He chuckled to himself as he tried to pull off his pants, stumbling as he pulled his feet out. Then he smiled and walked closer.
She drank a big swallow and tried to control her breathing. She wanted her hand to stop shaking.
“There you go. Finish it off.”
She drank the rest and felt ready. She smiled at him. “You were right, Micah. I really want to do this. More than anything I’ve ever done.”
His grin spread across his face as his tongue hung on his lower lip.
She let her robe fall open, revealing her underwear. She watched his eyes leer at her. It was so easy to distract this scumbag.
Forcing her voice to sound smooth and alluring, she placed a hand on her hip. “There’s some lotion on my dresser. Can you get it, Micah? It would make it easier for both of us.”
“Sure thing, sweetie.”
He turned around and walked toward the dresser. Jasmine reached under her pillow and pulled out her pistol.
“Where is it, Jasmine? I don’t see—”
She pulled back the hammer and held the gun in front of her with both hands, focused, eager to pull the trigger.
He jerked his head around, saw the gun, and pointed at her. “What the hell?”
She snarled. “That’s where you belong, Micah.”
She fired at his chest. The sound was much louder than she’d expected, but she didn’t drop the gun.
He grunted and staggered back against the dresser. His eyes widened as Jasmine took two steps closer. His blood seeped into his shirt and through his fingers.
“Please . . . don’t . . .”
Her throat burned as her eyes bored into him. Her finger tightened on the trigger as she spoke slowly, hatred dripping from each word. “How many times did I say, ‘Please don’t’ to you?”
He held out his hand, trying to block the bullet. “I’m sorry, Jazz. I’m sorry!”
“Not sorry enough.”
She fired again, and he fell to the floor with a bloody grunt.
Jasmine held the gun in front of her, pointing at him. His leg twitched. He moaned. Then silence.
She wanted to scream, to hide under the covers, but they had to leave. Now.
“Jazzy!” her mother shouted. “Were those gunshots?”
Jasmine looked down the hall at her mother struggling to move toward her in her nightgown.
“I killed him, Momma.”
Her mother’s eyes widened.
“Why? What did he do to you?”
“He raped me twice, and I wouldn’t let him do it again.” Her chin quivered. “I . . . tried to keep him away from you, but he . . . he wouldn’t stop hitting you or raping me.” She gulped air.
Her mother walked into the bedroom and saw Micah dead on the floor. She pulled Jazz to her. “I’m so sorry, Jazz.”
Jazz wept against her mother.
“We have to leave now, Jazz. Change your clothes. I’ll get my hospital suitcase.” She pulled Jazz’s face away from her and looked into her eyes. “You are so brave, Jasmine. I should’ve done it myself. Now hurry.”
“I’m going to burn him and the trailer.” She picked up the vodka bottle.
Her mother held her chest, her eyes bulging. “Yes. That’s what we have to do. Wipe your prints off the bottle, Jazz then put it near his hand. But you need to change first.”
Her mother hurried down the hall, bracing herself with her hands against the walls.
After changing clothes, Jazz wiped the vodka bottle with her robe and poured the remaining liquor on Micah’s clothes. She lay the bottle on the ground next to him then picked up his hand and placed it on the bottle.
She struck a match and tossed it into her room. The whoosh of fire covered Micah instantly. Jasmine ran down the hall, grabbed her mother’s suitcase, gave her the car keys, and led her to the front door. “Let’s go.”
By the time Jasmine threw the suitcase into the back seat and climbed in next to her mother, the end of the trailer was in flames.
They both stared out of the windshield at the fire. Her mother started the car. “Burn in hell, Micah.” She backed up, turned around, and accelerated down the driveway.
Jasmine turned around, watching the flames engulf the trailer. Once they left the hills, she could see only a yellow glow, soon swallowed by the dark.
Hunter felt the vein in his neck pulsing. He looked at Jazz and saw her as the little girl she used to be. How could she have lived through that? His skin chilled, forcing him to shudder. His eyes brimmed with tears.
“Are you going to print it?” asked Jazz.
“Not now.” He pressed the lid closed.
“Are you stealing one of my memories, Hunter?”
“For now.”
“Was it a bad one?”
“They’re all bad.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “How do you keep from crying all the time?” He wiped a tear and moved to her. “How do you keep from dying?” He held her hands.
Tears gathered in her eyes. “I cry at night. I drink. Sometimes I do other things. But I don’t think I need to as much when you’re with me.”
He held her head and brought it to touch his. “You must be so strong to live with those memories.”
“You could take them all away.”
“Would you want me to?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I could sleep better. But you’d have them instead of me. You’re taking everybody’s worst moments, their nightmares. How much can you take?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me read it, Hunter.”
“No. Not now. Maybe not ever. I don’t want that in your head anymore.”
A flash of headlights crossed the window. They heard tires biting gravel.
“He’s home.” Hunter grasped her hand and led her to the living room where they stood awaiting Joe’s entrance.
Chapter Sixteen
Hunter felt much more confident dealing with his dad with Jazz by his side. Right now, his father was not helping him. Why would he keep Hunter’s past a secret? What was he hiding? He wasn’t a caring parent to Hunter. He was the enemy.
Carrying a large bag in one hand, Joe opened the door and stared wide-eyed at Jazz. “Who’s this?”
Hunter felt his hands tremble then Jazz’s fingers grasping his. He took a deep breath. “Jasmine Williams. Everyone calls her Jazz. She’s my best friend. We’re in the same grade at school.”
“Hello, Jazz. My name’s Joe.” He reached out his hand.
Jazz smiled and walked toward him. They shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Joe. Your son is an amazing guy.”
“Oh really?” He kicked the door shut and put his things on the table. The kitchen was silent except for the lurch of the refrigerator starting another cycle. Joe scrunched his brows at Jazz. “And why is that?”
“One reason among many is that he’s seen me at my worst and still wants me as his friend.”
A flash of fear crossed his face. “Meaning what?”
“He saw some of my bad memories.”
Joe tightened his eyes as he looked at Hunter, shook his head slightly then turned back to Jazz. “You know about the stories?”
“He’s written four today.”
“Not including the one you were reading this morning,” blurted Hunter through gritted teeth. He felt his chest tighten as he looked at his father.
Joe shot a panicked look at Hunter then turned back toward Jazz. “How long have you known about them?”
“Just today.”
He looked at Hunter. “Why was telling her a good idea?”
“Because she’s my friend, and she cares about me. We actually talk with each other.” Hunter couldn’t help throwing that dig at his father. They locked eyes.
Joe turned his eyes toward Jazz. “Anyone want coffee? I need some.” He inserted a fresh pod into the machine, positioned a cup, and pushed the button.
“I’d like a glass of Ja
meson, with ice,” said Hunter with obvious sarcasm.
Joe coughed and turned around. “When did you start drinking?”
“You know the answer,” said Hunter. “Years ago. I just don’t know whether Mom gave it to me or I stole it from her.”
Joe tried to clear his throat. “You went through my things?”
“Not today. But, yes, I did. Trying to find some answers but found nothing that meant anything to me.” Hunter noticed his father relax slightly and smiled, knowing what he was about to throw at him.
“What brought on this need for answers?”
“Because I’ve been seeing events, or parts of events from my past. That bedroom door with the handle I asked you about? I heard Mom’s voice behind it today.”
He tightened his lips. “How would you know her voice?”
“Because I saw her today.” He pulled the Mothership disk out of his shirt pocket and place it face up on the table. Hunter watched his father’s eyes bulge. Hunter’s voice was less than a whisper, but the silence made it sound like a shout. “We used to dance to this, particularly number five.”
Joe gulped a few breaths as he stared at the disk. “Did you find that here?”
“No, you burned everything that might be a trigger for my memories. I found it at Jazz’s house. In her mother’s bedroom.”
Joe’s hand shook as he spooned sugar into his coffee. “Hunter, please believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to know the answers. It’s better that those memories are gone.” He tossed the spoon onto the counter too hard so it fell onto the floor. He grabbed his neck and squeezed.
“Did my mother abuse me?” Hunter pounded the table. “When we were dancing to ‘Whole Lotta Love,’ she tried to seduce me. She tried to arouse me. How long did you know about that?”
Joe rubbed his face firmly like he wanted to squeeze out all his pain. “Please, Hunter. Trust me. You don’t want to know.”
“Trust you?” Hunter felt his heart pounding inside his chest. “I’m sure you lied about the fire. And about your phone.” He shoved one of the chairs. “Why should I trust you?”
Joe’s hand shook as he tried to sip from his cup. He reached up to hold the cup with his other hand then placed it on the counter. “Has he shown you his scars?” Joe asked Jazz.
Jazz folded her arms. “No.”
Hunter was not expecting this question. “What do my scars have to do with anything?”
“So you haven’t seen him without his shirt.”
Jazz shook her head.
“Hunter,” commanded Joe, “take off your shirt.”
“Why?” he sputtered. “What does my shirt have to do with what my mother did to me?”
“Please do it. I want you to see one reason why you shouldn’t know the answers. Take off your shirt.”
Hunter looked at Jazz, who nodded back at him. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it to the floor.
Joe folded his arms. “And the t-shirt. Please.”
Hunter’s chest heaved as he breathed and slowly pulled off his long-sleeve t-shirt. Jazz gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.
Hunter flinched at her sounds and looked at the scars on his arms and chest, rows and rows of discolored ridges and welts.
He turned to Jazz. “I fell off my bike riding downhill on a gravel road. I don’t remember when.”
“No, Hunter.” Jazz walked over and hugged him. “That’s not what happened.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have the same scars on my body.”
“How?” gasped Hunter.
She touched scars on his chest. “I cut myself, Hunter. You did the same.”
“When?” Hunter gaped at his father, who pressed fingers into his eyes and turned away.
Joe blurted the words over his shoulder. “Some before she died. Most afterward. Twice I thought you would bleed to death.”
Hunter reached out shaking hands to hold Jazz’s shoulders. His throat ached. “You have scars like mine?”
Her face turned red. “More than you. I have them on my legs all the way to my ankles.”
Hunter shook his head slowly, his mouth open, trying to speak, but coughing instead. He felt tears filling his eyes. “Why did you cut yourself?”
Her chin quivered. “Because it stops the pain.”
He tried to swallow. “How could it stop your pain?”
“Because I can focus on the cut and stop thinking about what’s in my head.” She clutched him, crying into his neck.
“I’ll take every memory of every cut.” He touched her arms gently. “I’ll see every night or day you did these, and you won’t remember anymore.”
Jazz smiled through her tears. “Maybe someday you can tell me I had an accident long ago, just like your father told you. He took your memories for the same reason you won’t give me back the one you just saw.”
Joe turned around. “How did he take your memory?”
Jazz stroked the back of Hunter’s head. “When he wrote about my memory, I lost it. I had no recollection of the event. When I read the story, the memory was restored. It’s happened three times today.”
Hunter pulled back from Jazz and looked at his father. “If you hadn’t read that story this morning, you would’ve forgotten about Parker.”
Joe’s face lost color as he stared at his son then shot a glance at Jazz before looking to the floor.
“You walked in on a boy in his underwear when you were a teenager. I guess you’re ashamed of that and didn’t want me to know it, but at least you and the boy agreed to have sex. No one raped you or abused you like I’ve seen in so many other memories, including my own. Whether you tell me the truth or not, I’ll see your memories eventually. When I write them down, you’ll forget them, and I’ll know the truth.” Hunter locked eyes with Joe. “One way or another I’m going to learn the truth. So why don’t you tell me?”
Joe gestured toward his son’s scars. “Because I don’t want to be responsible for more of those, or worse.” He rubbed his face. “Look, there may be a way to stop all this. I spoke to your doctor today and described the stories. He told me how to reset your implant.”
“He has an implant?” asked Jazz.
“Yes. Don’t ask me how it works, but it’s supposed to keep those memories from coming back. Ru . . . I mean your doctor said that resetting the chip would eliminate the stories and your memories.” Joe wiped his mouth. He clearly had not wanted to say that name.
“Ru?” asked Jazz. “Is that the doctor’s name? How did Ru remove his memories?”
“It took three years of therapy. And several different doctors.”
“What else? Shock therapy?” asked Jazz.
He sighed and sat down. “Only because nothing else worked.”
“Eliminate memories from when?” asked Hunter. “Three years ago or from the time of reset?”
“I don’t know, Hunter. After the procedure, you were practically a blank slate. So maybe it would wipe out everything before the reset.” He looked at Jazz. “Probably just what was erased last time. I think that’s what he said.” He moved closer to Hunter. “Do you want the stories to continue, or not?”
Hunter thought his father was trying too hard to sell the reset. Why? Slowly, he asked his father, “Wouldn’t you want me to take your memories? How much pain have they caused you?”
Joe rubbed his face. “I would certainly like to forget. I almost asked the doctor to do the same to me as he did to you. But one of us had to know who we were.”
Hunter moved toward the table. This didn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t his father want to forget the same memories that were so damaging to Hunter? Unless his father was hiding something. “OK, but eventually I would see everything you remembered about that time, and your mind would be clear.”
Joe looked at his son then picked up one of the spiral-bound books he had made of Hunter’s stories. “I read all of these stori
es today. And now I know that all these bad memories for these people are gone. Are they better off now? We don’t know, and how would we find out? But let’s assume that not having to remember and relive the night you were raped is a good thing. Are you better off for knowing these memories? I don’t think you can take on everyone’s sins and failures and horrors and remain unaffected. I think we should try the reset.”
Hunter shook his head. “Not yet. If nothing else, I’ll help Jazz. She doesn’t deserve what happened to her. She’s a victim just like most of the people in that book.” He looked at Jazz. “Can I stay at your place?”
Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“Move in with you. Just for a while.”
“Because?”
“For one, Dad doesn’t want me seeing his memories. And I want to help you.” He reached for her hands. “Also, I need you to help me.”
She squeezed his fingers and nodded. “Yes.”
“I’ll take some of my things tonight and come back tomorrow for some more. Dad, you won’t have to worry about me seeing what’s inside your head. Is that OK with you?”
He looked at both of them and sighed. “Maybe for a few days.” He opened the bag. “There’s a new computer in there. You can’t be writing these things on school property. Your original stories and another copy of the booklet is in there. Does anyone besides Jazz know about the stories?”
“No,” said Jazz quickly. Hunter glanced at her.
Joe stood. “Good. You need to be extra careful about keeping this a secret.”
“Why?” asked Hunter.
“Because people will fear you and want you dead or in jail. They’ll make an experiment out of you, or line up to have their bad memories deleted. You need to be careful. I’ll call Patty tomorrow and say you’ll be out for a few days. And here’s some cash.” He pulled out his wallet and removed some bills. “Jazz’s family doesn’t want to pay for an extra mouth to feed, I’m sure.”
Hunter shook his head. “Jazz doesn’t—”
Jazz cut him off. “Thank you, Joe. My mother will appreciate that.”
Someone To Kiss My Scars: A Teen Thriller Page 13
