When Punk walked into the kitchen, my eyes widened at his appearance. Rocky had already warned me that shit was going to go down and that most likely one of them was going to come back looking like hell, if not in a body bag, but I hadn't been expecting Punk to look like that. His lip was bleeding, one of his eyes was swollen shut, and there were more bruises and cuts along his arms that were probably the result of being kicked and hitting sharp objects. I narrowed my eyes when he 'thanked' me; essentially blaming me for the injuries he'd been given.
I might feel bad that he was hurt, but that didn't mean he didn't deserve it. He had molested me, and that was the bottom line. I had never liked violence, even if I was a little rough around the edges sometimes, so I hated myself for feeling sympathetic for Punk. I looked over at Rocky, who just shrugged it off as he reached into the fridge to grab something to drink. Out of the ones I had met so far, he and Colt Cabana seemed to be the most calm and most friendly. Not once had either of them tried to even touch me, and for the most part, Rocky had made small talk like I was just some chick instead of some chick that had been kidnapped by a gang.
"I wouldn't recommend trying to talk to him or Samoa Joe," he suggested quietly, tilting his head back as he downed a large gulp of beer before he looked me directly in the eyes. "I have no idea what you told Samoa Joe, and it's none of my business, but whatever just happened between them is about you. I'd stay out of it," he muttered.
Before I could say anything, Samoa Joe walked into the kitchen, giving Rocky a look that told him to leave. He didn't argue, and stepped out of the kitchen to leave me and Samoa Joe alone. He didn't say anything for a few minutes, and then spoke. "He's not going to bother you again. If you want to go talk to him and try and get an apology, you can. Not sure what it would do for you, but I know that women need apologies for every fucking thing."
He didn't say anything else to me before walking out of the kitchen, leaving me alone. I was beyond confused. Samoa Joe had given me the impression that he didn't want me around Punk earlier on, and now he was telling me to try and get an apology out of him? I sighed and slid off of the chair before readjusting the shirt I was wearing so that it didn't expose my midriff before I started making my way towards the staircase. I might have gotten lost on the way to my room earlier, but there was no way I had forgotten where Punk's room was.
To be honest, I wasn't sure why I was going to his room. He hadn't given me any reason to feel sorry for him, and even if I didn't like violence, I shouldn't feel obligated to check on how he was doing. There was still that niggling feeling of guilt, however, and I knew I'd feel bad later on if I didn't at least make sure he was still breathing. The walk to his room didn't take me long, and when I twisted the doorknob, I found that the door was unlocked, which surprised me. It seemed that these guys were avid fans of locking doors, and yet his was wide open? I decided not to question it as I slowly opened the door, almost expecting him to pin me against the wall as soon as he saw me. Instead, I saw him lying on the mattress of his bed, not moving.
"What the fuck are you here for? Get out," he glowered at me angrily. I stopped at the door, for once not retorting with some smart ass comment as I looked over at him. I felt even guiltier when I saw how hard it was for him to even lay there comfortably.
"For your information, I came to find out why you got your ass handed to you," I snapped at him before walking closer to him. His injuries looked a lot worse than they had in the kitchen for some reason. His breathing was labored, like he had hurt ribs or something, and the bruises on his face were only becoming darker. He definitely didn't look as attractive as he had just a few short hours ago.
His eyes narrowed; or, at least, the one eye that wasn't swollen shut did. I moved closer to the bed again, confident that he wasn't going to try and touch me or hit me again. I looked over to see an open door that led to a bathroom, and I walked inside despite his telling me to get out. I felt even worse now for getting him in trouble, even if he'd deserved it, and I walked into it to grab a wet washcloth and some Advil from the cabinet. I wasn't sure if he'd let me, but I wanted to at least clean him up a little bit, maybe make it easier for him to sleep. If anything, I hoped that it would make him feel guilty for hurting me before.
When I tried to hand him the bottle, he just pushed them away as he continued glaring at me. "I don't want your help and I sure as fuck don't want your sympathy, you little bitch," he growled at me. "You want to know why I'm like this? It's your fault."
"My fault?" I scoffed at him, touching the wash cloth to his lip, causing him to snarl and push my hand away again. "What the hell did I do?"
He didn't answer me, but instead continued fighting me every time I tried to clean his lip or hand him the pills. I finally got fed up with it, and I moved to sit down on the mattress before I grabbed his wrist, putting pressure on it. He didn't cry out in pain like I would have, but I could tell just by the way he gritted his teeth that it hurt. I smirked, realizing I had an opportunity to almost get back at him for what he did to me earlier. Instead, I was just going to try and help him, maybe make him feel bad for what he had done to me earlier on.
"What did you fucking tell him, huh?" He asked me angrily, giving up on stopping me from cleaning his bottom lip and the other scrapes along his face. "Did you tell him a lie? That I raped you? What the fuck did you say?"
My body stiffened at his words, and I directed my eyes to meet his before narrowing them in anger. "I don't lie, CM Punk. I'm not like you. I told him the fucking truth—that you molested me. I asked you to stop, and you didn't. That's all I told him."
His face turned beet red as he shoved me off of him, and he sat up as best as he could before glaring at me. "I did not fuckingmolestyou," he said in a low voice. "You wanted it, just like all the other whores want it."
"I asked you to stop," I shot back at him, crossing my arms tightly over my chest before storming towards his bedroom door. "And you didn't."
I left before he could tell me anything else that I didn't want to hear. I didn't want him to tell me that I liked the feel of his lips on my skin. I didn't want to recall the way that I had let out a few small whimpers of pleasure when he'd kissed me. And I sure as hell didn't want to feel guilty for the state his body was in right now. So I did what I'd always considered myself to be talented at, and I ran. I made my way to my bedroom, and stepped inside before slamming the door shut. I found the sheets remade on my mattress and the door locked with bars outside of it, and I rolled my eyes. These assholes were stupid if they thought I was going to try and escape again. I'd learned my lesson tonight. The next time I tried to escape, I was going to be a little smarter about it. It might take time to get out of here, but I was going to plan for it. And after I had a plan, that was when I'd put it into action.