Page 2 of Faking the Goal

After the assault—after the thing that wasn't supposed to happen but did anyway—Zach helped me file for a restraining order against Kirk. He was the only one who believed me from the start, the only one who saw through the charming, golden-boy image my ex had built during his years at Ridgewater U.

Everyone else dismissed me. Dismissed my fears. Dismissed my pleas for help.

Because who were they going to believe?

The beloved former student who volunteered, smiled for the cameras, and knew exactly what to say?

Or the girl with a reputation for sleeping around like there was a loyalty program and I was one hookup away from a free toaster?

Thank God, that's all history now.

The restraining order actually worked. Kirk has kept his distance since he was served with it last week. No calls. No texts. No conveniently showing up somewhere I happen to be and pretending it's a coincidence. As far as I know, he's finally gotten the message and moved the fuck on.

I should feel safe.

And most of the time, I do.

Apparently my brain didn't get the memo.

It's still stuck on that day, replaying the attack whenever it damn well pleases, except in my dreams it never ends the way it actually did. Kirk doesn't stop. Nobody gets to me in time. His hands stay around my throat until everything goes black.

The nightmares started not long after the attack and have been showing up ever since, always some variation of the same horrible shit. And once one wakes me up, that's it. Sleep is fucking over.

Doesn't matter if it's midnight or, apparently, two-oh-fucking-one in the morning.

I can lie there with my eyes closed and tell myself I'm safe until sunrise, but my body never believes me enough to actually fall asleep again.

Which is probably the most annoying part.

Kirk gets legally ordered out of my life, and somehow the asshole is still fucking with my sleep schedule.

I crawl back into bed, phone clutched in one hand and the glass of water in the other. For a second, I consider calling someone. Just to hear another voice for a while. To tell someone I had the nightmare again and I can't fucking sleep.

Then I remember I have no one.

Not really.

I know plenty of people. People to grab drinks with. People to fill a table at a party. People who know my name.

But nobody I'd trust with my fear.

Nobody I'd call at two in the morning just to say, Hey, I'm having a shitty night. Can you stay on the phone with me for a little while?

The thought settles heavily in my chest, making the apartment feel even smaller. I put the glass on my nightstand and sink back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling as I wait for exhaustion to drag me under again.

Five minutes pass.

Then ten.

Nothing.

"Ugh, fuck me."

I already know how this goes. Once one of those nightmares wakes me up, my brain apparently decides sleep is canceled for the remainder of the night. And unfortunately, I know one particularly effective tranquilizer for shutting the damn thing off.

Sex.

I groan and cover my face with both hands.