I know I acted hastily by leaving Jack's place. I didn't feel like I really had much of a choice though. I'm so confused and upset. I don't know up from down right now, and every time I close my eyes, all I see is that memory of Jack walking away from me.
His words that day had cut me deep. He stabbed me straight through the heart with what he said. And the real bitch of it is, it feels like it happened only yesterday. The pain is still so intense, it feels like the wounds are still fresh. The texts from some random woman didn't help matters any. I didn't even have to snoop to find them. I picked up his phone from where it was sitting on the floor, just in case I needed to call 9-1-1, and there they were, staring me right in the face. Pictures of a beautiful brunette with cherry red lips and perfect, perky boobs.
Fuck her, and fuck Jack for making me think he's someone he's quite obviously not.
Peter doesn't say much on the car ride. He just looks out the car window. He's tense, his eyes are narrowed, his jaw is clenched, and his lips are pulled back into a scowl. I assume he's mad about Jack still, so I don't say anything about him. I imagine it has to be hurtful to see the woman you're trying to propose to, naked in some other man's house
For the moment, I think avoiding any and all discussion about Jack is the best thing for the both of us. At least, until all of the emotions have died down and we have a minute to think about it all clearly.
“You said you had my phone?” I ask. “I'd like to call my parents.”
Peter doesn't acknowledge me at all. It's like he didn't even hear me speaking.
“Peter?”
He shifts in the seat and pulls out an iPhone, hands it over without so much as looking at me. As he moves, I catch sight of something beneath the seat. It's red and shiny, glinting in the light that filters in through the windows. I lean down and pick it up.
It's a high heeled shoe. It's my shoe.
I remember wearing them on nights out in Los Angeles, and I remember putting them on as I prepared for the trip. I look up at Peter, slack-jawed, holding the shoe up for him to see. He looks from the shoe to me, a strange look on his face.
“What?” he says.
His voice is bland and uninterested. It's total change from the way he spoke to me before.
“It's my shoe.”
“Yeah?” he sneers. “So?
He'd said I was wearing my shoes when I got out of the limo the night of my injury. Peter rolls his eyes and finally looks over at me. There's a look of disgust on his face as he takes me in for I guess, the first time.
“Can you please cover yourself up?” he snaps. “I don't need any more reminders of how much of a whore you really are.”
A cold finger of fear traces its way down my spine and I feel the goosebumps rising on my skin, feeling like the legs of a thousand insects marching up my arms.
“I wouldn't bother to telling your parents about this if I were you,” he says casually. “They'll just disown you for sleeping with that sack of shit anyway. I won't tell if you don't. It'll be our little secret.”
I'm still holding the shoe, my mouth open wide. I can't form the words to articulate the dark, ominous thoughts swirling around inside my head. No one should ever speak to someone they supposedly love and cherish the way he's speaking to me.
“I'm not a whore,” I finally mange to croak out. “And Jack is not a sack of shit.”
“Whatever makes you feel better, dear,” he says, turning and looking out the window again. “It's still better if you don't tell anyone about this little fiasco. No one will believe you anyway.”
Hearing him talk now, I see images in my head. I shudder when I see his hand around my throat, the other one reaching for the door handle. We were in a car – this car. As the memories come flooding back, I remember the cold wind of the night when he finally got the door open. It was bitter, biting cold. I close my eyes and shake my head, overwhelmed by the memories that are rushing into my head all at once.
He looks over at me and smirks. “All coming back to you now, is it, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” I manage to choke out the word.
“Good,” he spits. “Maybe next time, you'll appreciate the fact that I don't handle rejection very well and will act accordingly.”
“Stop the car,” I call out to the driver.
“He can't hear you,” Peter says. “Besides, I'm the one who pays him, not you. He will only listen to me.”
I bang on the glass separating us from the driver. “Stop the fucking car, now!”
The limo stops. Just like that. This time, it's my turn to smirk.
“It's awfully cold out there, sweetheart,” Peter says. “Sure you want to take your chances in nothing but that t-shirt?”
“I've experienced worse and lived to tell the tale,” I say.
I open the limo door and climb out, and the cold hits me hard. It's impossible to breathe and almost feels like my lungs have frozen inside my chest. I can't see Jack's house from here and have no idea how far it is to get back, but I decide to take my chances.
Peter isn't willing to let me go that easily, however. He steps from the limo and looms over me, staring at me menacingly.
“Get back in the limo, Sydney” he says through gritted teeth. “Now.”
I turn and walk in the direction from which we'd come. I figure if I walk in a straight line and follow the road, sooner or later, I'm going to run into something that looks familiar. I don't turn back to look at him, but I hear him behind me. Following me. I pick up my pace, trying to get away, but Peter grabs my shoulder and spins me around, forcing me to face him, nearly causing me to slide on the ice beneath my feet.
“Sydney, get back in the fucking limo,” he sneers. “I'm not fucking around. You'll do as your told or you're going to pay the price for your disobedience.”
In the distance, I hear a car coming our way and feel a surge of relief. Surely, Peter won't try something stupid with witnesses bearing down on us.. As the sound approaches though, I realize that it sounds heavier than a car. It's a truck.
I pull away from Peter, determined to get away from him, but he grabs me around the waist, lifting me off the ground and slings me over his shoulder as he carries me back toward the limo. I kick and scream, even try to bite him. It's no use. He's got a grip of iron and his arm is clamped down around my waist. He's not letting me go. I've made a huge mistake and now I'm going to pay for it.
He throws me in the backseat of the limo like a sack of dirty laundry and gives me a dark smile. He looks like he's about to say something to me – probably something snotty – but before he can speak and shut the door, I hear a voice call out from the road behind us.
It's Jack.
I scream for him. “Jack! Help me, please!” I cry out. “Please, Jack! Help!”
Peter rushes off, leaving the door open. I slide out of the limo just in time to see Jack and Peter standing in the middle of the road, throwing punches at one another. I scream when Peter's fist connects with Jack's face and a spray of blood goes flying from his mouth.
They grapple together, and I see Jack land a few shots to the side of Peter's head, opening a cut just below his ear. The fists are flying and there's blood in the snow – I just don't know who's blood it is. When I see them separate, I see that blood is covering both of their faces.
Peter rushes forward, swinging his fist wildly, but Jack sidesteps him, sticks his leg out, and sends Peter sprawling face first onto the icy road. Before he can get to his feet, Jack moves in and delivers a vicious kick to Peter's ribs. He grunts and wheezes, rolling onto his side and goes sliding across the ice.