Life Unworthy

Life Unworthy

Grayson James

PROVOCA PRESS

Real Life Fiction

Life Unworthy

By Grayson James

Published by Provoca Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 by Grayson James

www.grayson-james.com

Discover other titles by Grayson James at Smashwords.com.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

This book is for everyone wrestling with tough decisions.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

An excerpt from Stalk - Book One of the My Right to Life Series

An excerpt from While the Innocent Sleep

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my family for bearing with this writing obsession of mine. I would also like to thank my editor and those at Provoca Press for making my random thoughts intelligible. Finally, I want to acknowledge those who labor every day in the field of women's health and were honest enough to write their stories. You were the inspiration for this book.

Chapter 1

Sarah Daniels

Friday, July 23, 10:00 PM

I can't believe this is happening. This shouldn't be happening. I shouldn't be here, but I am here, and it feels too good to stop. I didn't know my heart could beat this fast, that I could be this terrified and eager at the same time.

He's been slow and gentle, pecking around the corners of my mouth. I can taste the popcorn salt on his lips and smell the sour beer on his breath, and it only makes me want him more. I force my tongue into his mouth, glide all the way around his lips, and he doesn't resist.

He knows I'm powerless, that he's really cute, and it's the first time I've ever been with a guy. I really can't believe I've crossed this line, that I'm kissing him. And liking it. Dad pushes his way into my mind, but I force him back out. This is no place for Dad to be.

He drops his hands from the sides of my face, where they've cradled my cheeks since he slid over to my seat. My skin feels suddenly cold and I realize how helplessly bare I am. I groan my disappointment at his movement, hoping he'll put them back where they belong, but he doesn't seem to notice my displeasure.

He's shoving his tongue all around the inside of my mouth, expecting my own tongue to give way, and I'm shocked at how easily I surrender. I thought I wanted this, but now it just feels dirty.

I'm naked with my clothes on, stripped bare by the force of his tongue. I can't catch my breath. I'm suffocating with his lips sealed against mine, his stale air heavy in my lungs. How long is a kiss like this supposed to last?

Are all kisses keys to deeper passages? God I hope not, but it isn't looking good. A hand is probing my waistline and another is wrapping my hair tight against the seat, and I'm scared of what he's about to do, of not knowing what he's about to do.

My heart has been beating so fast for so long that I can't decide if the thrill of dancing on the edge of a knife has given way to the fear of being pierced by it. I think I'm about to have sex, I'm powerless to stop it, and I don't even know how I feel about it.

He pulls the slack of my shirt from my back and runs his hand along my skin. I don't want this. Do I want this? I try to break the kiss, to breathe my own air again, but he presses the weight of his head against mine so that our mouths never separate.

With each thrust of his tongue in my mouth, he probes further in under my shirt, and it's the movement under my shirt that is so unsettling, so foreign to anything I imagined it to be.

He finally pulls his lips away long enough to say, Don't be nervous, Baby.

I rush a breath of fresh air before he presses in again. I lose my chance to fight, my only chance to legitimately deny him entry. I open my mouth to him again like a submissive little slut. He plows his hand further into my chest and flips my shirt and bra up to my shoulders and around my neck.

Please don't do this, Colt, I manage to get out, but it's muffled.

Oh God, I shouldn't be here. It isn't supposed to be this way. This was supposed to be a kiss. The kiss was good. So good. And maybe I was too eager to return it at first. But I didn't ask for this. Did I ask for this?

He's unrestrained now, feeling all around my chest with a recklessness that can only imply ownership. This can't be happening. His mouth is moving away from mine, farther down my body in stages, and I flinch each time his lips touch virgin skin.

I stare out the windshield at the flashing screen where vampires and wolves fight over who gets to love the girl. Their words of romance, coming to us through little speakers within the car, are wooden and unrealistic compared to the too real script taking place on top of me.

I don't know what else to do, so I start to wiggle and cry, Please stop. Please, over and over again.

He startles at my response.

Relax, he says in a tone more suitable to a mother calming a frightened child than a man overpowering a girl half his size.

That he alone is the source of my anxiety doesn't seem to occur to him, and the softness of his expression is negated by the severity of his grasp. Though I haven't tried to push him away, he takes both my wrists in one of his big hands and pins them to the seat above my head. With the other hand he continues pinching and prodding and pulling in places no one has ever been.

I'm exposed, not just for his pleasure, but on display for the world to see. If I can see the bald man and his old wife in the car next to us, surely they can see Colt consuming me. Why are they watching this movie anyway? They don't belong here.

I don't think they've looked over yet, and I'm not sure if they could see in through the tinted window if they turned this way, so I start praying. I'm praying harder than I've ever prayed in my life: Please God, if you're even there and if you love me at all, don't let that bald man look this way. Please, please, please, don't let anyone see me like this. Just please forgive me and let him finish quickly.

I love the way you wiggle, Baby. Your body is so hard, he says and buries his face in my stomach.

Colt, please stop. I can't do this, I repeat, and I feel the button on my shorts flip open and I still can't move my hands.

Colt, I don't want this, I'm so sorry, I say again, but he might as well be deaf.

He's like a machine that's been set in motion, that I set in motion, and now I don't know what switch turns him off. He tugs my shorts down my legs and off around my tennis shoes, and I bend my legs to make it easy because I'm afraid he'll really hurt me if I fight him.

I just want him to get it over with before anyone finds out the next President's daughter is a slut who sneaks around and has one night stands in public.

You'll love this stuff, he says.

He has a little bottle of something and I don't even know where it came from, but he's rubbing it on himself, and it seems bigger than what I'd always pictured. Any eagerness I had when we started kissing is long gone.

The terror remains, intensifies, and I just want to survive intact. I feel him against me and he's crossing the point of no return. The pain is unreal, and a faceless man that I'll someday love flashes through my mind, knowing that I'll never be able to give him what hasn't already been taken.

And it hurts so bad. And I know that my dad has been right all this time, that guys aren't to be trusted, and I never should have lied about where I am, and no one or nothing can ever take back what has just been done.

I'm crying harder and the Romeo who is slowly grinding on top of me says, Wow, you really are a virgin aren't you? Thank you so much for doing this.

He sounds so sweet, genuinely thankful, and he looks me straight in the eyes without a hint of shame or remorse. Like a lover.

My sob is audible now because I can't hold it in. I don't know if I'm relieved or disgusted thinking that he just thanked me, that he's really just two hundred pounds of packed sweetness. Has he misunderstood me? Have my words not come out? Am I only saying No in my head? I'm not drunk. I know how that feels and I'm not drunk. It's too late now anyway, but it's worth a try.

I said, No, Colt. I didn't . . . want . . . this.

I say it clear, forceful this time. He doesn't hear me anyway. He doesn't want to hear.

You're forcing me. Why aren't you listening?

I heard that biting your ear can take your mind off it. Do you want me to do that for you? he asks, and I feel his teeth coming together around my left earlobe before I have a chance to answer.

He's not listening to me, and all I can do now is wait until it's over and keep praying no one sees. My tears are running down my cheeks and onto my ears, between his lips.

He's grinding and sucking on my ear and slamming into me more violently now than I imagined it should be. I didn't picture anyone doing it this fast.

I watch the man and his wife watching the movie in the car next to us and I wonder how long this kind of thing lasts. My arms are either tingling or numb now, still pinned above my head, and he is switching from my left to my right ear. I don't want to think about the pain coming from down there and the overload of sensations in my mind makes me physically sick.

I'm going to throw up, I say.

He looks up from my ear, and his bloody lips curl into a tender smile, and I'm terrified at what I might look like when he's finished. He's measuring what I just said. I close my eyes, not wanting to see the sweet-eyed beast staring down on me, not wanting to mistake what is happening here for intimate.

He takes his free hand from under my bottom and places it over my mouth. That's his temporary solution.

Just hold it a minute, Babe. I'm almost done, he says.

A loud ringing in my ears has overwhelmed the pleas of the vampire and the wolf arguing like lawyers over who gets the girl. My head is spinning and it's taking all my concentration to keep from gagging. I've lost all sense of time, and I can't decide if it's flying by or standing still. I keep swallowing my spit.

He's getting really worked up and I hope that means it will be over soon. He didn't use any kind of protection and I'm not sure what to expect. I know what you're taught in health class, but Mrs. Gray didn't prepare me for this.

Thinking about what it might be like and what he might expect from me provokes a dry heave, and I thank God nothing comes up. Two more heaves follow. Don't let me die, I pray, as I gag again, and this time my mouth fills with bitter fluid.

That's it, that's great, he says. Keep doing that.

His hand is still over my mouth as he breaks his rhythm and starts thrashing and moaning, and I know immediately, without any prior experience, what is happening. I try to swallow the vomit but it's no use. I'll be dead soon and any hope that Dad ever had of being President will die with me.

Chapter 2

Abby Lawson

Saturday, July 24, 7:00 AM

Good morning, Abigail, he says, as he slides into the passenger seat of my car. It is so nice to see you, dear Sister. I've missed you very much.

He is heavier than I remember, fuller around the waist, and his hair no longer bushes out from under his hat. It's been three years since he's contacted me.

His eyes and the words coming from his mouth don't match up. His eyes. There is a vacancy in his eyes that can only come from seeing too many things that should never be seen. I'm sure he lost any capacity for true affection years ago, and his words are simply a string of hollowed out shells strategically hooked together.

It's nice to see you, too, I lie, and hope he believes me.

It's not actually nice to see him, but I don't know why. He's a brother in the faith, I tell myself, as I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. He scares me. I've seen him use what he carries under his jacket.

Are you alone? he asks.

I look around the car, baffled by his question. He becomes agitated and I don't know why.

Are you wearing a wire, Sister? he asks. Is the car bugged?

Goodness no, Mr. Jones, I chuckle, shaking my head at my own denseness.

He laughs as well.

I haven't spoken to anyone, I assure him.

You're a little out of practice, he says, and studies me. He adds, It's okay, and tries to reassure me with a smile.

It doesn't work, precisely because the smile he flashes is designed to evoke assurance. I've seen that smile before, years ago. You're just as likely to suffer as benefit following such a smile. He reaches in his jacket and my heart skips. He pulls out his little box with the antenna and waves it all around the car. Satisfied with whatever it told him, he puts it back in his jacket and sighs. He studies me harder, looking me up and down like men do, but I know he's feeling nothing.

He pulls the necklace out from my neck and fumbles with the pendant a moment, then says, Do you mind pulling up your shirt, Sister?

I comply. I know I should feel violated at this request, but it's