Sweet Retribution (Rydeville High Elite #3)(8)

I’m walking along the hallway, back to my room, when Charlie appears at the top of the stairs. He doesn’t see me, and I tread softly as I walk toward him, watching him stare at my closed bedroom door with a whole host of emotions gliding across his face.

As I get closer, I notice all the telltale signs.

His hair is mussed up, the way Kai’s gets after an energetic roll in the hay. His lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed, and his clothes are disheveled. But it’s the scratch marks running up one side of his neck that give the game away.

He’s too focused on my door to hear my approach or spot the disgust on my face. “You went out and had sex with someone else on our wedding night?” I hiss, making him jump as he snaps out of whatever daze he was in.

So, okay, it’s not a real wedding, and I currently hate his fucking guts, and I’ve zero desire to sleep with him now, or any other night, but still. It’s disrespectful, and he’s now sunk even lower in my eyes.

I stand in front of him and rip his shirt wide open. Buttons fly everywhere as I yank the shirt off him. I examine his back. Long, red, raised nail marks trail up and down his flesh, confirming my suspicions. “You’re disgusting.” He stands rigidly still, not turning around to face me, so I put my face all up in his. “Thanks for making this easy for me.” He sways on his feet, thrusting a hand out to hold himself up by the wall. I peer into his eyes, noticing how bloodshot and unfocused they are.

“Abby, please,” he slurs, and his sour breath punches me in the face.

I take two steps back. “You’re drunk.”

“My father died today!” he blurts. “And it’s all my fault.” He falls to the ground on his butt, burying his head in his knees.

I slide down the wall, tucking my knees up to my chest, watching him carefully. Charlie is so erratic and unpredictable these days, and I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t anymore. I wait him out, watching his shoulders rise and fall. His body trembles all over.

When he finally lifts his head to look at me, tears cling to his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I needed a release, and I know you won’t let me touch you.”

“Going out and screwing someone else guaran-fucking-tees it, Charlie.”

“I wanted it to be you,” he unhelpfully adds. “I pretended it was.” My face twists bitterly as my stomach knots up. “Like I always do when I’m fucking any woman. It’s always you in my mind, Abby.”

“Wow. You just keep digging that hole deeper.”

“I fucked up,” he slurs, “and I promise I won’t do it again.” He crawls toward me, and I press my back into the wall. “I need you. Baby. Please.”

I slam my hand into his chest, keeping him back. “Don’t come any closer. You reek of whore and booze, and I want you nowhere near me. I don’t care if I wear your ring and have your last name. You are not touching me with those filthy, disgusting, treacherous hands.”

A mask ghosts over his face, and he rises to his feet, hovering over me with a thunderous look on his face. “I wouldn’t have had to do it if you’d just give me a fucking chance.” His voice is eerily controlled, and it’s like the calm before the storm.

I scramble to my feet. “So, now, it’s my fault? That’s rich.” I cross my arms over my chest, daring him to go there.

“I just needed someone to hold me. I wouldn’t have asked for any more, but you fucking slammed the door in my face.”

“With good reason.” I tilt my chin up. “And you just said you needed the release, so how the fuck would spooning with me have helped.”

“Because it’s you!” He reaches out for me, and I jerk sideway out of his reach.

“Goddamn it, Abby!” He punches the wall, cracking the plaster, and dust and debris rain down on the carpeted floor. “I fucking love you, but you can’t see past Anderson,” he yells, slamming his fist into the wall again. “And I was thinking of you,” he roars, hitting the wall again. A large crack forms in the plaster, splintering toward the ceiling. “Because I didn’t want to stay here and end up hurting you if you rejected me!”

Wow, that’s comforting.

Not.

The wall rattles this time when he hits it, over and over, without stopping.

“Oh my God! Charles.” Elizabeth Barron comes running along the hallway toward us, and Charlie curses under his breath. “Sweetheart.” She wraps her arms around him from the side in an awkward hug. “It’s okay, baby. Shush.” She lifts his arm from the wall, and tears roll down her cheeks as she inspects his torn knuckles. She looks over at me. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but he needs you.”

I snort out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t think it’s me he needs.” Charlie visibly stiffens.

“Whatever the argument is about doesn’t matter,” she says, her gaze bouncing between both of us. “You’re married now.” She levels me with a pleading look. “Your husband is in pain, and he does need you.”

Hearing that word, when it references Charlie, is like having a vat of hot oil poured over my naked body. It makes me want to scream from the pit of my lungs and claw at my skin. But I ball it all up and shove it into the innermost corner of my psyche.