No Quarter - Kelli Jean
2015 by Kelli Jean
All rights reserved.
Cover Designer: Renee Ericson/RE Creatives
Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, unforeseenediting
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Sitting up, I dragged the towel over my skin, hoping I got all of Phil off of me. I felt filthy and used, like trash. And that was exactly how he’d wanted me to feel.
It’s how he feels about himself.
I no longer cared. If he could treat me like that, then he deserved to feel like trash, too.
Quickly and as quietly as possible, I grabbed my dress off the floor and shrugged it on. I didn’t bother with my bra, panties, or my pumps. I left them where they were. I opened the bedroom door and shut it. Without a sound, I slipped down the stairs, grabbed my purse from the island counter, and headed out the side door.
Through the backyard, I sprinted, spurred on by the cold wet grass beneath my feet. Open the gate. Shut it. These were the soft motions of a broken mind.
It was three in the morning, so the house was dark and silent. I crept up the stairs, desperate to avoid any explanations to my two dearest friends about the fucked up episode I’d just suffered at the hands of the man I had given my soul to.
In my room, I turned on the lamp on my nightstand and opened my balcony door in the hopes that some clean air would come in and purify my putrid frame of mind. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I pulled out my ashtray and a spliff before smoking it down to the tiniest of roaches. I just needed to dull my wits at this point.
On the balcony, I heard branches rustling against the railing.
Stoned and numb, I got up. As I took off my dress, I could feel where I’d missed spots of his semen. The fabric pulled at my skin with the movement, making me itch. My chest was so tight that I felt the need to scream at the top of my lungs until it loosened up. I was so gross, so cheap, and so disgusting.
I think I hate him.
That was what hurt the most.
Heading into the bathroom, I saw my reflection in the mirror, and I loathed it. I hated the sparkly green eye shadow, the clumped mascara, and the smudged eyeliner that had streaked from the tears I couldn’t hold back. I opened my medicine cabinet, took out my jar of coconut oil, and smeared a glob of it all over my eyes, scrubbing a little too hard.
Get it off, get it off, get it off.
The dried patches of cum stretched and cracked over my skin and I tried to scratch at them.
Stupid! Get in the shower.
The water was scalding, and I hoped it would boil some of the filth out of me. Sinking to the bottom of the tub, I rested my face on my knees as I wrapped my arms around my shins and wept. Once started, there was no holding back. God-awful sobs tore their way out of my chest, and I wailed, snorted, and choked around them.
What do I do? Do I leave him over this? Am I even capable of leaving him? The next time I see him, do I try to explain to him what I was trying to tell him? Do I even want to see him again?
Of course, I want to see him again. I want to kick him in the nuts and punch him in the throat! I want to tell him he’s a horrible son of a bitch with psychotic tendencies!
He snapped like a fucking twig! We had a perfect fucking date until he completely misunderstood me and flipped right the fuck out. He’s