“But we’ve done it before,” I reply feebly.

“Tatum,” he growls while shaking his head.  “We just can’t.”

My body shudders as a tear slips from my eye, one after the other.  I begin to cry and massive sobs wrack my body.  For the third time today, Mr. Ryan enfolds me in his strong arms, and I hold on, afraid I’ll sink if I let go.

Mr. Ryan leads me to sit on his massive sectional and once again, pulls me onto his lap.  He strokes my hair as I try to quiet my cries.  I can’t stop picturing what Wyatt did to me, and I feel dirty and disgusting.  Even though I’ve had sex with him before, it feels much different knowing what he did was forced on me.  I can still feel his hand between my legs and not in a sexually pleasant way.  His fingers felt foreign and wrong, like they didn’t belong inside me.  And they didn’t belong.  I didn’t want them there, but he did it anyways.  And Mr. Ryan was there to see that.

Oh my God.

Embarrassment blazes inside of me like a rapidly spreading wildfire as I realize what all Mr. Ryan saw.  At the time, I know he saw me against the wall, struggling against Wyatt, but I didn’t initially think he saw all the graphic, disgusting details.

I lift my head suddenly to look him in the eyes, even though inside I’m mortified. “What did you see?” I choke out, because suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world to me.  I need to know.

“What?” he asks, probably thinking I’m rambling because I’m drunk.  So I sit up straighter and hold his gaze, trying to show I’m serious.  His hand stills it’s ministrations in my hair.

“When you found me today, what did you see?” I repeat.

“You don’t want me to describe that—ˮ

“Damnit, tell me how much you saw!” I demand as my embarrassment morphs into anger.

He visibly takes a deep breath and I focus on the rise and fall of his chest.  I want to reach out to touch him there, to steady myself with his strong body, but I don’t.  He doesn’t want me to.  I shouldn’t be feeling this way.  It doesn’t matter what happened two weeks ago.  He’s my teacher now and we hated each other two days ago, but something changed today.  He saw something happen to me that I would have never shared with him under other circumstances.

Now, he holds my deepest darkest secret because he was in the right place at the right time.  Something like that, something that happens not by choice but by fate or destiny, is so much more powerful than if I had chosen to trust him with that knowledge.  He was there because life intended him to be, not because I wanted him to be.  He’s forever intricately woven into one of the darkest moments of my life, and it’d be impossible to unstitch that bond.

Now that life has given me a little taste of what it’s like to have someone care about me, to protect me, and nurture me, I realize I need it.  It’s as necessary as any other sustenance.  I don’t think that’s the alcohol talking, either.

His arms are still loosely resting around my body when he answers without meeting my stare, “I saw everything within a few seconds prior to me tearing him off of you.  I probably can guess which parts you’re really wondering about, and yeah, Tatum, I did see what he was doing to you.”  His voice is angry and pained, but hearing his emotions doesn’t make me feel any better.

I try choking back the sob working to claw its way through my chest, and a sound comes out like a hitched keening cry.  I don’t want to spend my night crying and crying, over and over again, but the pain is so much more than I could have ever imagined.  I feel dirty, and I need a distraction if I want to sleep again tonight.

I need the blade.  I need the delicious silk of sharp metal to open me at the seams I try so hard to keep stitched together.  My body is begging for the only release I know how to utilize.  The only way to free the painful emotions tearing wildly through my body.

But I can’t.  I don’t have it with me, and even if I did, I couldn’t risk anyone finding out the fucked up way I deal with my emotions.

“I need a shower.  I need to wash him off of me.”  It’s the only other option open to me.  I jump off Mr. Ryan’s lap before he can answer me and start to wander down the hall to the bathroom.

“Wait,” he calls after me, and I stop in my tracks.

“You can use my bathroom,” he offers.

“Why can’t I use the one down here?” I ask, confused why it matters which bathroom I shower in.  I just want to hurry up and scrub away the filth and degradation on my body.

“You’re drunk, and I don’t want you to slip and hit your head.  My bathroom has a tub so you can sit down if you need to, and it’s just more comfortable.  Come on upstairs.  Let me help you.”  He rushes over to take my arm beneath my elbow and steers me up the steps.  I’m more intoxicated than I thought.  Several times I trip up the stairs, but each time, Mr. Ryan is there to catch me.

“What’s your name?” I ask him, getting tired of this ‘Mr. Ryan’ crap.  He knows my first name, and we’ve moved past ‘Miss Krause.’  I think after today’s events, I should be able to use his first name.

“Jacoby.”

“Jacoby.”  I test his name out, weighing the feel of it on my lips.  “Jac-OH-bee,” I repeat, dragging out the ‘o’ sound, and it probably sounds much worse because I’m drunk.  “I like it.  It suits you.”

He chuckles beneath his breath.  I know he isn’t totally stone faced, even though I can’t see him right now.

He leads me to his bedroom.  A king sized bed with dark gray sheets dominates the room, complete with a large four poster frame made of dark, solid pine pillars.  Across from the bed sits a matching chest of drawers, also of pine, and a large flat screen mounted above the dresser.  To the left of the bed is a large walk-in closet and from what I can see, it looks surprisingly empty.  I spot a few button down dress shirts and two pairs of slacks hanging from the clothing rod.  I wonder if the other side is just as vacant.

Off to the right side of the room is a small private hallway which Jacoby turns down, opening a door to reveal the bathroom.  Inside sits a his-and-her vanity with a large wall to wall mirror, which is reflecting a tub and shower from the opposite side of the room.  The toilet sits on the far left side of the bath.

Jacoby leaves me by the vanity while he starts to run the shower.  The bathroom quickly fills up with steam, and the need to scrub my skin off is making me insane.  He joins me by the vanity again, pulling open a cabinet to remove a fluffy blue towel and a washing cloth.  He also removes a comb from a drawer and places it on the vanity, too.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have an extra toothbrush,” he tells me.  “Are you okay by yourself?  Are you still tipsy?” he asks, his features soft and full of concern as his eyes steady mine.  I’ve never noticed how deep brown his eyes are, like the color of melted dark chocolate.  They’re beautiful and rimmed with thick, long lashes.

“I’m fine.  I’m not too dizzy.”

He turns to leave the bathroom, but pauses.

“I’m going to leave the door open.  I’ll be in the room so if you need anything, just holler.  And if you feel dizzy, sit down for a while.”

“Yes, mother,” I answer sarcastically, a grin spreading across my face.

“Ah, there’s my girl,” he replies, before leaving the room.

I walk across the chilly slate tiled floor to strip down privately, in case he happens to walk by the doorway while I’m naked.  Bonus points for not having to see my reflection in the mirror again.  I’m glad he left the door open, though he doesn’t need to worry as I’m starting to feel more sober.

The water is deliciously warm when I step into the shower, and I immediately sink down to my knees beneath the stream.  Droplets pelt against the sore muscles of my back and I revel in the feeling, the tension seeping from my abused body.