Xan can't make it. None of the guys can. Mr. and Mrs. Martinez, who I've now begun calling Mom and Papa on a regular basis, and Dr. Mac—Dad will be there. Shea will be there too.

I close my suitcase and look around the room, making sure I'm not forgetting anything. Dad walks in.

"You all set?"

I nod. "I think I have everything."

"If you don't, we can pick it up in LA," he reassures me.

I nod again, my hands twisting. I'm nervous. I'm so nervous. Not about receiving my award and scholarship, but about having so many of my paintings on display. It's like baring my soul to the world and that's scarier than I can remember ever being.

"Relax, Tera. Your work is so beautiful and they know it. They're hanging it in the DiMora Gallery, one of the most prominent galleries in the country. That right there should tell you how much they believe in you and your work. It's time you, my sweet girl, start believing in yourself too," he tells me.

I lean into his arms when he holds them out and welcome his warm embrace.

"I know. I do believe in myself but this is the big time, Dad. This isn't just some school or local event. This is a major showing. I can't help if I'm freaked out. How can I not be?" I explain.

"All right. We'll get through this. First, let's get to the airport and through the flight," Dad says with a groan. He isn't a fan of flying.

"I'll hold your hand on the flight if you hold mine," I offer.

He nods. "I think that's a perfect idea."

* * *

I don't know how to calm my nerves. I press my hand to my stomach like it's going to help. Nothing can help me. Not even the phone call from Xan and the guys I had five minutes ago. Not Dad, Mom, or Papa.

I just have to get through this.

I can do this. I got this far, right? Damn straight.

I blow out a breath. I really wish Xander were here with me. I miss my sweetness. One press of his hand to the small of my back and he anchors me. Just that simply. But he has his work and obligations and I understand. I really do. The guys have worked so hard to get where they are. I would never voice my disappointment to Xander, any of them, for that matter, to add to the guilt I'm sure they're already feeling. I don't expect or want them to feel guilty.

I twist my wedding rings on my finger as I wait for the ceremony to begin.

The DiMora Gallery. This is a dream. I see my parents chatting with Shea's parents across the room. I'm sure Shea's in the area where the sculptures are and I bet she's not nervous at all. She's full of confidence and self-esteem. She has no doubt when it comes to anything—including baring her artwork, her soul, to this ever-growing crowd tonight. I wish I could be like that. Maybe one day I will, but for now, it's all I can do not to puke all over the pristine white floor beneath my feet.

The entire gallery walls are stark white. Some walls are dark, with Goth-type art. Others are more black and white with framed photographs. Then there are the framed colorful photographs. Some of them aren't really in my taste, but others are so inspiring my fingers itch for my paintbrush.

My wall is white but it's filled with colorful abstract and non-abstract art. Some paintings of the ocean on a warm summer's day, families mulling about, enjoying their time together. Couples walking hand-in-hand in their own little world. The lone souls who walk, swim, or sunbathe by themselves. There are also paintings I created from memory or a photograph I'd seen somewhere that inspired me—much the way some of the gallery ones do. The countryside with the tall weeds, wild flowers, an old barn in the backdrop, a sunny day with a blue sky and a few random clouds. One day I'm going to find a place like that, where I can set up my easel or grab my pencils or charcoal and just lose myself.

"Mrs. Mackenzie?"

I turn to the feminine voice. "Yes?"

"I'd like to introduce myself. My name is Angelina Rafferty. I run the gallery for Mr. DiMora."

I shake her offered hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"You as well. It's nice to put a face to the name, or I should say the initials TR. Your work is incredible," she tells me.

I blush. I don't know what to say to that.

"We've already had offers on three of your pieces."

"Seriously?" I ask, my voice high-pitched. I blush again, but holy shit. This is exciting! Someone likes my work enough to buy it. I can't stop the grin from spreading across my face.

"Seriously. A few were interested to see if you would have more available. Do you think that's something you'd be comfortable doing? Putting more pieces in the gallery, possibly having a show of your own?" Angelina asks and my jaw drops.

"A show of my own? Whoa," I breathe. "I never imagined that to happen so quickly."

"Your work is beautiful. Your technique is unique. It adds an extra something to the images, to the colors. Your use of light and darkness is flawless. And if I remember correctly, you've had no formal instruction?" she asks.

I shake my head. "No. None. Just school. I've always loved to draw. Then I started with charcoal. Then painting, until I realized I liked oils much better than watercolors." I shrug. "I just fumbled my way through."

"Fumbled, indeed," a deeply masculine voice says.

Angelina smiles. "Tera Mackenzie, this is Dante DiMora, owner of the gallery. Mr. DiMora, this is the extremely talented, Tera Mackenzie."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Mr. DiMora greets.

I shake his hand and he merely holds mine in between both of his.

"You as well."

"Your work. It is exquisite."

"Thank you," I reply. I guess that's what I could've said to Angelina earlier.

"No, thank you for sharing your work with us. Tell me, do you have interest in showing other pieces? Would you be interested in putting some in the New York gallery?" he asks and my head is spinning. Is this really happening?

"I have a lot of completed canvases, but I don't know if they're worthy of being in a gallery. Some are very immature. Others were just for fun. I also have some darker work as well," I rattle off.

"We must see them. Yes?" he asks Angelina.

"Yes, definitely yes," she answers.

"You live near Chicago, yes?" he asks me.

"Yes."

"We can make a trip there, no?" he asks Angelina.

"Of course. I'll check the calendar. Tera—do you mind if I call you Tera?" Angelina prompts.

"No, of course not. I prefer it, actually," I admit. Though, being called Mrs. Mackenzie so often was making my insides all squishy and fluttery.

"Tera should be back to Chicago next week, so maybe the week after?" Angelina suggests. "I'll verify dates and make sure everything works for Tera, too."

"Perfect." He turns to me. "We believe in you, Tera Mackenzie. We'd like to represent your work, to feature it, to show the world your beautiful art."

"It would be an honor, Mr. DiMora." That's putting it mildly. Oh boy. It will be a dream come true.

"Please, call me Dante. We're not big on formalities here unless we don't like you. Then we keep the 'mister'." His smile is forced as he watches a man across the room. "And there is a perfect example. If you'll excuse me, please."

With that, he's striding away in his black suit, white button down shirt, and black and red striped tie. He is truly something to look at, now that my mind works with him so far away. All that dark wavy hair and those rich brown eyes. He would be lovely to paint.

"There's about ten minutes until the scholarship award ceremony begins. If you need to freshen up, feel free to do so."

"Thank you," I tell Angelina and make my way to the restroom. I go about my business and then as I'm washing my hands, I look at myself in the mirror. This is more than I could have ever dreamed of. I imagined school and then the struggle to get someone—anyone to show my work. I'm so blessed. I just… I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.

I dry my hands then touch up my lipstick. Shea's waiting outside the door.

"You're never going to believe what happened," she gushes.

"What?" I ask her, excited because she's excited.

"They want to show more of my work!" she whisper-screams.

"Mine too!" I tell her.

"Oh my God. This is just too much. I think I'm going to need to lie down. I don't know if I can handle this much goodness in one day. We never have this much goodness. What the hell is going on?" Shea asks.

I shrug. "I don't know but right now I don't care. I am still having trouble believing I'm not dreaming."

She pinches me.

"Ow!" I rub my arm. "You bully."

"What? Now you know you're not dreaming."

I scoff. "Please. You'd pinch me in my dream, too."

Shea grins mischievously. "I so would."

"Some best friend you are," I tease.

"Only the best ever!" she declares.

"True story. Let's go accept our awards and see what's in store for our future," I urge.

"Hold up. If we go to NYU, we won't be able to show many pieces here," she points out.

"True, but they do have a gallery in New York," I inform her.

"They mentioned that, but I kinda like LA."

"Are you seriously whining about this?" I ask, astonished.

"Well… no. I just wish we could go back and forth," she tells me.

I roll my eyes. "Be thankful for what we've got. We're so fucking lucky, Shea. I didn't imagine any of this until I was in my late twenties. But it's happening now."

She huffs. "You're right. Let's go."

* * *

They offered both me and Shea opportunities to show our work in the galleries not only in the US (which totaled to five) but also the two in Europe. How could we possibly say no to that? There's no way.

But, that put us at a crossroads. Take the business opportunity and not take the scholarship, or take the scholarship and give the galleries our finished products in a less aggressive manner. I needed to talk to Xander. He was right there when I called, cheering me on. His advice was to go to school part-time or, even, take a year off of school and see what happens. There's no way I can argue with that logic.

I don't want to end up burning out artistically, people tiring of my work, or just not fitting the trend anymore and not having an education to fall back on. I'm going to go to school part-time for business management. If my career takes off, I'm seriously gonna need it.

That's how I ended up the last one in the building. Angelina told me to go out the back. The door will automatically lock behind me. It sounded good to me since my car is right out there. It sounded good until I realized it was nearly one in the morning. It sounded good until I realized I was alone, in LA, at one in the morning, and I was scared.

Big cities this late… that makes me nervous.

I pause with the door cracked to listen, then peer around the door. No one's out here. I'm so silly. I get anxious like this in Chicago, too. Big city phobia, I suppose.

I quietly close the door behind me and walk swiftly to my car. I'm nearly there when I hear the laughter.

There's a group of people heading this way. I'm not sure by looking at them if they're my age, younger, or older. It's impossible to tell. They're dressed in regular street clothes, nothing special, nothing that sets off alarms for me.

"Miss," one of them calls out. I turn to look back. "You dropped your scarf." It's a male, a guy. I can't call him a boy because he looks older, but I don't think he's a man either.

"Oh, that isn't mine, but thank you," I reply.

"Whoa," he says. "Where is that accent from?"

They're walking closer. I have my pepper spray ready and I've already hit dial for a random contact. I hope they stay on the line and listen, whoever I got. Hopefully, it's one of my parents or Shea.

"I have an accent?" I ask, trying hard to be friendly even though my body is shaking. The closer they get, the less friendly they appear. The girls have dark makeup. I think every one of them has at least one facial piercing. The guys have tattoos—not that tattoos are bad. My brother and the band all have at least one. It's just a vibe from these—five, six, seven… from these seven that has my fight or flight instinct kicking in.

I unlock my door and just as I'm about to open it, one of the girls leans against it.

"You totally have an accent," she tells me.

"You're the first to ever tell me that. I'm from a Chicago suburb," I answer, hoping to keep the conversation friendly so they let me leave. I don't know these people and it's dark.

"Ah, the windy city," the same guy says. "Nice. I’ve been there once. Too fuckin' cold for me. I like the California heat."

I nod. "It's beautiful here. I could live here and never have a complaint."

"You should move here," the girl leaning on my car tells me.

I shrug. "I just might. You never know."

Another guy jerks his thumb at the gallery. "You an artist?"

"I paint. There was a showing tonight," I tell them. Why do I tell them that? Maybe that's a bad thing to tell them.

He nods, his head bobbing up and down. "I like to paint. I don't get to use a brush much. Supplies are expensive as fuck, so I've been doing graffiti art."

"Graffiti art? Spray paint?" I ask.

He nods again. "Yep. It's a fuckin' challenge, let me tell you."

"I admire your talent. I don't think I could make anything but a circle with a spray can," I snicker. It's fake, but they don't know that.

He smirks. "Yeah, it takes some getting used to. If you decide to move here, I could teach you if you want."

"That'd be great. I'd love to see your techniques and how you get the colors to blend into one another so perfectly," I exaggerate. Oh, please. Please, let me go home. I'm tired, my feet hurt, and I'm scared out of my mind.

"Cool," he replies, then goes to sit on one of the parking lot curbs. The girl follows and I breathe a sigh of relief.

"It was really nice meeting you," I tell them and reach for the driver's side door.

"Hold up," the first guy says. Let's call him Nose Ring. He has one of those that goes in the middle of your nose like the bull in the Bugs Bunny cartoon had. "How're you gonna contact him if you don't give him your number?"

I look over at graffiti guy. "I'm so sorry. I'm just exhausted and my mind isn't working. If you give me your number, I'll text you back and you'll have mine." Anything to get the fuck out of here. The panic is escalating and I'm nearly in a full blown panic attack.

"Yeah, here. I'll put it in for you," Nose Ring says.

I lift my phone and it's dark. "Well, shit. It looks like it died." Total lie. It's just an app I have since Xan and I have been talking a lot at night and the bright light hurts my eyes.

"That sucks," Graffiti guy says.

"I should get going. Tomorrow's going to be a really long day," I babble.

Nose Ring gets closer. "Yeah, I'd really like to let you go, but there's just one problem. We kinda need your help."

"Oh. What kind of help?" I wasn't expecting that. Now he's right next to me and another guy walks up next to him. I don't like the looks of this new one. He has eyes that look black and a smirk on his face that means he's up to no good.

"My pal here, he's getting initiated into the group."

I gulp.

Black Eyes stares.

I gulp again.

"And there are two ways you can help. You can either cooperate and do it the easy way or fight and do it the hard way," Nose Ring tells me.

"Do what, exactly?"

"He's going to fuck you."

I nearly faint. My vision is blurring as the panic totally engulfs me.

"He's what?" I ask.

"He's gonna fuck you. See, he needs to bang a random chick and you just happened along," Nose Ring informs me.

Shit. Oh, God. This is so bad. So, so bad.

"I don't think my husband would be okay with that, and honestly, I'm not that type of girl," I tell them truthfully.

"You're a little young to be married, aren't you?" another one of the girls asks. This one is fucking scary. Her hair is black as night and she's got a hardened look about her.

This is not going to end well. I know what's going to happen. I can't accept it. I can't.

"We waited until we both were eighteen," I answer.

"High school sweethearts?" she asks.

I nod. "Yes, but more like life-long sweethearts. We met when we were eight."

Why am I telling them this stuff? I'm stalling. Yes, that's good. Keep stalling.

"This is a great little romantic tale, but it's late so let's just get to it," Black Eyes says.

He grabs one arm and pulls me forward. I fall onto my knees when one of my heels breaks off, my purse falling along with my pepper spray and phone.

"Please don't," I say softly.

"I think I'm going to like your begging," Black Eyes tells me.

I close my eyes. No. Nonononononono. No!

I fight. He's too strong. Before long, he's lifting my dress and ripping my panties off while holding me down with his weight.

I beg. He laughs. Scary Chick laughs.

I know what's going to happen and it's going to be brutal.

I fight. He hits me.

I fight some more and he punches my face.

I fight harder, trying to kick my legs, trying to punch him. I manage to claw his face when he tries to subdue me. He lifts my head then slams it onto the asphalt. He does it again. I'm seeing stars. I can't breathe as my panic attack escalates into a place I've never been.

I struggle for breath. As I do, I feel myself drifting.

I fight again. Scary Chick kicks me in the side—again and again and again.

I don't stop fighting and Black Eyes punches me in the stomach, then the face again. I can't see out of my right eye and the swelling on the left is catching up quickly.

"Please, don't," I beg.

They laugh. They taunt and encourage him.

I can't breathe. I slip into a place of quiet so I don't have to feel it as he violates me. It hurts. Oh, God. I start to cry, then turn my head away from him. I want to vomit. He's purposefully hurting me, laughing.

That laugh.

All of them.

Laughing.

Laughing.

Laughing.

I allow myself to drift off and become numb. This is a place I've never been before, one I thought I'd end up having to go to when my dead mother's drug dealers tried to touch me. I escaped that, but I can't escape this.

Black Eyes slaps me across the face. I don't feel it. I feel nothing.

He doesn't like that so he slams my head against the asphalt again. The blood had been trickling before, but now I can feel it flowing faster and it's starting to pool under my neck.

He flips me over.

"No!" I scream. I scream and scream and scream until I can't breathe. He slams my face down onto the ground at the same time as Scary Chick kicks me again, stomping on my hand and my arm with her booted feet. The pain is so debilitating I can't even feel anything anymore.

Someone starts on the other hand and arm. Nothing.

I am nothing.

I am gone.

I have no body.

I'm not there.

I'm gone.

Black Eyes rages. He wants me to fight. Why? It does no good. I don't even acknowledge him. He slams my face onto the ground twice in rapid succession and I see the darkness at the edges of my vision.

It's closing in.

I'm almost completely gone.

One more kick.

I am no longer me.

Punches to my back, my arms, my face, my legs—everywhere.

I will never be me again.