Chapter Six #3
your little Sammy. I'm fucking eighteen, and I haven't seen you since I was a
kid. I asked for your help, and I'm already fucking
regretting it," I say slowly and carefully.
There are a few moments of
silence while we both regroup. Despite my words, I do as he's asked
and try to calm myself.
"I've just spoken to a few
low level people. I'm waiting on the police reports and some other
confidential documents I've gotten wind of," he begins.
"Do you think I needed to
call you to talk
to some low level people?"
I say patronizingly.
"You know what,
Sam, I think I know what
I'm doing here, so why don't you just relax." Now he's the one
losing his cool, and I'm sure his infamous temper isn't far away.
The real monster only ever came out with the coaxing of alcohol,
but that doesn't mean he couldn't be a real dick without it, even
if he didn't put his hands on us.
I stay carefully silent,
certain that anything I might say would be counterproductive at
this point, especially since it's on the tip of my tongue to tell
him to fuck himself and figure out a Plan B. But I don't actually
have a Plan B, and so I wait with practiced false patience while he
continues.
"I'll speak to the higher
ups after I've reviewed all of the evidence myself. From both
cases. But sometimes the people on the ground have access to
information that doesn't make its way into the files or up the
professional food chain," he explains.
It makes sense, what he's
saying, but I won't concede the point, I just continue to stay
silent.
"I'm just asking how well
you know this Rory girl. Because I know what she accused the Forbes kid of, and
I know what you saw in Miami. But we have to consider that the
truth of one doesn't necessarily prove the truth of the other.
Because there are a hell of a lot of people down there who are
convinced she made the whole thing up. That it was her way of
getting revenge after he ended their relationship. And I know it's
hard to hear, but it isn't unheard of—girl's crying
rape—"
I did my best, but it's
all I can listen to. "She didn't cry anything. The
motherfucking bastard abused her for months, raped
her, for months!
He tried to strangle her, cut her open with his
motherfucking house key, I've seen the fucking scar. His bullshit
rumor that you're repeating right now—it's the reason he was free
to come after her again in Miami. I won't let it happen again.
I can't. She's
telling the truth. Every word. You don't know her. I do. So don't
believe her. Believe me."
I'm breathing hard, every
muscle in my body tense with barely contained rage. It's hard
enough to listen to someone repeat this bullshit about Rory, to
have a fresh view of exactly how that piece of shit got away with
it the first time. How easily people believe the lies. But to
listen to my own father doubt her? And Mitch fucking Caplan—an
abusive bastard himself—with the gall to question her word after
everything she's already suffered? It's about all I can fucking
take right now.
"I think we both know how
easy it is to spin stories to hide abuse." I keep my tone low and
even. And though I know he hears the accusation, I won't make this
about us. It's not about us. "She's suffered enough. I won't have
you questioning her."
I end the call and slam my
thumb into the power button and shut the damn thing off. I'm done
with this conversation. With any conversation right now. My head
hangs to my chest and I catch my temples between my thumb and
middle finger and try to rub out the stress pooling
there.
Fuck. This is bad. That
couldn't have gone worse, and I still need him. I need him to
believe her. I need him to believe me. I don't know how to protect her
without his help. I take several deep, calming breaths. I'm going
to have to call him back at some point and fix it, I know that. But
I've got a couple of weeks before I'm meant to meet him in his
office, so I'll just let him stew for now.
And then I hear a sound
that cracks open my chest and freezes my heart.
"Stop," Rory's faint voice
murmurs, and I burst back through the door, frantic. For a moment I
actually believed she could be under attack. She's not of course,
she's just dreaming, but that doesn't mean she's not living that
exact terrifying scenario inside her subconscious.
I'm at her side in an
instant, and I'm gutted by the sight in front of me. Her face is
scrunched up in fear, her forearm held over it in a defensive
motion. The rest of her is curled up in a fetal position, and she's
still in a deep sleep.
"No," she squeaks, and in
a split second I'm on the bed, rubbing her back, and brushing the
hair from her face.
"I'm here, baby girl. He
can't hurt you. I promise, he can't hurt you," I swear to her over
and over. Part of me wishes my father could see this, could see
what that motherfucking bastard has done to
her. Let him witness the symptoms of her very real PTSD and tell me
she made it all up. But Rory would never want that, and truthfully,
neither would I.
"I've got you. I won't let
anyone hurt you. Ever again. I fucking swear to God, baby girl.
You're safe. Just sleep," I plead.
The more I comfort and
whisper to her, the more she relaxes back into a peaceful sleep. I
watch, riveted, as the lines in her forehead smooth out, her
muscles relax, and that sweet serenity sweeps over her
features.
"That's it, Ror, just
sleep," I encourage her.
I watch her body settle,
and then freeze as her fingers skim over my tee shirt, and then
clutch the back of it, holding herself against me. Her breathing
evens out, and I know her nightmare has been chased off.
I feel a heady swell of
pride. I did
that. I saved her from that motherfucking
bastard, even in her dream, and I'm
overcome with a vague sense of that god-like feeling only she can
elicit in me. God, there's no greater gift than when she lets me help her, in
whatever way she allows.
Rory bends her knee,
sliding it over my thigh, and I let her weight shift me onto my
back so she can get into whatever position she finds comfortable.
I'm not complaining that that position happens to lead to her thigh
hooked over my hip, her cheek pressed into my chest like a pillow,
and her arm draped over my abdomen.
She stills again and I
sigh at the sweet torture of it. It's heaven, holding her like
this, but my attraction to her is barely controllable when she's
just near me, or even in my thoughts. Now, laying like this, with a
certain part of my body lined up so close to it's favorite part of hers, I'm
finding the intensity of my arousal almost painful, and no amount
of distracting thoughts seems to help.
Last night's Knicks game,
spring training stats, even my Grandma Lena… they don't stay center
stage for more than a few moments each. Instead, I feel every
square inch of where our bodies align against each other, feel the
heat of her skin even through the cotton of her
clothing.
Images force their way
through my mind. Memories. Rory's innocent curiosity at her own
desire. The sweet mortification and the blush that crept over her
entire naked body when I'd realized how inexperienced she was with
actual pleasure. The honor and humility I felt when I understood
the opportunity in front of me. That even though
that motherfucking bastard had stolen her virginity, I could still be the one to give
her that very significant first.
I see it happen all over
again in my head. The first time I watched her come. I was fucking
mesmerized. It wasn't the first time I got a girl off, not by a
long-shot, but it was the first time I cared like that. It was
always tit for tat before. I enjoyed it, don't get me wrong, it's a
proud feeling—good for the ego and a major turn-on, but that wasn't
the motivation for it. More like a happy side effect on the way to
getting what I wanted, which was my own pleasure.
But with Rory… it was
something different. A transcendent experience in its own right.
Feeling her body pulse and contract around my fingers, against my
tongue. And God,
the fucking taste of her. Seeing her body flush, seized by
mind-numbing pleasure, and the look on her face—a heady mix of
shock and pure bliss. And her cries. Those fucking whimpers. And
hearing my name in that lust-coated tone of hers.
Fuck, she's ruined me
for good.
These insuppressible
memories aren't helping my current situation. I'm quite sure the
bulge in my jeans has never been this stiff and swollen in my life.
And that's saying something for an eighteen year old guy. If all
goes as planned and Rory gets a good, long nap in, it will be hours
before I can get home and relieve some of my own
tension.
Rory snuggles into me even
more, her soft breasts pressed into my side and chest, and I groan
to myself at the heavenly torment. At least I'll have some new
fantasy material for later.
I listen to the sound of
her breathing, feel the warmth of each exhale through the thin
cotton of my tee shirt. I slowly slip my fingers into her hair,
lightly stroking them through the soft, loose locks, brushing them
off of her face. My other arm slides around her back, holding her
in the position she's unconsciously chosen, and I sigh. I've
dreamed of getting her back in my arms countless times, but never
like this, and it's bittersweet. Because she's here by default, not
by choice, and I know it's only temporary.
"I love you," I whisper,
only because I know she's a world away, and I let my own eyes fall
closed, and drift off, longing to join her.