Dead of Summer

“Why’d you take the blame?”

I shift, leaning my weight to one side and resting my face against my upper arm as I survey his face. “Because she was crying,” I say at last, getting only a look of incredulous disdain in response.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not that his expression doesn’t say it for him. So I take a breath and go on, feeling more and more uncomfortable with every word. “It got worse. He got worse. He stopped caring if people noticed. I even told my third-grade teacher. She…” I swallow hard and duck my head, no longer able to look at him. “Well, she tried to help. Didn’t go so well. But Mom found out soon after that. She confronted him about it. He…”

I’m not afraid of him anymore.

I refuse to be afraid of my father now, when he’s far away and hopefully dead as hell. Still, I won’t hold my breath on that point. Dad’s always had the tenacity of a cockroach.

“He grabbed me in front of her. Demanded to know if I’d told my teacher. Mom tried to stop him, but he had a glass. He shattered it.” I try to move my arm to show him, but realize I can’t when my arm just jerks against the rope. “Well, he shattered it on my face. Opposite cheek. There are a few tiny scars, but they’re not really noticeable.”

“Let me see?” Kayde moves, releasing my throat and tipping my chin up so he can look at me in the light. He turns my head so my prominent scar is away from him, and I’m expecting him to announce at any moment the scars aren’t visible. I only really see them because I have to look at myself every morning and I know exactly what I’m looking for.

“They’re like stars on your cheek,” Kayde breathes, prompting a wave of shock to shiver up my spine.

“You can see them?”

“Now that I know what I’m looking for, sweetheart.” His free hand strokes along my cheek, touching my skin in four different places. “Looks like I could map out a constellation right here.”

I’m clearly in need of mental assistance, because that sounds way too affectionate to come from Kayde. Especially regarding me and my scars. “When did he do this?” His hand moves, and he so gently strokes along the scar that forces a separation into my brow.

“The same time.” The words leave me hastily. This is my least favorite part. Especially here, where I can’t hide from him or pace or curl in on myself like I want. “He took the glass while my mom screamed and tried to stop him. He told me, ‘Summer, don’t you fucking cry. You did this to yourself—’” My words cut off almost involuntarily, my throat closing hard. Everything in me rebels at saying this, when I’ve never, ever explained it this clearly out loud. Not even to my therapist.

“That’s enough for tonight, baby girl.” Kayde must read me and see I can’t go any further than this. “You did what I asked, even if you are still in so much trouble.” His smirk turns somewhat rueful, and he strokes his fingers down my cheeks, following the path the tears that I blink back would likely take. “If something’s too much for you tonight, say your safe word. You can use it once and I’ll stop. We’ll change what we’re doing. Understand?” He cradles my face while I nod, back to the shifting and wishing I could pull free of these ropes.

“Why am I in trouble again?” I breathe, my eyes wide. “Pretty sure I didn’t do…much wrong.”

“Oh?” His brow arcs incredulously. “You don’t think so? Holding on to that knife and not giving it to me when I asked?” He scoffs. “Babe, I gave you so many chances to just give me the fucking blade, but not you. Not you, Summer.” His hand finds my throat again, and he crowds me as his fingers slip under my jaw to press tight against my pulse point.

A whimper leaves my throat, and my hands tug on the ropes again, twinging enough that I know I’m going to have rope burn in the morning. “Will it help if I apologize?”

“Depends,” Kayde hums, leaning close enough that our lips brush when he adds, “Will you mean it?”

But my apologetic, slow-spreading grin must be the only answer he needs, because Kayde snorts and pushes away from me, his hand remaining on my throat.

“I knew you wouldn’t mean it anyway,” he tells me, his fingers pressing just a bit more tightly. “Have we talked about choking?”

“Doesn’t seem like a very fascinating or deep conversation,” is my quipped reply as I stare at him, still unable to stop my hands from moving like I’m trying to find a weak point in the rope. Though, I know that’s beyond unlikely and I’m not going to find a damn thing.

“Maybe not. But fuck, I want to make you come while you’re on the edge of passing out. When your eyes are all unfocused and you’re barely holding on. Wanna fuck you so I can feel your body fighting me on instinct. Doesn’t that sound?—”

“Horrifying,” I breathe, willing the twisting, squirming feeling of my stomach to be one of fear and not interest. I will not let myself be interested in that with Kayde. Sure, maybe someone else. Maybe someone I’m not still half-convinced is going to murder me.

But not Kayde.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t lie to me,” Kayde purrs, coming close once more. “And you’ve lost your right to give input for tonight, anyway. After you wanting to stab me last night, I don’t feel very sympathetic toward your fears of me. I’ve been so nice, you know?”

“I wouldn’t call you nice?—”

“Pretty patient, too. Especially considering what you make me put up with.”

My brows jerk upward, my mouth falling open with disbelief. “Me?” I hiss, shocked. “You’re talking about me making you put up with shit? Kayde, I don’t know if you just don’t remember, but you were going to slaughter an entire camp full of people!”

“Except you.” He points it out lazily, his fingers loosening from my throat. “Wouldn’t have killed you, like I said.”

“Just traumatized me into the next century.”

“Nah, not that long. A few years maybe. Could’ve made you so dependent on me like that. Could’ve made you love me.” He leans in close to drag his lips up the side of my throat. “You would’ve loved me eventually, you know.”