Chapter Eight
Idon’t make it to the end of the corridor before I’m grabbed. I yank my hand away. “I don’t need lecturing or coddling…” Or whatever else Dax thinks I require, but it’s Ben who reaches for me again.
“Trust me, Jules. You need this,” he says cryptically and holds onto my hand, pulling me down the corridor in the other direction, deeper into Aiden’s territory out here under the garage.
I errantly wonder how Ben always seems to read my mind and then realise I must have said something out loud again.
“Where are we going?”
“To let out what you’re trying to bottle up.”
My phone is in my pocket, and though I don’t really know him, I trust Ben not to push me into the back of a car and deliver me to Franz, so I follow.
The corridors are like venous threads down here under the ground, and although they labelled the mansion the compound, I strongly suspect this unseen portion of the manse is why it really earned the title.
Ben swings open a pair of double doors that look much like many of the others we’ve passed and points to a huge, cushioned mat in the middle of what seems to be a gym.
The acrid tang of bleach hits my nose, and my stomach clenches before I can even understand why.
I force myself to relax and breathe in again to find that the bleach is quickly overpowered by the scent of lemon.
Ben detours to a wall of lockers and shelved racks and reaches for a box labelled ‘small.’ From there he extracts a pair of modestly padded mitts and throws them in my direction.
“I’m not sure I’ll get used to the dark hair, Honeybee. It’s like I’m talking to a stranger. Here, put these on.”
Next, he grabs two large punching pads that trainers use with their boxers and slides his hands through the straps.
He comes to stand a foot in front of me, widening his stance so that his feet rest a shoulder’s width apart.
Bouncing experimentally on his toes a couple of times, he lifts his head in a weird bro-nod and commands, “Hit me.”
I laugh. The sound is bitter and laced with embarrassment and confusion.
“What?” I ask. “Why?”
“Just hit me.” He claps the pads together and bounces again. “Aim for dead centre and just swing.”
“I’m not going to hit —”
“Fucking do it, Jules. Hit me. Or are you all mouth?” he sneers.
His complete reversal in attitude has me faltering back a step, but that small stumble only seems to spur him on.
“Fucking coward! You’re up there shouting your mouth like some brave bitch, but down here you act all demure?
Like butter wouldn’t melt? Which is the lie, Jules? ”
“Fuck you,” I spit, but I’m reeling from the ferocity of the words and the icy blue of his eyes as they try to freeze me in their contempt.
“No, fuck you, Jules. I mean, that’s what they’ll do at Hanson’s, right? They’ll line up to fuck you, pretty girl. Franz’s plaything. That loser, Gresh, will be front and centre. Perhaps your stepfather will too, huh?”
I shake my head. My heart pounds erratically in my chest. “Why are you saying this?” I thought we’d moved through the distrust. Okay, so we weren’t friends exactly, but Ben had proven himself to be on my side…hadn’t he? Did I make a mistake by trusting him?
“You’re already theirs anyway, right? Whore.
Addict. Dead girl walking.” He throws the words at me like weapons, each landing a perfect blow.
They are truths after all. He isn’t saying anything I didn’t already believe.
Still, hearing him say them aloud, words I barely whispered to myself in the darkest moments, only serves to piss me off as much as they hurt me.
“FUCK YOU, BEN!”
“And that little sister of yours…”
Something snaps the instant he mentions Casey. Something already broken and sharp. A thing I’ve been trying to hold together since seeing Franz in my home…in my room with Casey’s things.
“SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!” I scream, launching myself across the sprung rubber mat. I swing indiscriminately, shouting at him with every punch I throw and not at those stupid gloves, but at places that will hurt. Places that will bring him down.
He’s fast. With every hit he blocks, my anger grows. My rage is like a hurricane of fire. Everything burns, my blood boils, my skin sears, I see nothing but red.
“No one will touch her!”
The gloves are too soft; the honeycomb rubber grips aren’t letting me grab.
I tear the gloves off and dive for his clothes to get a hold of him.
The wiry little shit keeps dodging, but I grip his waist, his shirt coming untucked, and pull at him as I swing my knee into the back of his and knock him down to the ground.
“None of you fuckers will even look at her.”
He rolls away before I can kick him, but I’m already on him, punching, slapping, and reaching for his hair.
“Fuck you! Fuck the lot of you!” I scream.
His hands come up to protect his face, but I don’t stop hitting him. Clawing at him to get to his eyes.
“I’m a fucking person! I have rights!”
To get me away from his face, he releases his protective stance and wraps his arms around my waist in a crushing vice grip.
He throws his weight onto me. My back slams onto the mat.
A ragged breath heaves, but I can’t tell if it’s his or mine.
Rolling me over, he uses his mass to pin me to the floor, thrusting his knee into my back to hold me still.
The heaviness—that pressing weight—is the hair-trigger that sinks me from the red and into blackness.
I know this. Forced submission. Held down. The punches come next. Jabs to my sides and my kidneys.
Breathe.
Fingers in my hair to shake my head, to hold it to the side, to spit in my face, to suffocate my nose and mouth. I’ve been in this position before.
Breathe.
I’ll survive this.
Breathe.
I always survive, just a little more broken than the last time.
I don’t want to be broken anymore. I haven’t got enough pieces left to put back together. There are holes now, aching chasms. Parts of me are lost forever. I don’t want that.
Breathe, Jules.
No. Fight back. Never let him hurt you again.
I slide my right leg up and use it to buck us both upward. I turn and shove. He stays with me, swirling around me like a ghost. The sharp tang of sweat sinks me deeper into the dark. My voice is small but determined. “No more, Dad!”
He grabs my wrist, pulling me back into him. I yank back. Pain explodes in my palm, and my wrist lets out an almighty pop.
I kick out, lifting my knee into his groin.
The distraction is enough to free my arms from his grip, so I slam my hand up and into his neck.
He blocks most of the force but pulls back too.
I curl my body and roll away before he can get me again.
I won’t let him get me again. I’ve got all the bruises he’ll ever give me. I can’t take any more…
“I’ll fucking die rather than let you,” I yell through thick sobs.
Get away. Don’t let him hurt you again. No more. No more, Dad…no more…I’ve got to stop him…I’ve got to stop them all. They can’t have me…I can’t let them get Casey…
If they hurt her…If they touch her…
“I’ll fucking kill you all first! I’ll kill you all!
” I dive at him again, but he’s faster than I remember.
When did Dad get so fast? Arms pin mine to my sides.
I struggle, but I can’t break his hold. My arse hits the mat with a thud that ricochets up my spine.
Limbs snake around me, tighter. Legs wrap my waist and secure my thighs to the floor.
I can’t get free. I can’t…I can’t breathe…
I can’t…
“Jules! Breathe, damn it! Come on, pretty girl, come back to me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I’ve got you. Shhh. You’re safe. You’re at the compound and you’re safe.”
I’m rocked like a child.
Mum?
Mum hasn’t hugged me in forever.
Not mum.
“Come on, sweetheart. You’re okay now. I’ve got you. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe; you know me, Jules. It’s Ben. Mouse. I’d never hurt you.”
“Ben?”
“Oh, thank you, God.” He loosens his hold, but the instant he does my body is wracked with shivers. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got you.”
“What…? Where’s Dad? Did I get him? Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s fine. They’re safe, remember? They’re with Carlo and your mum. They got away. They’re safe.”
A memory flashes. They were in the car, Aiden driving them to their new life. Then everything else sinks in, like reality falling through the gauze of fakery that my mind conjured up. As the truth sinks in, so do the facts.
I’m at the Trevainne compound.
I confronted Mr Trainor.
I’m with Ben at the gym.
Something bad just happened.
Ben unravels himself from me. I watch, alarmed at just how pinned I am by his entire body.
When I’m free, I try to scoot away from him, but my bones are like jelly.
I barely get a couple of inches before he wraps around me again, but this time, his embrace is softer, comforting, rather than restrictive.
I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my head against Ben’s shoulder.
I can’t remember much of how I got into this position. Only Ben pulling out gloves and expecting me to fight him. What happened? What have I done now?
Ben feels like a furnace compared to the damp chill that settles across my skin.
I let his heat warm me and listen to his deep, exaggerated breaths that force both our bodies to undulate in a shared rhythm.
Eventually, the movement becomes natural as our breaths synchronise, and the shivers subside.
“I need to get you a drink or something. I think you’re experiencing shock. Are you okay if I leave you for two seconds? The kitchen is just across the way. I’ll be back so damn fast…”
“I’m okay.”