Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) by Tanya Thompson Page B

No ! No, no, no,” I did not want to hear. I was trying to pry his hand off my throat saying, “If this is going to escalate into a tit for tat, you should know I have nothing to offer, so this needs to stop before it starts.” I thought the scene was turning around when he released my neck, but he was only wrestling one of my arms behind my back to be trapped by our combined weight and the back of the couch, the other he held over my head while I insisted, “My name is Constance.”
    He was pulling to get the length of my skirt up, saying, “My name is Marco.” And then getting his hand beneath the material to cup between my legs, “What is your name?”
     
    ~~~~~~
     
    I tried angry demands for him to stop followed by cold emotionless calls for him to recognize what he was doing, and then, finally, I resorted to begging, but nothing I said stopped it from happening, and through it all, he continued to ask, “What is your name?” But I knew the truth wouldn’t have made any difference either.
    At a certain point, I realized the goal had changed, and now the objective was to just get through it with as much dignity as I could preserve. It became a matter of endurance.
    When it was finally over and I was pulling myself back together, he looked down at his hand and wanted to know, “You menstruate?”
    As if I wasn’t embarrassed enough, he wanted to talk about my cycle. I kept shifting my clothes around and was about to walk off when he pulled me into his lap to put his hand under my skirt again, between my legs, rummaging around to confirm the blood was mine. He asked a second time, “You menstruate?”
    I was struggling to get up, fighting to get his hands off me, but he held me in his lap and asked again.
    I admitted, “No.”
    “You virgin?”
    “Not after that.”
    My back was against his chest and I felt him take it like a punch, a great winding that left his lungs empty and made him gasp. Then he was kind, trying to hug me, console me, whispering something that sounded like regret, and I was freaking out, twisting and recoiling for the floor, preferring the violence to whatever this was, strangling a sound close to a scream, just wanting to get away.
    On the floor now, I was kneeling with his hand too tight on my shoulder, hurting me so I wouldn’t go any further, but his words were pleading; and I didn’t want to move, didn’t want to see or have it confirmed that he might be crying.
    I said, “Okay, everybody calm down. We’re all adults,” and then laughed at my joke. “This is a simple matter. Just go get me a washcloth. A wet towel. Whatever. Bring me something from the bathroom.”
    And as soon as he was in the hall, I was at the door, and when the water started to run, I was slipping quietly out to open the garage.
    The door to the Audi slammed too loud in the small space and the smell of Givenchy was overpowering to the point of disturbing. I fought a moment of panic not to get back out and slam the car door a second time. But getting caught again, embraced again, that would be so much worse. I turned the keyless ignition, and the engine was louder still, unnerving me further. Then reverse was a grinding nightmare and the tires squealed when the gas and clutch didn’t match going into first, but I was in the street, finding second, then third, speeding off down the road to reach a hundred, finally able to relax, even smile again, thinking this stolen car was pretty damn thrilling, and also damn pretty. It was nearly a shame I was going to have to destroy it.

A Little Aside
     
    Until we conclude with Dallas, my every excuse is going to be a singular: Fifteen.
    I was fifteen and had no freaking idea what was going on. I was fifteen and had not yet developed a clear sense of myself or others or what was permissible, and even when I knew something wasn’t acceptable, I had no idea how to assert my authority because I was fifteen.
    As we continue from this point, you might find yourself