Chapter 5 #2
I barely manage to grab the paperweight from the edge of the table when he kicks me straight in the balls.
The padding at my crotch slightly softens the blow, and a scuffle ensues as I drop to my knees.
Between the choreographed blows, Aiden works his way behind me.
On top of me. His groin brushes up against my ass.
It’s not David Rishton.
It’s not David Rishton.
Pins and needles dance all over my body.
My heart attempts to burst out of my chest with each successive beat, while I try desperately to fight off the intrusive images flashing in my head.
To file them away in the back of my mind, where they’ve stayed buried along with everything else.
But it’s no use. My mind disassociates, and all I can see in that moment is Aiden on top of me.
But it’s no longer Aiden, it’s David. Thrusting himself on me as I kneel frozen.
Helpless.
Powerless.
All I can do is escape from the moment and hope it will be over soon.
Alfonso, crouched on his knees, shakes me vigorously as I finally come back into my body and I catch the look of fear on Aiden’s face. As I look around, the cameraman, lighting woman, and first assistant director all are staring at me.
“Al. Al,” Alfonso says as my gaze finally locks with his. “What happened? We almost had the take.”
His grip loosens on my shoulder as I try to pull myself up, but there’s no energy left in me. Out of the corner of my eye I see Aiden again and I quickly turn away.
“I don’t feel safe,” I whisper.
“What do you mean?” Alfonso leans in, his elbows resting on his knees.
“I’m not sure I can do the scene.”
Tears start to fall from my eyes. They come slowly at first, then the floodgates open. The shadow cast by the light behind Aiden grows bigger. His footsteps become louder.
“I’m sorry, Alex,” he says, reaching for my shoulder.
My whole body jolts.
A piercing scream erupts from my mouth. “Get him away from me!”
Rob bursts through the door, the same way he did in the hotel room when I was sixteen.
“Everybody back off.” Rob’s tone is forceful, and everyone immediately steps aside.
Something instinctive in him kicks in. Rob scoops me up, one arm under my legs and the other holding my back. My limbs are limp like a rag doll as he carries me off set and back to the trailer.
Thank God, Johnny had managed to drop off some beers to my hotel room. Even if they are lukewarm, they might help stop the tremors in my body. It’s been three hours since I left the film set, but I’m still having a visceral reaction. Like aftershocks following an earthquake.
I reach for the third beer, using the corner of the bedside table to whack off the crown cap, and settle back into the bed.
Thankfully, Rob had spoken to Alfonso and let them know that I wouldn’t be returning tonight under any circumstances.
Paul called several times on the drive back, eventually calling Rob to get a hold of me.
He wanted to talk—not out of concern for me—but because Alfonso had called him, worried about what my absence would mean to production costs.
Apparently, this delay to the film, which was already at the top end of its budget before Paul requested a leave of absence to do the Brewed commercial, will push it into the contingency costs, leaving little to no room for any other unforeseen circumstances.
I’m glad to see my well-being is at the top of your priorities, I had snapped at him. My outburst was met by an eerie silence, compounding my longing for a nurturing bond that has rarely, if ever, been there.
Surprisingly, Paul didn’t push back when I informed him the only way I’d be able to do the scene was if we picked up from the fight scene. And that they had to rechoreograph it so Aiden didn’t come on top of me from behind. And even then, they might need to use my stunt double.
Paul’s quick agreement left a bitter taste in my mouth.
It was exactly like this eight years ago when they dealt with David.
No one ever stopped to find out what had actually happened.
Instead, they’d assumed I was an insubordinate teenager, angry at David for pushing me too hard.
David had managed to cover himself when Rob burst in, making his story an easier thing to believe.
No one wanted to explore the uncomfortable truth: David, my dad’s friend, was a pedophile, and they had left me with him unattended.
My shame was compounded with anger by everyone’s lack of follow up once David was removed.
And my fear of his threat to expose me if I ever told anyone was enough to keep me silent.
I lean further back into the bed, gulp the beer down without breathing, and flick through the channels on the TV Max app, wanting to escape with an old episode of Game of Thrones.
I get lost in the show as I reach for the fourth and final beer.
The fantasy world offers a brief respite from the nightmare in mine.
One of the characters brings a knife down on someone’s head, a move I’d love to perform on more than one person right now, if I could get away with it.
As the episode ends, I look over at the bedside table and notice a third missed call from Paul, alongside two text messages. I’m tempted to leave it. Paul is likely to be pestering me about something that can wait until the morning, but another message pops up on the screen.
Betty.
What the actual? I stare at Christopher’s nickname.
I can’t hold the phone up to my face to unlock it quickly enough.
Ten weeks. Ten weeks to the day, I’ve been waiting to get a response. My hands shake as the message finally appears.
Betty
Did you demand that I be put on the Brewed shoot?