“What's happening?” She felt frightened and sick, and there were spots in front of her eyes now, and he was just standing there, laughing.
“I think the wine got the best of you.”
“I'm really sorry.” She was mortified, but then he knelt down next to her and kissed her so hard it made her dizzy again. But she liked it. There was a heady feeling to what was happening, she wanted it to stop, and yet she didn't.
“I'm not sorry at all,” he whispered from between her breasts. “You're gorgeous when you're drunk.” She lay back and closed her eyes then, and his tongue trailed tantalizingly down her stomach to her underwear, and then forced its way inside it, licking lower and lower, until suddenly her eyes flew open, and she jumped. She couldn't. “Come on, baby … please …” How long did she expect him to wait? “Please … Grace … I need you …”
“I can't,” she whispered hoarsely, wanting him, but too afraid to let him take her. All she could think of now was the night her father had died, as the room spun around, and she felt sick again. The wine had really done her in, and suddenly she felt like throwing up and she was afraid to say it. Marcus was touching her then, and feeling places where no one had been in years, no one had ever been except her father. “I can't …” she said again. But she couldn't muster the strength to stop him.
“Oh for chrissake, why not?” For the first time since he'd known her, Marcus lost his temper, but as he did, she felt the wine take over again, and with no warning, she swooned and fainted. And when she woke up, he was lying beside her on the huge white leather chair covered in the white fur, and he had all his clothes off. She was still wearing his shirt and her underwear, and he was smiling at her. And all she could feel was a sudden wave of terror. She couldn't remember anything except passing out. She didn't know how long she'd been out, or what they'd done, but it was obvious that something had happened.
“Marcus, what happened?” she asked him in a terrified voice, feeling very sick now, as she pulled his shirt tight around her.
“Wouldn't you like to know.” He looked amused, he was laughing at her. She had been completely unconscious. “You were great, babe. Unforgettable.” He sounded cold and hard and angry.
“How can you say that?” She started to cry. “How could you do that with me passed out?” She felt her stomach rise to her throat again, and her chest tightened with asthma, but she felt too sick to look for her inhaler. She couldn't even sit up and look around her.
“How do you know what I did?” he said evilly, as he walked across the room, his splendid body exposed for her to see it. “Maybe I always work like this. It's so much cooler.” He turned to face her then, so she could see all of him, and she looked away, trying not to see it. This was not how she had wanted their first time to be, and she didn't know if she was more hurt than angry. It was what it had always been for her. Rape. It was what he had wanted. “Actually,” he went on, as he strolled slowly back toward her, “nothing happened, Grace. I'm not a necrophiliac. I don't go around fucking corpses. And that's what you are, isn't it? You're dead. You go around pretending you're alive, and teasing men, but when it gets down to the big time, you just roll over and play dead, and dish out a lot of excuses.”
“They're not excuses,” she said, sitting up awkwardly. She had found her jeans on the floor, and she pulled them on and then stood up unsteadily. She felt awful. And she turned away a moment later to take his shirt off and put her own on. She didn't even waste time putting her bra on. She felt too sick to worry about it. Her head was both pounding and reeling. “I can't explain it, that's all,” she said in answer to his accusations. She was too sick to discuss it, and she kept having the feeling that something terrible had happened. She remembered kissing him, and his saying things to her, and for some reason she remembered lying there with him, but she couldn't remember anything else. She kept hoping it was all a nightmare induced by too much wine on an empty stomach. She kept having flashes of him tantalizing her with his body. But she had no memory of his raping her. And she was almost certain that he hadn't.
“Even virgins fuck eventually. What makes you think you're so special?” Marcus was still furious at her. She was a tease and he was bored with it. There were plenty of other girls he could have had, and he had every intention of having all of them. He had had it with Grace Adams.
“I'm just scared, that's all. It's hard to explain.” Why was he so angry at her? And why did she keep remembering him naked above her?
“You're not scared,” he said, picking up his camera and making no effort whatsoever to put his clothes on. “You're psychotic. You looked like you were going to kill someone when I put a hand on you. What is it with you anyway? Are you gay?”
“No, I'm not.” But he wasn't far from the truth about her killing someone, and she knew it. Maybe she would always be that way. Maybe she would never be able to have sex with anyone. But she wanted to know more than anything now, for sure, if anything had happened while she was unconscious. She wasn't sure at all what he had done while she was passed out. And she didn't like the feeling of the flashes she was having.
“Tell me the truth. What did you do to me? Did you make love to me?” she said with tears in her eyes.
“What difference does it make? I told you I didn't do anything. Don't you trust me?” After what had just happened, not really. He had taken advantage of her while she was out cold. He had gotten her to undress, almost nude, but not entirely, and had taken his own clothes off. It certainly didn't look like a wholesome scene when she woke up, but nor did she feel as though she'd been raped. She knew that would have been a familiar feeling. Remembering that comforted her. Maybe he had done nothing more than she remembered. A lot of fondling and kissing and touching. And she had liked most of it, but she knew that it had scared her. She had the feeling that he'd been close to making love to her, but then he hadn't. Maybe that was why he was so angry. It was plain old frustration.
“How can I trust you after what you just did?” she said softly, fighting a fresh wave of nausea.
“What did I do? Try to make love to you? It's not against the law, you know. People do it every day … some people even want to … And you're twenty-one, aren't you? So what are you going to do? Gall the cops because I kissed you and took my pants off?” But she felt raped anyway. He had taken photographs she hadn't wanted him to take, and seduced her into exposing more of herself than she wanted, and he had tried to take advantage of her sexually when she was drunk. The odd thing was that she had never gotten drunk on a glass and a half of wine before. And even now, she felt ghastly. “I'm sick of playing games with you, Grace. I've invested a lot of time, and patience, and Saturday afternoons and pasta dinners. We should have been in bed two weeks ago. I'm not fourteen. I don't do shit like this. There are lots of other girls out there who are normal.” It was a mean thing to say to her, but as she watched him now, in his natural habitat, so full of himself, as he finally put his pants on, she realized that he wasn't the man she'd thought he was. He had a real mean streak, and it was obvious he didn't love her. He had only been nice to her in order to get what he wanted.