Trigger warning. I should be nicer to my characters. Don't worry, she's a tough cookie.
The restaurant Jackson picked was, of course, spectacular. It would have been better to order for herself, but Jackson saw to it that she had the "Spoon Menu" and that her wine was pre-selected and constantly topped off. 'I'm a big girl, Jackson. I can order my own food. Plus, I'd like a real meal, not a never-ending snack plate.'
The meal was delicious, but the ratio of substance-to-alcohol was off, and Meg could feel herself tilting around on her heels once they left the coat check. 'Dear Cosmic Being, I will never touch SoCo again, just please deliver me unto sobriety. That was way too much wine. Jackson knows I can't drink like that.' Meg's mind woozed between her ears.
"Aww, look at that. My girl's getting ready to put on a show for me."
Jackson had gone from appreciative to leering as he mistook her doddering balance and decreased sobriety for an increased interest in their next stop at the club. He began dragging her more than guiding her down the boulevard toward the massive line of people. A quick palm-press of some cash to the bouncer, and suddenly Meg felt herself squeezed against Jackson, through a door, and then physically pounded by bass from a sound system clearly set to 'pulverize.'
"Shots first, and then I want that show you promised me!" Jackson nearly had to scream to be heard, and held her by the hair to keep her close enough to be heard.
'So much for the updo. Jesus Christ, let go.' Meg winced, but didn't move. "Jackson, babe, I need some water or something. If I drink more it's not-"
"I said shots. Now. We have VIP seating. Move it." He shoved her forward, hair as a handle, and she staggered, barely keeping upright.
'I bet that was cute. This is going to be spectacular. I can't keep drinking.' Meg did the best she could to stay vertical and keep moving toward whatever table Jackson was trying to steer her toward.
Once they were seated, Jackson snapped his fingers at a shot girl, and promptly cleared six shots from her tray to their table. He gripped Meg's wrists and yanked her forward into him. "Drink. Now. And then I want that show you promised me."
"Baby, please, I'm not-" He banged a shotglass into her teeth, tipping it, and Meg reflexively swallowed, trying not to drown in whatever syrupy, cinnamon and gin concoction was in the glass. Meg felt her eyes water and fought with her stomach. 'Whatever bartender came up with that bullshit needs to be shot. That's disgusting.' The pounding noise was unbearable, and after the first shot, Jackson had the second one against her mouth before she could even breathe.
"Again. Then get in front of the table." Meg squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed again, waiting for Jackson to relax his grip on her wrists. "Good girl." He didn't let go.
"Jackson...what is this? What are you doing?" Meg's throat was burning, and her mascara had pooled under her eyes as she leaned in to yell.
"You've been gone for months, Meg. You owe this to me. And now I'm going to get it. And while you're at it, here's number three." He mashed another shot glass to her lips. Meg briefly considered turning her head, but he held her in place. Shakily, she opened her mouth and accepted. "Aren't I being a gentleman? Isn't that what you want?" Meg watched as Jackson crushed both of her wrists into one of his hands, slammed a shot of his own, and pulled her into a sloppy kiss that banged their teeth together.
'Oh? Oh, so that's what this is. He's...angry? Jealous? This is a tantrum? Okay, Meg. Calm down. Just ride it out. Make him happy now, and he'll be asleep by the time you hit the bed at the hotel. Just ride it out.' The floor was moving too much to accommodate the shoes she was wearing, but she had to try. Meg extricated her wrists from Jackson's hand, stumbled around to the front of the table, and tried to shimmy as best she could while still keeping at least one hand touching the flat surface for balance.
"Meg, get off the table and dance for me. Or can't you even do that right?" Jackson's words stung.
Meg tried to push into something more upright. 'How many years has it been since I've done this? I'm not in college.' She felt as though she was going to fall down, and her legs swayed precipitously underneath her. Taking a few deep breaths, Meg lunged for the edge of the table. "Jackson, I can't." She hung her head, knowing her words were slurring together. "Can't we just talk? Be together and talk? I can't drink anymore."
"Oh, you want to be together?" Jackson's smile was evil. "I know just the place." He lifted her upright and rushed her towards the door. "You and I are going back to the hotel. Now."
"Wha...which hotel, baby? We just got here!" Meg had a hard time keeping up with him; she was aware of her ankles rolling and banging underneath her, but couldn't feel any pain from it. 'Well, not yet.'
"Only the best, remember? Or are you that stupid? Do you remember what I like in bed, or am I going to have to show you again?"
"Baby, I'm sorry..." Meg felt her eyes brimming and wiped at them, dragging more mascara down her face. Her lipstick was a lost cause from the bruising her mouth took during the shots; she was vaguely aware of the metallic taste of blood on her bottom lip. Meg knew Jackson had ruined her hair. The pins and clips were stabbing at her, but without a mirror she had no idea what to move or adjust. Something in the back of Meg's mind told her, 'Just go to the hotel,' but she couldn't piece the reason together.
By the time Jackson pulled, dragged, and cajoled Meg through the long walk from the club to the towering luxury hotel at the end of the boulevard, she had gone from drunk over stifled tears to drunk under numbness. Jackson hauled her forward toward the doors, pausing long enough to tilt her head backward by the neck.
"See, look at the sign. Nothing but the best for you. So I better see the best in bed."
"Jackson, I just-" Meg swallowed down a retch as her eyes struggled to catch up to the rest of the world; Jackson had craned her neck back at an impossible angle.
"Get inside." Jackson's voice, entirely ice, gave Meg a fit of convulsive shivers.
He shoved her toward the doors, and as the gilded letters of the logo smeared through Meg's field of vision, it hit her – this was the corporate hotel. Her stomach and mind were still reeling from the ridiculous amount of alcohol she had consumed relative to the little food she had eaten all day, but now she had a chance. 'Think, Meg. Try to think. Someone can find you, you can go to the corporate floor, you have a room key in your clutch – Meg, you have Randy's room key! He kept giving you his room key!' She felt a flash of adrenaline cut the alcohol in her system. 'Just get headed upstairs.'
Jackson noticed the look on her face as he shoved her again and again toward the elevators, each time catching Meg on the stagger before she pitched to the ground.
"Something on your mind, Meg? How you're going to make it up to me? All this stupid shit with your -" and here, Jackson wagged his hands derisively in the air " -medic job?" He snorted. "You have a lot of making up to do. It's going to start on your knees. Depending on what I want, you might just stay on your knees. I don't need to look at you."
"Jackson, I swear, I wasn't trying to make you mad, it was just too much too fast…"
"Well, now I am mad."
"I don't drink anything straight, Jackson." The words were out of Meg's mouth before she could think twice. 'Maybe drinking straight and being numb is going to pay off for me. For now.'
The elevator dinged, and he shoved her inside. "Are you fucking arguing with me?" Meg's head bounced off the back wall of the elevator, and before she could catch her breath, Jackson had her pinned, the elevator railing digging into her lower back. "Maybe all this arguing is turning you on. Maybe I should check." He started pawing at her under her dress, fingers tearing into her, crushing her face under the front of his shoulder so she couldn't scream for help.
"What's the matter, bitch, don't I turn you on anymore?" Jackson laughed and backed away from Meg, who couldn't pull her dress down fast enough. When she spoke, her voice was flat.
"I didn't see what floor you picked." 'Meg, no. No more. This has to stop. Everything hurts.'
"Because I didn't, yet."
'Okay...Meg, think. Corporate is floor twelve. Think. Think. Do it right.' "Okay...okay...baby, I'm sorry. Let's make it a long elevator ride. Press a lot of buttons. I'll take care of you. I'll do it up right. All the way up."
"There's my girl. How many floors do you think you can last? We're on twenty-six." He pawed through her hair, ripping at bobby pins as he moved. His thumbs smeared across her lips, dragging deep red smears across her face. Every gesture was designed to mock her; every word calculated to cut deep.
"All the way up, Jackson. All the way up." 'This is wrong. Just close your eyes. Just listen for twelve.'
Jackson forced her to her knees to the side of the panel of buttons, unzipped his pants, grabbed her by the hair for what felt like the hundredth time that night, and forced her face into his crotch. "Get it good and slick, because you know where it's going next."
By the time the elevator toned for the fifth floor, he had her dress up around her waist and was telling her how much she was loving the fucking she was getting, by the ninth floor, he was telling her to get back on her knees and clean him off. 'Three more floors, Meg, and then you can puke on him out of spite.'
"Twelfth. Floor. Going. Up." An androgynous voice cut through the elevator, the doors slid open, Jackson slid a nonchalant glance over his shoulder, and shrugged when nobody was waiting. Meg forced her eyes upward to make sure he was looking back at the doors, bit down, and ground her teeth down the length of him. Jackson, who had one hand in her hair, slammed her head back into the wall of the elevator for the second time that night, but equally as reflexively tried to grab himself from her mouth. Meg lunged between his legs, threw her clutch out as far as she could, and launched herself out into the elevator vestibule. Crawling forward, she struggled to get her feet underneath her. She made it as far as the vestibule's decorative mirror and Pembroke table, but no further. Jackson, having tucked himself into his pants, grabbed her by an ankle and dragged her back toward the elevator.
"Where do you think you're going, whore?" Jackson's face was contorted with rage.
Meg, dazed, couldn't find enough fear or air to scream. She managed to brace a leg against the wall framing the elevator and shove backwards, preventing him from getting her fully back inside. "Why don't you fuck off, Jackson? I'm done. We're over. I can't do this anymore. Why would you do that to me?"
"Get the fuck back in here. We're going up to the room. I'm not done with you yet. I'm going to take good care of you, I promise."
Something in Meg's head, something taut and tense, high-pitched, something that had been there since Joe had kissed her and then walked away, became a whine, then a scream, then snapped entirely. "Don't you ever say those words to me. You don't ever promise me anything. You don't know what that means." Meg kept her voice low. The last thing she needed was an audience. She just needed to get to Randy's room; she doubted even a drunk Jackson would be stupid enough to test that line. Meg kicked her free leg upward, clipping Jackson on the ear. He let go of her ankle and she scrambled backwards again, just past the mirror, and Jackson came fully out of the elevator after her.
Meg got her feet under her, her ankles screaming at her to stop, and turned to run from the vestibule into the hallway. She grabbed her clutch from the floor as she went, but Jackson snatched her from behind and spun, slamming her into the mirror. Vaguely aware of a crunching sound, Meg suddenly realized she had been in the air and was now sitting on the Pembroke table, Jackson between her legs for a second time that night.
"You'll come back to me, you stupid slut. When you need dick, or money, or both. I give it two weeks before I see you on your knees in front of me. Go fuck yourself. It won't be as good as what I gave you tonight." Jackson slammed his palm into her face, banging her head against the mirror one more time for emphasis before getting back on the elevator. "Sweet dreams, whore. I'm not done with you, yet." Meg, eyes blurring, watched the numbers on the elevator begin to ascend before testing her feet towards the floor. She heard glass come down from the mirror and land on the table behind her once she stood.
Shards of the mirror protruding from her scalp and shoulder blades like brittle butterfly wings, Meg shakily dug through the contents of her clutch, looking for Randy's room key. Staggering toward room 1247, trying and failing several times to slip the key into the thin slot of the lock before managing to set it properly and lean against the door, Meg's weight managed to lever it open it just enough to edge herself inside.
Randy, out on the balcony with Joe, was unaware Meg let herself in. It was the sound of the bathroom door squealing and then latching that brought him nosing back into the suite, Joe close behind. The shoes, clutch, and keycard on the floor in a trail to the bathroom, along with a scattering of small pieces of mirror-coated glass, put Randy on edge.
Joe elbowed Randy good-naturedly. "The fuck? What groupie did you give your room key to, dumbass?"
Randy's face was ghost white. "Kiddo, talk to me. Open the door, okay? Please?"
"Randy? Seriously, who's in the bathroom?" Joe had gone from bemused to perplexed.
Looking back over his shoulder, Randy's eyes locked on to Joe's, silently warning him to stop. "It's Meg," he whispered, "So please do not fuck this up."