(no subject)
They don't get very far -- farther than they ever have, but you don't put down a few hundred on a hotel room to get to second base -- before Cassidy begins shivering and pulls away, tears of humiliation welling up. Mac lets him go, watches as he falls back to stare up at the ceiling, then murmurs gently, "Don't worry about it. I'm having a good time, and we've got all night, okay? We're cool here."
He doesn't answer. She adds, "I'm just going to hop in the shower and then we can head back down to the party."
Cassidy sighs. He rolls his head toward her, mustering up a weak smile. Mac returns it before sliding out of the bed.
She finishes with her shower ten minutes later and wraps herself in one of the hotel towels, finger-combing her damp hair as she walks back into the room for her shirt and pants. The lights are still out. Cassidy's half-sitting on the dresser, staring down at his hand; it takes Mac another look to realize that he's holding a cell phone, thumbing out a text message.
A third makes her frown. Is that her cell phone?
"Is...everything okay?" she asks. It startles him to his feet. He whirls on her.
"Get against the wall."
It's the tone that strikes her first: the words are incidental to his sudden flare of anger. Mac fumbles her towel as one side begins to slip out from under her armpit. "What?"
"Get against the wall, Mac -- "
It doesn't make any sense, because it's Cassidy --
" -- and don't make any noise -- "
Cassidy, who was so afraid of being touched, who nearly started crying in her arms after the Sadie Hawkins dance, whose voice has gone so hollow and his eyes are even worse --
"-- or I swear to God I'll shoot you."
and he's holding up a gun and he's pointing it at her.
Mac's shaking. It doesn't have anything to do with wet skin meeting cold air anymore. She puts one foot behind her and nearly falls, shooting out an arm on instinct and almost dropping her towel again.
"Keep moving."
Choking, she keeps moving until her back's flush with the wall. Both hands clutch at the edge of the towel just above her chest. She can't breathe.
She's just graduated from high school. She has a spot at Hearst, a future in systems and web design, and she's only eighteen and her boyfriend has a gun aimed at her, and there is none of the awkward smile or gangly posture left of him; and she thinks what did I do? and she thinks why is this happening? and she thinks, most of all, oh, God, I don't want to die.
"Cassidy," she tries in a broken plea.
"Don't talk!" He still has the gun trained on her, but now he's moving, grabbing her clothes, her underwear (still crumpled on the bathroom floor), her bag: he shoves them all in the wastebasket as Mac flinches and turns her face away. "Give me the towel. And please don't say, 'what?'" his voice rises in cruel mimicry, "because I know you heard me. Hey, one of us has to get naked before we're done with the room, right?"
"Please," she begs, "please don't -- "
"I'm just making sure," he says, each word as deliberate as if explaining to a toddler, "that you're not going to do anything stupid." She chances a glance back; for an instant, something flits across his expression. "Mac, come on, just give me the towel."
Still, she hesitates. The room doesn't seem to be solid any more. It doesn't feel like she's the one moving when she takes her hands away and tugs the towel down, holding it in front of herself for as long as possible before extending it toward Cassidy. He snatches it away, and Mac immediately sinks to the ground in a protective huddle, one arm across her breasts, legs drawn up to shield everything else.
The look he gives her makes her want to vomit.
Cassidy tucks the gun into his waistband, then grabs the trash can, the other towels, and the hotel phone, dumping them all onto the bed. He strips off the sheets and bundles them up like a satchel to hold the rest. Mac doesn't move, and tries, desperately, not to cry.
As he pulls on his own clothes and pockets her cell phone, hoisting the bundle into his arms, he says, "Remember. Nothing stupid. I'll know."
And he's gone.
Some time later, she hears a muffled explosion, gunshots -- and, barely audible ten stories below, the wail of a car alarm.
He doesn't answer. She adds, "I'm just going to hop in the shower and then we can head back down to the party."
Cassidy sighs. He rolls his head toward her, mustering up a weak smile. Mac returns it before sliding out of the bed.
She finishes with her shower ten minutes later and wraps herself in one of the hotel towels, finger-combing her damp hair as she walks back into the room for her shirt and pants. The lights are still out. Cassidy's half-sitting on the dresser, staring down at his hand; it takes Mac another look to realize that he's holding a cell phone, thumbing out a text message.
A third makes her frown. Is that her cell phone?
"Is...everything okay?" she asks. It startles him to his feet. He whirls on her.
"Get against the wall."
It's the tone that strikes her first: the words are incidental to his sudden flare of anger. Mac fumbles her towel as one side begins to slip out from under her armpit. "What?"
"Get against the wall, Mac -- "
It doesn't make any sense, because it's Cassidy --
" -- and don't make any noise -- "
Cassidy, who was so afraid of being touched, who nearly started crying in her arms after the Sadie Hawkins dance, whose voice has gone so hollow and his eyes are even worse --
"-- or I swear to God I'll shoot you."
and he's holding up a gun and he's pointing it at her.
Mac's shaking. It doesn't have anything to do with wet skin meeting cold air anymore. She puts one foot behind her and nearly falls, shooting out an arm on instinct and almost dropping her towel again.
"Keep moving."
Choking, she keeps moving until her back's flush with the wall. Both hands clutch at the edge of the towel just above her chest. She can't breathe.
She's just graduated from high school. She has a spot at Hearst, a future in systems and web design, and she's only eighteen and her boyfriend has a gun aimed at her, and there is none of the awkward smile or gangly posture left of him; and she thinks what did I do? and she thinks why is this happening? and she thinks, most of all, oh, God, I don't want to die.
"Cassidy," she tries in a broken plea.
"Don't talk!" He still has the gun trained on her, but now he's moving, grabbing her clothes, her underwear (still crumpled on the bathroom floor), her bag: he shoves them all in the wastebasket as Mac flinches and turns her face away. "Give me the towel. And please don't say, 'what?'" his voice rises in cruel mimicry, "because I know you heard me. Hey, one of us has to get naked before we're done with the room, right?"
"Please," she begs, "please don't -- "
"I'm just making sure," he says, each word as deliberate as if explaining to a toddler, "that you're not going to do anything stupid." She chances a glance back; for an instant, something flits across his expression. "Mac, come on, just give me the towel."
Still, she hesitates. The room doesn't seem to be solid any more. It doesn't feel like she's the one moving when she takes her hands away and tugs the towel down, holding it in front of herself for as long as possible before extending it toward Cassidy. He snatches it away, and Mac immediately sinks to the ground in a protective huddle, one arm across her breasts, legs drawn up to shield everything else.
The look he gives her makes her want to vomit.
Cassidy tucks the gun into his waistband, then grabs the trash can, the other towels, and the hotel phone, dumping them all onto the bed. He strips off the sheets and bundles them up like a satchel to hold the rest. Mac doesn't move, and tries, desperately, not to cry.
As he pulls on his own clothes and pockets her cell phone, hoisting the bundle into his arms, he says, "Remember. Nothing stupid. I'll know."
And he's gone.
Some time later, she hears a muffled explosion, gunshots -- and, barely audible ten stories below, the wail of a car alarm.