Until he asked if I had a boyfriend. Even that was a question I’d been asked before, so it didn’t seem weird. At first. It only started feeling off when I told him I didn’t have one.
“I don’t believe that,” he scoffed, nudging me on the shoulder where I stood beside him drying dishes after he washed them. “Not with that body. I bet all the boys’ pants get tight when you’re around.”
Yeah, my comfort level went from acceptable straight to zero at that point. Not that that was going to dissuade Creepy McCreepster.
“I mean, if I was a boy in your grade, I wouldn’t get a single thing done. I’d be too busy staring at those huge tits of yours.”
I dropped the plate I’d been drying back into the sudsy water and stepped away, but he must have been watching me closely because he seemed to anticipate my move.
He let go of the cup he’d been lackadaisically washing, caught me around the waist, and shoved me up against the counter with his body.
I opened my mouth to scream for my parents, but he quickly covered it with his soapy hand. And then came the oft-repeated threat that would keep me in check for the next three years.
“Yell and I’ll fire your father like that.” He snapped the fingers of his other hand. His cajoling voice was gone, replaced by one filled with malice.
“You want me to be your friend, not your enemy.” He moved his wet, soapy hand to my breast, leaving what I knew would be a big wet handprint on the gauzy fabric when he pulled it away.
Which was a pattern, I’d find out later. He liked marking things. That turned out to be a blessing of sorts. Because he always needed the show of power, or, I don’t know fucking why, he always wanted to see his release crudely painting my body.
He never penetrated me. It was just a lot of groping and then disgusting cleanup for me. On my face. My breasts. My ass. Then when he left, the showers that turned my skin lobster red until the hot water was gone.
And I put up with it. The thousands of justifications. It wasn’t actually rape. If he ever tried to go that far, I’d scream, fight, and put a stop to it.
My dad’s job was everything to him. And Mom. The money. Our lifestyle. Dad’s reputation in the community. I couldn’t be the one to pull the tablecloth out from underneath the house of cards.
Besides, if I ever told, Mr. McIntyre always said it would be my word against his—some stupid teenager against one of the most powerful men in the town. Who would people believe? Even if I did say something, could I really drag my family through that?
At the time, the answer was no. I didn’t believe I was worth all the bother.
But now?
Fuck that shit.
I know I am fucking worth it.
I always was.
And that child-molesting bastard who has the gall to stand there smiling by my dad? Well he’s one monster who doesn’t get to get away with it.
Except… bitch shit cunt fuck cakes. I can’t. Not right now, at least.
I’m trying to be the girl who thinks before just making impulsive decisions. If there’s one thing I know about Jackson Vale, it’s that he’s protective. What would he do to McIntyre if he found out about the abuse right here, right now, with the bastard sitting in front of him?
I certainly don’t want to protect my abuser. God knows I’d relish watching any beat down Jackson could give him. But how far would he go? And there are witnesses. I glance between my mom and dad. Even if they side with Jackson and me—
And are you so sure they would?
I ignore the insidious voice. I don’t want Jackson getting in trouble and I wouldn’t want my parents to have to perjure themselves if it came to it. After everything Jackson’s done for me? I won’t draw him into this bullshit. But that doesn’t mean I have to suck it up either and force myself to sit through a meal across the table from my fucking abuser.
I go up on tiptoes and whisper in Jackson’s ear, “I need to go chat with my mom for a second. I’ll be right back.”
When I pull back, I can see Jackson’s more than just confused. He’s concerned. He’s always been too perceptive, damn him. I give him a gentle smile and squeeze his arm, then I turn away without giving him any more time to tease out what might be the matter.
I cross the dining room to where my mom is setting down the roast she started earlier in the day.
“Mom, can I talk to you about something in the kitchen?”
Her eyebrows narrow. “We need to sit down to eat. I’ve timed everything precisely so that it will all be the perfect temperature.”
Time to change tactics. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I saw a dish still warming in the oven that we forgot to take out.”
Before she can look out over the table to find the fictional dish I’m speaking of, I grab her arm and usher her back into the kitchen. As soon as the door shuts behind us, I start talking. “I need you to send Mr. McIntyre away. He sexually abused me for three years and I can’t stand to be in the same room as him.”
Mom’s face blanches. She opens her mouth and then shuts it again, so I keep talking.
“On the nights he’d come over to eat, after you and Dad went to bed, he’d come to my room.” Once I start, words spill out one after the other in a torrent I can’t seem to stop. “He’d touch me, expose himself...” A shudder wracks my body. “…and other things.”
There’s a short moment of silence and then Mom’s back straightens. I take a step forward, hoping for once she’ll just take me in her arms and hold me. Unexpected tears spring in my eyes. The release of finally having told… it’s so unexpected. After all these years, to finally tell Mom, I can’t even—
She steps forward and I go to hug her. I just want to feel her arms around me and hear her telling me everything will be all right.
Instead, she grabs my upper arm in a bruising grip and jerks me to the other side of the kitchen island furthest from the door to the dining room. I stumble after her, wincing at the pain of her talon-like fingers on my arm.
“How dare you come back in this house and spit on our generosity with your filthy lies?”
I yank backward out of her grasp and stumble into the counter. What? No, this isn’t how this is supposed to go.
The door to the dining room opens and Shannon slides in. “Is everything okay in here? Anything I can help with?”
“Get out of here,” Mom snaps, voice icy.
Shannon doesn’t obey, though. Her eyes shoot to me.
I can only stare at my mother, though. “It’s true,” I defend obstinately, my voice thin and oddly pitched.
“He sexually abused me for three years. He told me that he’d fire Dad if I ever told anyone. That’s why I never said anything. But I’m done with that. I was just a child and he’s a monster who preyed on me. Here. Under this roof.” I gesture at the house around us.
Mom’s face goes red. “Do you think we haven’t found out about where you worked while you lived under this roof? Your friend Marcy started forwarding your mail here when she moved out of state for college.”
Mom comes closer, eyebrows narrowed in fury. “I guess you used her address for that job you were rightly too ashamed for us to know about. But we received a tax statement from Hooters,” her face twists in disgust at the name, “and it about killed your father to realize his daughter had been whoring herself out for what? Tips? Then the next thing we know you’re prostituting yourself out to your professors and carrying one’s bastard!”
She lowers her voice. “Do you realize how that makes us look? We worked hard to raise you as a beautiful, elegant girl and this is the thanks we get?”
I barely hear the last bit, because did she just say what I think she fucking said? I get right in her face, feeling like the vein in my forehead is going to explode, I’m so pissed.
“Don’t you call my son a bastard ever again.” I poke a finger hard into her sternum. “And if you were really a good mother, you’d believe me when I tell you that a pervert molested m
e from the age of sixteen to nineteen.”
I shake my head at her in disbelief at the way she’s responding. “You had to have noticed how I changed. Became more withdrawn. Stopped hanging out with my friends so much except for the nights he came over, when I would do anything to get out of the house. Except that you and Dad started forcing me to stay home those nights. Do you remember? Let me guess, that was at the request of Mr. McIntyre?”
Mom sputters. “You were a moody teenager. Besides, those were family dinners. You know your dad was trying to make Branch Manager. Bill is big on family values, so that’s what we needed to show him.”
Bill. Ugh. Even now, my mom speaks so cozily of my abuser.
I shake my head at her in astonishment. “It isn’t that you don’t see it, is it? It’s that you won’t.” Again, my feet move me away from my mother. The woman who was supposed to love, watch over, and protect me. “You’ll keep refusing to see how Mr. McIntyre always brought over that’s special Kentucky bourbon—”
“He was just being polite,” Mom breaks in. “That’s the custom where he grew up.
“And was it custom to insist that you and Dad have two glasses while he barely drank any? What about the fact that he encouraged you to go to bed while he hung around afterward with your teenage daughter? That didn’t strike anyone as strange? God,” I laugh bitterly, “he barely even bother to be covert about the way he looked at me after the first year.” I shake my head some more, my insides twisting like a pit of serpents.
How could a mother—?
For a split second, Charlie’s face comes to mind.
That does it.
I lurch for the trashcan under the sink right in time to empty the contents of my stomach into it. Just the idea of Charlie ever encountering a monster like McIntyre has me heaving a second time until I’m coughing and sputtering, nothing left.
And no, I’m not pregnant or anything. I got my period during the week, it just finished up yesterday. There’s just this much barf-worthy shit going on in my life and I’ve always had a low threshold hurl hair-trigger.
A soothing hand starts rubbing my back.
Mom—? Does she finally believe?
When I turn my head, I see Shannon instead. She’s running water in the sink and the next second, she hands me a wet paper towel. I take it gratefully, meeting her eyes for a quick second. She’s crying, tears running in streams down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” Shannon says. “I didn’t know.” Her voice breaks on the last word and more tears escape.
She believes me.
I nod over and over, my eyes watering as I wipe my mouth with the wet cloth she gave me. Shan takes my arm and helps me stand back up, which is good because I feel unsteady on my feet. I hate the way throwing up makes me feel like I’ve just been run over by a truck.
I don’t have much more fight in me. I just want to go lay down somewhere for a long, long time.
The door opens and this time it’s Jackson. His face goes from curious to alarmed in zero point two seconds when he sees me no doubt looking pale as hell, propped up by Shannon.
“What’s happened?” he demands, voice clipped.
“It’s nothing,” my mother says, at the same time Shannon says, “Callie was just sick.”
But Shannon doesn’t stop there. “That man.” Tears clog her voice. “He abused my sister for years. And none of us knew. None of us saw.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach for the I don’t know what time tonight. It happens fast. I see the words register. Utter rage fills Jackson’s face. Killing rage. Oh fuck. Just what I was trying to avoid.
I launch myself at Jackson. My legs still aren’t very steady, so it’s not graceful. Jackson was turning toward the door to the dining room, but he has quick reflexes and catches me when I stumble into him.
That embrace I was looking for earlier from my mother? Jackson gives it to me a hundred fold. He wraps me so tight to his chest, I doubt there’s a centimeter of space anywhere between us, collarbone to belly button.
And then his arms. So strong, they curl around my back, one of his huge hands cupping the back of my head until I feel so enveloped, so safe, that for the first time in half an hour, I feel like I might make it out of this night intact.
I know, I know. I’m supposed to be a strong woman. I can make it on my own and all that, blah, blah, blah. And I’m sure I could have and would have. I’d scrape myself up from this blow just like I have every other hit that’s knocked me down in life.
But it sure is so much goddamn easier when you have a partner.
Partner. Holy shit. I never even let myself go there in my head before. But it’s true. I want Jackson as my partner. Like, in life. Does that mean that I…? That I lov—?
I jerk out of the hug. “Get me out of here,” I whisper to him. I’m not able to let go of him completely, no matter how freaked out I am by the realization I’d just had. I’m still holding onto the front lapels of his suit coat and I don’t care how desperate I look. It’s only half of the desperation I feel inside. This night. Too much. It’s all too much. No wonder I’m having crazy thoughts.
Jackson doesn’t say anything and while his face is still mottled with fury, there’s also immense pain knitted on his features. Because of me.
Because you’re poison to everything you touch. For the first time, I realize the voice in the back of my head often sounds an awful like my mother’s. I cringe and cling tighter to Jackson.
“Please. I just want to leave.” I plead with my eyes and his face softens, focus zeroing in on me.
“Of course,” he says.
“No, you don’t understand,” my mother’s voice butts in, conciliatory. “She’s always been so overdramatic and excitable. Always making up stories for attention. I don’t know why she’s saying such terrible things. Mr. McIntyre is a prestigious man. He’s the bank president and her father is quite close to being made Branch Manager. Why don’t we all just calm down and go out and enjoy the lovely meal that I worked so hard to prepare—”
“You’re unbelievable,” I say.
I push away from Jackson and go straight into the dining room. Dad and Mr. McIntyre have already served themselves food, not waiting for the rest of us. There’s a bottle of Kentucky bourbon in the center of the table and Dad’s glass is half full. I know it’s not because only a few fingers were poured, but because he’s drunk the other half already.
“You all have certainly taken your time,” Dad says, his annoyance clear.
I ignore him, walk straight over to Mr. McIntyre. “You’re a pervert and a pedophile and just because I can’t prove it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
I spit in his shocked face, then grab the bottle of bourbon and hurl it at the wall. It smashes in a satisfying explosion of glass and brown liquid. It’s amazing what stress relief smashing things is. This moment can’t erase the bone-deep emotional scars this man inflicted, but I’m working on it, and fuck if this doesn’t feel good in the meantime.
I planned not to even look back once, but when I get to the foyer I realize Jackson isn’t beside me. I glance over my shoulder to call for him and get one last glimpse of McIntyre’s wrinkled-ass face just in time to see Jackson’s heavy fist land hard.
Even from where I’m standing, I hear the snapping of cartilage. And I’ve obviously become bloodthirsty, because the high-pitched squeal that comes from McIntyre’s throat satisfies me somewhere deep, deep inside.
Shouts and screams about broken noses follow us as we step over the threshold and out the door, hand in hand.
Partners. That damn tricky word hits me again. It seems like I’ve finally hit on the word that describes the connection I’ve felt with Jackson from the beginning. Working, living, playing, going through life side-by-side with this man as his partner. As a friend. As his lover. Is that possible for someone like me?
My breath hitches. Jackson either senses or hears it because he starts rubbing my back as we head toward his car. “
I’m three seconds from heading back there and ripping the bastard into pieces. I’m rich enough. I could do it and hire a black market forensics team to make sure there’s no evidence.”
The night being what it has been, his inappropriate words make me giggle. “And what about my parents?”
He glances down at me. “That pair could so obviously be bought.”
That thought sobers me. Because isn’t that what’s already happened? I was bought for the promise of a raise. Or at least it was enough for my parents to look the other way from red flags that should have tipped them off to a bad situation.
“Let’s get out of here.” All of the sudden, my energy is gone. Like back in the kitchen, and I just want to sleep for a week.
Right when I touch the passenger side door to the car though, the front door of the house opens.
I brace myself, ready for Dad to make some horrible speech about what a whore his daughter is. Instead, in the rectangle of light that appears from the open door, Shannon’s slim silhouette appears. Words are being exchanged, that’s obvious from the way she’s gesturing with her hands, but we’re too far away to hear.
The next thing I know, Shannon slams the door and walks toward us, bogged down by all of our luggage. Right. We forgot about bags in our dramatic exit. Jackson hurries forward and grabs his duffel bag and our two carry-ons from her. I stand there, mute.
Shannon just chose me over our parents.
Wow.
She’s always been so adamant about keeping a relationship with Mom and Dad. And here she is, throwing it away for my sake? Just like that?
I go around to the back of the car where she’s loading bags with Jackson. “Shan,” I put a hand on her forearm. “You don’t have to do this. It’s my fight. Just between them and me.”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “You think I could continue to talk to them after everything I learned tonight? Oh my God, Callie, if I’d known… Lately things have been different but I was so horrible to you for so long…” She looks anguished and fresh tears streak her cheeks.
Break So Soft: Break So Soft Duet Page 31
