Chapter Six: Carly's POV
"So, baby, what do you wanna do?" Adam asked, moving closer towards me in the dark, putting his hand high up on my thigh, almost to my waist.
"You know Spencer's camping, that's why you're acting like this," I said. He wasn't listening. He was too busy kissing my neck to pay attention to what I was saying.
"Here," he said, handing me the bottle of beer he'd brought along, "take a sip and just try to relax."
I thought of saying no, then remembered last time I'd tried. So I took a big gulp. Then another. And another, until the bottle was empty and I was feeling like reciprocating Adam's actions. Deep down somewhere, I knew that was his plan. But closer to the surface, I told myself I didn't care.
I kissed his lips, neck, and chest, unbuttoning his shirt eagerly. I felt his tongue begging for entrance, and I granted it, opening my mouth and letting his tongue enter. And it did, hungrily. Soon, our tongues were practically having a wrestling match. He was winning, like always.
When he started to unbutton my pants, I stopped. "Adam, wait," I said, trying to get a breath through in between his bruising kiss.
"Shut up," he warned, and I felt his hand ball into a fist. I didn't say anything. Soon, we were both in nothing but underwear.
"You've got a condom, right?" I asked, badly wanting to shove him out the door, but knowing what would happen if I tried.
This was the second time this had happened. It was always the same. The first time, I'd invited him over for a movie, and when he got here, he turned off all the lights and locked the door. He went to work quick, wasting no time. As soon as he had me under him, lying on the couch, he passed me the bottle, and I refused.
"What?" he growled, getting up off the couch and looking at me. Even in the dark, I knew I was in danger.
"What's come over you, baby?" he asked, a sinister grin spreading over his face. He moved over to me and wrapped his arm around my waist gently. He noticed right away how stiff I was, standing there like a piece of cardboard. He, not satisfied, tightened his grip on my waist. When I still didn't reciprocate, he lost his temper, throwing me to the ground with a thump.
He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back up. He grabbed me by the neck, shoving me into the wall and kissing me again, forcefully opening my jaw, forcing me to let his tongue enter. I, again, just stood there, and I felt his fist jam into my stomach.
I was beginning to get angry. This wasn't what I wanted. I shoved him off me and screamed, "Get out of my house!"
I'd made a very bad decision. He ran to the kitchen, grabbing our glass plates and throwing them at me. I ducked and two missed, hitting the wall, shattering into a million pieces, all falling onto me. Small cuts invaded my skin. There were on my arms, my cheeks, my forehead, and legs. Then, when I was caught off guard, a plate hit me in the stomach, shattering and slicing open my skin, and knocking the wind out of me at the same time. I fell to the floor, defeated, sobbing, begging for mercy. He walked to me, took my chin in his hand, his nails digging into my cheeks, making me bleed more. My salty tears reached my cuts and made them burn like fire, and I screamed. He silenced me with a rag, then slapped me.
After a while, he left, leaving me on the floor, crying, badly hurt.
When Sam asked how we were going, I didn't have the strength to tell her what had really happened. So I said it was fine.
His harsh voice interrupted my memories. "Trust me." But I didn't. Not even the by the smallest amount.
