Love You Better (Better Love 1)

As I’m washing my hands, the door opens behind me. I peer into the mirror briefly and see a muscular body enter, so I grab some paper towels and make my way to the door.

“Excuse me,” I say, my eyes on the door handle as I attempt to sidestep the stranger, but his hand grabs my wrist and I stiffen.

“Ivy?”

My steps falter when I see that the man holding my wrist is actually Preston, Kelley’s friend from high school, and my body relaxes.

“Preston,” I say with an awkward chuckle. “You scared me.”

He smiles. “Wouldn’t want to startle Ivy Rivenbark, would I?” He tilts his head to the side as he speaks.

It’s strange, the way he’s assessing me, and I recall an image of a bird I saw in a pet shop once. It had beady, skittish little eyes and cocked its head creepily just like Preston is now.

“Right,” I nod. “Well, I’m gonna go find Kelley.”

I try to pull open the door, but Preston sticks his booted foot in front of it, trapping me inside, and all of my internal warning signals start to blare.

“Let me out, Preston,” I say sternly, trying to hide the spike of fear, but Preston laughs.

The music is so loud. Would anyone hear if I screamed?

“I don’t think I will,” he quips almost playfully, and when he steps closer, I get a whiff of a spicy and cloying blend of leather and ginger. With the scent come the flashes of memory, and the pressure in my head grows.

“Juego Voss,” I say, my heart hammering in my chest.

“You like that?” His voice is taunting, disgusted. The sudden shift in his tone sends chills down my spine. “I should have known you’d like the expensive shit. Gold-digging gutter whore like you.”

He steps closer, and I step back, effectively trapping myself between the shut door and Preston.

A low rumbling voice. Navy curtains. A mesh jersey.

“You were wearing a Colts jersey,” I recall out loud, my eyes rapidly scanning over Preston’s face. Searching for a lie. For a sign that I’m wrong. He just raises an eyebrow and grins. I flick my eyes up and study his dark brown hair. It’s cut short now, but in high school, I remember it being shaggier on top. An undercut.

I scan his body, taking in his bulked-out, football player physique. He’s bigger than he was in high school, but the general shape is still the same. Gym rat. Big biceps. Exactly the kind of guy I was taking home before, testing myself.

I shudder.

“See something you like?” His voice sends ice down my spine, and when he steps closer, I get another whiff of his cologne.

I might throw up.

“Was it you?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

At 4:06 a.m. the morning after our high school graduation party, I woke up in the backseat of my car with a pounding headache, one sandal, and no underwear. The ER confirmed that there was evidence of sexual assault, but my attacker likely used a condom, and while my symptoms were consistent with a Rohypnol dosage, no traces of drugs were found in my system.

Until now, all I had were flashes of memory.

Preston’s voice is pleased and taunting. “How do you think Kelley would feel if he knew I dicked you first?” He pulls on a strand of my hair, and I flinch. “He was always so obsessed with you.”

I clamp my eyes shut and take steadying breaths through my mouth.

Think. Think. Think.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to play shy now. I’ve heard all about you, Ivy Rivenbark. Campus slut. Wild party girl.”

His voice is rough, violent sounding, and it turns my stomach. When I force my eyes open, he’s inches from me. Our bodies aren’t touching, and I need to keep it that way.

“Preston, you’re drunk and not thinking clearly. Kelley is probably going to come looking for me. We should really go back out there.”