Apple Music → geni.us/rebel-apple
“I don’t know how to tango,” I tell him, trying to pull away.
He yanks me against his body, hand cradling the back of my neck, fingers digging into the vulnerable flesh at the side of my throat.
“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses in my ear.
The dual bandoneons play their introductory riff, their fingers flying over the strings. Rocco shoves his thigh between mine, dipping me back across his other leg until it feels like my spine will snap. Then he whips me upright again, our bodies pressed together from breast to hip, his face only inches from mine. He forces me to look in his eyes. He forces me to see how much he enjoys this.
He strides forward, shoving me backward in four long steps. Rocco is slim but horribly strong—there’s nothing on his frame but muscle and sinew. Struggling against him is pointless, especially when every eye in the room is turned toward us and I can’t cause a scene.
Raising his arm over my head, he spins me like a top, then bends me back again, exposing my breasts to the crowd even more than they already were.
This is the real purpose of us dancing together—so Rocco can display his control over me. There’s no passion in his tango, no sensuality. His movements are rapid and technically precise, but without any feeling. Latin dancing is all about desire. The music is raw, insistent, all heat.
There’s no warmth in Rocco.
I don’t think he even feels lust.
He’s flaunting my body because he knows it embarrasses me. All his pleasure comes from my discomfort, my desire to defy him juxtaposed with my complete inability to do so.
I feel like a marionette on strings. I actually like dancing—the few times I’ve been able to enjoy it without anybody watching. Rocco is poisoning this, as he poisons everything. My face is flaming, acid in my throat. The song seems interminable. The crowd around us is a blur of color and dark, staring eyes.
Finally the music stops and the guests applaud politely. This party is such a fucking charade. No one here cares about Rocco or me, or our upcoming wedding. Everyone present is fully focused on the deals they plan to make tonight, the connections and the agreements.
Rocco hasn’t released me.
“That’s enough dancing,” I tell him. “I need a drink.”
“Of course, my love,” Rocco says.
He delights in pretending to be the doting fiancé. Using these terms of endearment, pretending that he has my interests at heart. When really everything he does is in pursuit of his own amusement.
That’s why he forces me to take his arm as we head toward the bar. He wants me close, and he wants me touching him at all times.
“Just water, please,” I say to the bartender. I already had enough to drink in the limo. I don’t want to be inebriated around Rocco.
“Two scotch,” Rocco cuts across me.
The bartender obeys him, not me. He pours the expensive liquor over single spheres of ice, then passes us the drinks.
“Bottoms up,” Rocco says, his blue eyes boring into mine.
I swallow the drink. The sooner I get through these niceties—dancing with him, drinking with him, speaking to him—the sooner we can part ways again.
“Let’s take a walk along the marina,” Rocco says.
“I . . . I don’t think we should leave the party,” I protest.
I don’t want to be alone with him.
“Nonsense,” Rocco says quietly. “It’s expected that the happy couple will want to slip away.”
I set my glass down on the bar, the ice sphere spinning like a lonely planet.
“Alright,” I say. “I won’t be able to go far in these heels.”
“You can lean on me,” Rocco replies with a thin smile.
There should be plenty of people on the marina at this time of night. The docks are lined with restaurants, nightclubs, and shops. Still, I know he isn’t taking me out there for no reason. He always has a reason.
I glance around for Cat as we’re leaving, hoping to make eye contact with her so she’ll know where I’ve gone. She’s dancing with one of my father’s associates, a lecherous old fuck with a spotty bald head, who’s holding her much too close to him and whispering god knows what in her ear. Cat’s smile looks pasted on her face.
She doesn’t see me.
Rocco notices where I’m looking, and he smiles in a way that I don’t like one bit.
He tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow once more and begins to parade me down the marina.
“You’re very close to your sister, aren’t you?” he says.
“No more than normal,” I say.
The lie is instinctive and automatic. Rocco will use any leverage he can find to fuck with me. I don’t want him to know that the one thing in the world I truly care about is Cat.
But he already knows. He doesn’t ask a question without already knowing the answer. And he can always tell when I’m lying.
“Did she make that bracelet for you?” he asks, touching it with one long, slim forefinger.
I snatch back my wrist, irrationally outraged. I don’t want him tainting the bracelet.
“No,” I lie again.
It’s my only protection against him—to refuse to answer him truthfully, even in the smallest details. I try to build a wall around myself, shutting him off from anything genuine. It’s the only way to keep myself safe.
I hate lying. I’m an honest person. Deceit never tastes right in my mouth, no matter the reason for it. The way I’m forced to sneak and conceal, by Rocco and by my father and stepmother, sickens my soul.
Rocco likes making me lie.
This is what he wants: to break me down. To twist me and change me.
We’re passing a seafood restaurant, the open patio full of diners enjoying their wine and poached fish.
Swifter than I can blink, Rocco grabs my arm and jerks me into the narrow alleyway between two restaurants. He shoves me up against the wall, the reek of empty mussel shells and fishbones filling my nostrils.
He seizes my jaw in his hand, pinching hard on both cheeks. The pressure of my flesh against my molars is intensely painful. He forces me to open my mouth.
“You weren’t very friendly to me last year at school,” he hisses, his nose inches from mine. “I almost felt like you were avoiding me, Zoe.”
My bare back is shoved up against the filthy alley wall. My jaw is aching, and I feel absurdly vulnerable with my lips forced apart. I expect him to try to kiss me.
Instead, he spits in my mouth.
The cold saliva hits my tongue. I lash out instinctively, wrenching my face free and hitting him away from me while I wretch and gag. The unwanted scotch comes heaving up and I vomit on the cement, splashing my bare toes in their golden sandals.
My flailing arm knocks Rocco across the face. He scowls at me, either from the blow or from my extreme reaction to his spit on my tongue.
At least he doesn’t want to touch me anymore now that I’ve puked.
“I expect your attitude to improve come September,” Rocco says coldly. “If not, there will be consequences.”
He strides away from me, leaving me alone in the alley.
My legs are shaking so hard that I can barely make it back to the party.
As soon as I enter the room, Daniela appears at my side hissing, “Fix your makeup, you look like a whore.”