“Now neither of us has a prize, we’re even,” he says when he returns from his creepy good deed.

“I guess so. I say we buy our own funnel cakes. You’re without a prize, and I’m not nice to cheaters,” I tell him before filing into the funnel cake line.

After we each take our turn buying our snacks and find seats on a set of nearby hay bales, we both dig into the confectionary goodness, which is no doubt rotting my teeth with every bite.

“So, Stacy, huh?” I ask, shoving another piece of bread into my mouth, powdered sugar leaving a trail on my chin. “You guys all just take your turn passing her around or what?”

He chokes on his funnel cake and it takes him a moment to catch his breath. “I’ve never been with Stacy, not for a lack of trying on her part. I told you, I don’t sleep around, Jen,” he responds and then wipes the sugar off my chin.

“But you hang with Royce and you have to admit that guy has had more ‘tang than an astronaut.” Casen bursts into laughter at my critique of his friend.

“Royce really isn’t that bad of a guy, but I’m nothing like him when it comes to women. You need to understand the difference between him and me. While Royce is looking for a girl for the night, I’m looking for a girl for the rest of my life.” I try to let his comparison sink in, but before I can respond, Casen gathers our trash and once again offers his hand to me. “Come on, I’ll take you back to your car. Thank you for hanging out with me tonight. I hope this means we’ve called a truce and can be friends.”

I don’t say anything. Instead, I smile and slide my hand into his. That’s all I need to show him. My hand tucked in his provides a sense of security that I never thought I could tolerate, let alone seek out. Just for a moment, I can feel those restraints unbuckle and my heart beats wildly at the idea of a relationship with Casen, but then my mind gains control again, and snaps those emotions back into place. The risk is too daunting.

Jen

Shit, shit, shit! I pride myself on my ability to be on time to appointments. Correction; I pride myself on the effort I put into trying to be on time to events. I’m usually late, but I try hard not to be. Tonight is no damn different. It’s only the third show in the tour and I, once again, have found arranging the “perfect” outfit to tease Casen has proven elusive and is now the cause for my tardiness.

Tonight is a bigger show in Colorado Springs with several bands performing throughout the evening. The venue is large, the crowd is supposed to be large, and the media attention leading up to it has been large. Being late is not good.

I manage to find a parking spot in the crowded lot behind the venue, which is filled with tour buses, roadies, and the inevitable groupies/fans who are loitering in the back section of the lot, waiting for their chance to “see” the bands.

Slamming my little Camry into park and grabbing my camera bag, I rush toward the back entrance for employees-only as quickly as my skirt and heels will allow. It’s not until I reach the security gate and the burly guard when I realize I don’t have my crew pass which will allow me on the lot behind the scenes. What a perfect cherry on top to my shit-evening-sundae.

“Sorry, I forgot my badge; do you have a list or something for approved personnel?” I ask as I approach the guard. He’s somewhat intimidating, more large than muscular, but bigger than me nonetheless. He has a bit of a haggard appearance with shaggy hair and a few days’ worth of facial hair growth. As I get closer I smell alcohol on him, which if the guys in the band or Campbell knew about, he would be tossed out on his ass quicker than Royce could charm the panties off one of the girls waiting at his bus.

“Sorry, honey. No badge, no entrance; those are the rules,” he replies as his eyes scan my body, probably appraising whether I’m someone of importance or just some well-dressed groupie. “But you know, with a little persuasion, I’ve been known to bend the rules a little,” he adds, moving closer to me and placing a hand on my ass.

I quickly bat his hand away. “Not interested, asshole. Do I look like the type who would fuck some random limp-dick roadie just for entrance into a small-time concert?”

His breath is warm and acidic, breathing heavily on me as he considers his next chess move. I don’t back down though, not from this fuckwad who thinks he can push me around. However, he surprises the hell out of me when he grabs my hand and places it on his dick.

“I think you look like a slut who’s pretending she wouldn’t fuck anyone who would get her want she wants. And, I would say, right now, you want entrance into this concert. I also think you’ll find there is nothing limp about this situation.”

His other hand once again finds my ass, squeezing and rubbing it so hard that I realize I’m outmatched and I need to back away from the situation. I move my hand away from his less than impressive area, rear my knee back as much as I can in his grasp, and kick him in the junk hard enough to double him over and cause blunt force trauma to his little swimmers.

“I said I wasn’t interested, dipshit,” I say, taking a step away from him as he catches his breath. I refuse to leave, if anything I’ll call one of the guys and have them meet me at the gate to let me in.

When he finally gathers his bearings, he stands and the look on his face sends an uncomfortable chill up my back; rage is radiating off of him. “You bitch,” he roars as he raises his hand and slams it across my face, sending me flying to the unforgiving asphalt. An explosion of pain spreads throughout my cheek and the ground rips open the skin on my knee. I feel the blood begin to drip down my leg.

I’m left on the ground, stunned. I’ve never been struck before and I don’t know how to respond. I don’t want to exacerbate the situation by verbally attacking him further, but I don’t want to run away and let this go as if I accept what he’s done as acceptable. I’m only on the ground for a few seconds, with no chance to make up my mind on my course of action, before he’s picking me up and pulling me by my hair toward a shadowed part of the gate.

I let out as much of a scream as I can muster, recognizing this might be my only chance to call for help. “Shut the fuck up,” he huffs, as he throws me against the fence, pinning me between it and his chest. His fingers are twisted into my hair, holding me in place, my battered face being scraped further by the metal of the fence.

“Please,” I plead. “Please stop.” I try to wiggle out of his grasp but he’s too strong. His acidic, beer breath is hot on my neck and it turns my stomach. I continue to struggle until I feel his free hand moving under my skirt ripping at my panties. My body tenses and panic overwhelms me.

“Women like you need to be taken down a few notches,” I hear him whisper “I plan on teaching you a fucking lesson.”

My brain begins to shut off to the present, making way for the images of the night that changed everything. It was an event I could never truly remember, but the scenes in the photographs are something I could never forget. They flood my head, taking over.

Before his hands can violate my body further, the weight forcing me against the fence is gone and I slide down until I’m sitting on the ground, huddled against the jagged metal, gripping onto it for safety.

My eyes are pinched shut, but somehow tears have managed to escape and are sliding down my face. I feel completely out of control as my body shakes with adrenaline, but still I refuse to release the safety of the chain-link. When I feel hands on my face and then smoothing through my hair, the sensation causes me to yell out and move closer to the fence, even though there is no possible way to get any closer without climbing it.