint and bourbon.

Dean is giving me CPR.

As much as I’m relishing in my prank, I have to draw the line at Dean Asher’s mouth on mine, no matter how entertaining this is. Besides, Brandon and Mandy are involved now, and it’s not fair to them.

I open my eyes.

Dean starts pressing against my chest, puffing bursts of air into my mouth, his forehead glistening with perspiration. My parted lips turn up into a smile against his and he notices, pulling back to look at me.

My grin widens and I start laughing uncontrollably. “Gotcha.”

Dean leaps off of me, rising to his feet and scrubbing his face with both palms. He runs his fingers through his hair as he stares down at me while I roll onto my side, drowning in my own amusement.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?”

I can’t stop laughing.

“I thought you were dead!”

A few snorts break through and I can’t catch my breath. I worry that I might actually pass out. For real this time.

Mandy speaks up, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “Not cool, sis.”

“Yeah, babe, you scared us.” Brandon is crouched down beside me, his hand on my shoulder.

I allow my laughter to subside as I lift myself up on my hands, my eyes finding a highly unimpressed Dean. “I got you good, and you deserved every minute of it. Your face was priceless.”

Dean stares back at me, spearing me with callous eyes, his shoulders heaving. It’s apparent he is not sharing in my hilarity. In fact, I’ve never seen him look at me like this before—frazzled, outraged, maybe even a little hurt.

Whatever.

I’m not sorry.

“I need a fucking smoke,” Dean says in a gruff tone, fishing through his pockets and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He shoots me a final dirty look before disappearing into one of the adjoining rooms, the old floorboards creaking beneath each step.

The evening proceeds on with far less excitement as I snuggle into Brandon’s chest and sip on a cocktail. We tell ghost stories around the candle arrangements, munch on popcorn and chocolate chip cookies, and allow our minds to play tricks on us as we giggle and squeal at every strange, spooky noise.

It’s a fun night. A memorable night.

But something is off.

It could be the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. It could be the chill in the air. It could be the tummy ache from all the junk food I’ve consumed. It could be the spiders lurking in the shadows, waiting to breed inside our brains.

Or… it could be that Dean doesn’t say a single word to me for the rest of the night.

Over a week drags by in this house of horrors.

Sixteen sunrises mock us from the frosty window.

‘Twenty Questions’. Turkey sandwiches. Rape. Hunger pains. Heart pains. Singing. Stories. Despair. Sex with Dean.

Sex with Dean.

That is something I’ll likely never wrap my head around. It’s happened four times now. I’ve had sex with Dean Asher four times. And it’s not rape—I will never call it rape. Every time, he waits for my consent. Every time, he is willing to die in that moment if I choose to say no.

And every time, he dies just a little bit anyway.

Earl and Dean alternate days like a goddamn schedule. My body is not my body anymore. But Earl treats me like a piece of trash, tainted and disposable, while Dean massages my wrist to help me cope, whispers his shame into my ear, and spills his tears against my neck before being dragged away and chained back up.Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

Today is Dean’s day, and I’m grateful for that.

Dean is holding my wrist between his fingers and thumb, circling around and around and around as he thrusts in and out of me. He doesn’t look at me. In fact, he hardly looks me in the eyes at all anymore. I think he’s afraid of what he might find there.

“That’s a good dog,” Earl sneers from a few feet away, giving orders in between his disgusting moans. “Kitten loves it.”

I suck in a breath and keep my head turned to the other side. Dean pulls back, dropping my leg and raising his hand to the side of my face. I fall to my feet due to our height difference, and he slips out of me. He could hold me up with his opposite hand, but he doesn’t. He won’t let go of my wrist.

His touch is delicate and kind on my cheek, and my skin sprouts with goosebumps that I hope he doesn’t notice. “Are you okay?”

Earl interrupts. “I didn’t say to stop railing her, you dumb ass dog.”

I spare Dean a quick glance, nodding my head and swallowing down the real answer: I’m not okay. I will never be okay.

Dean sighs, blinking slowly. He’s unconvinced, but also aware that there’s nothing he can do about it. He lifts me back up with reluctance and situates himself inside me once again, and I release a small gasp when he fills me. There is a strange, disturbing sense of relief at the feel of him between my legs. Maybe it’s a twisted case of Stockholm syndrome. Maybe I’ve gone mad. Or maybe Dean is warm and safe and familiar, and that’s all I have to cling to.

I’ll take what I can get.

When he finishes, Dean pulls out of me and buries his face against the curve of my neck like he always does. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Cora.” His breath tickles my ear and his tears dampen my skin. “Please forgive me.”

I do. I always do.

Dean is shoved back into his corner and shackled like an actual dog. This is normally when Earl leaves for work, but he pauses as he turns around, pinning his dark eyes on me. I shudder.

“My turn, kitten.”

What?

No. Please, no.

“I-I thought your turn is tomorrow,” I squeak out, inching my way back, wishing I could disappear into the pole.

Earl lunges forward and backhands me, forcing a cry from my lips.

“Hey!” Dean shakes his chains, anger radiating from him in waves.

“I take what I want when I want it, you stupid bitch. Understand?” Earl hisses.

I nod my head as tears leak from my eyes, my jaw throbbing.

Earl rips off his belt… and as it slides roughly through the loops, I notice a tiny piece of the latch fly loose. It’s so small, it hardly makes a sound as it lands by Dean’s foot—but Dean notices. I try not to make a scene or give us away, but my eyes widen as they lock on Dean, and I watch as he hides the metal clasp beneath his sock.

I don’t know what it means or what its purpose may be, but it’s something.

It’s all we have.