by Khan, Jen
Fresh tears I so desperately tried to hold on to start to slide down my cheeks—again.
He lifts his hand and swipes at them with his thumb—again.
“Braden—“ I whisper on a ragged breath.
“Em, you’re a scrapper. I know that you think you’re weak right now, but I’m also going to help you get your strength and courage back. You have to fight, dammit.”
I suck in another breath. Shit. The tears just keep falling.
“Whenever you feel like you can’t fight, you come to me. If not, go to Holly, go to Olivia or my dad or brothers. You have a huge support system, and we are all in your corner, ready to help you fight.”
I shake my head again and the tears start to fall faster. I try to pull away, but Braden holds my face with both of his hands. There is an emotion in his eyes so strong that it can only be described as fierce.
“Em, you’re not allowed to give up. Do you understand me? I’m not going to let you give up.”
He stares down at me. I glare back at him, before I close my eyes.
“I know you don’t think so, and I know that over the past few months it hasn’t felt much like it, but, baby, you are loved by so many.”
My body goes rigid in his arms. He releases my face and trails his hands down my body to wrap around my waist.
“You are so strong. I know how strong you are and I know you won’t go down without a fight.”
His hand trails up and down my back in a soothing path.
“I don’t know that I have any fight left in me,” I respond on another shaky breath.
“No, don’t do that. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
“I don’t think I am.” I bite my split lip and whisper, “It’s all I think about. I try to compartmentalize it, tuck it away, and put it out of mind, but it’s not working. I can’t shake it loose. I can still see his black, soulless eyes glaring at me while he violated me. I can smell him on my skin. How do I get rid of his smell?”
Braden’s body stiffens, and I can sense the angry, violent waves he was emitting at my words.
“He will pay for what he did to you. Don’t you worry about that. You worry about getting better and stronger.”
“I can’t do this,” I moan into his shoulder. “I. Can. Still. Smell. Him,” I grit. “His smell, his touch, the weight of him on top of me—all committed to memory. When I’m not awake thinking about it, I’m asleep dreaming about it.”
“You can’t carry this on your shoulders by yourself,” Braden says to the top of my head.
“I don’t know what else to do, Braden. I don’t know.”
“You have me, you have Holly, and you have my family too. We’ll find you some professional help to get you through this if we have to. You need to lean on us so that we can help you get stronger.”
I lift my head and we look into each other’s eyes for a long moment while I hold my breath. I watch Braden’s eyes as they study mine. I know he is doing this to make sure that I understand and believe what message he is relaying to me.
I release the breath I was holding. I ask, “Do you think we should help Holly pack?”
Braden closes his eyes, huffs out a breath, and opens them back to me. His eyes scan my face before settling on my mouth then flickering back to mine.
“With me, you have nothing to be scared of. You know that, right?” he asks.
“I know,” I whisper.
“I will always protect you.
“I know.”
He continues searching my eyes. “I will keep you safe.”
“I know,” I repeat.
His eyes do one more sweep of my face. Nodding, he rolls to a sitting position, bringing me with him. Now I am in his arms as he pulls me onto his lap. I melt into him, pressing my wet face into his neck, wrapping my arms around him. His hand goes around the back of my head, bringing me closer to his face and pushing down slightly before he kisses my forehead. Then his arms come around me to wrap me tight.
“Braden,” I breathe.
His eyes hold mine as he states firmly, “Always, baby.”
He is scaring the hell out of me. I know that he would never hurt me. I know that he would do anything to keep me safe, to protect me from everything in the world meant to do me harm. I know this after all the times he would pay off my father, who only came around when he—we thought—had gambled or drunk or snorted all of his money away.
I found out later that he’d needed that money for other reasons.
I learned this when, last year at Thanksgiving, my father crashed his car on the Holt family lawn because he was wasted at two o’clock in the afternoon and made a scene by screaming my name throughout the street, his screams turned into obscenities and the obscenities turned into his defecating in a bush of the neighbor’s lawn. And Braden was the one to approach Joe, calming him down before driving him home so that he could sleep it off.
He didn’t sleep it off. He was later picked up by a police officer who had been called to the scene of a disturbance at the local ABC when he was trying to buy beer and a cashier told him he didn’t have enough money.
Braden picked him up from jail the next morning and dropped him off at home after buying him a breakfast sandwich and coffee from The Ugly Mug.
Braden would do anything to see me smile, to protect me, even if it put him out. I know this and I can’t let him do it again. He spent a good part of a year and a half cleaning up my messes. Well, my father’s messes that had spilled over and contaminated my life like a sickness. My father is a goddamn disease. He is the reason for my life being shit.
I grew up in Saluda, NC, just two towns over from Tryon, with a father who, for the most part, was a functioning alcoholic. He worked a steady job to maintain his steady supply of liquor and smokes. He partied as often as he could. If he couldn’t get someone to babysit me, he brought the party to the house.
My first memory I have as a child was walking in on an orgy going down in our living room. There were naked people scattered all over the room. They were on our couch, on the recliner, on the dining room table, on the floor, and even on the kitchen counter. I can still remember being so terrified seeing all of these strange naked people doing things to each other that I wasn’t even able to understand at that age.
When Joe saw me, he didn’t even stop. There was a naked woman giving him a blowjob while he knelt over her and repaid the favor with his hand between her legs. I ran back to my bedroom, whirling around to see that a few of them were watching me. They carried on with their orgy like they were putting on a show for me, others paying me no mind at all. I must’ve been four or five at the time.
That memory will forever be considered the first scar.
My mother wasn’t around because she died when I was only two years old. Brain aneurism—no warning. She’d been folding laundry one morning at the dining room table and collapsed. The neighbors had called the police when they heard a screaming toddler coming from the apartment.
I have no memories or her at all. I don’t have a single picture of her either.
My father had been in love with my mother. She’d been his rock, the love of his life, his soul mate, and apparently the only thing that kept him a human being.
At least this is what he told me every night when he was caught up in one of his drunken stupors and crying into his shot glass.
I don’t think he ever loved me. Okay, that may be a bit extreme. I think he loved me when my mother was still alive. I also think that when she died, a piece of him had died, and along with that, she’d taken his will to live as a productive member of society.
He hadn’t raised me. I’d raised myself the best I could. There had been times when I would go hungry because Joe would forget to buy food. He would come home with a bottle of Jack and nothing else. I would find out later that he’d also been a small-time coke and heroin dealer on the side.
I was home alone a lot. Growing up, I don’t ever remember a time feeling safe.
He didn’t protect me from anything.
When I became a teenager, no longer a girl, boys started to take notice. One of our neighbors tried to act on it one night when I was coming home from a shift at the Bi-Lo, one of the local supermarkets.
My father heard my screams in the hallway. He didn’t even try to help me.
He flung the door wide and stumbled up the steps. The boy ran off without a second look.
Joe was drunk and slurring his words. He shouted at me and called me a slut and the neighborhood dick tease.
So I saved my money, busted my ass over the summers to put extra money away, and built a nice little nest egg, which I kept hidden from Joe.
I should’ve cut my ties with that shit bag as soon as I graduated and moved out.
This man never did anything right by me. He was a cancer. He dirtied everything he touched. That is why I kept my distance. I didn’t want him to turn everything I’d worked so hard for to shit like he had with everything else in my life.
That is why I gave him money whenever I could when he needed it, which was often. He would take the money with promises of distance, which was always temporary. He came around at least once a month. It was so bad that I set up an account called “Shit Bag Payoff Money.” Yes, I set up an account specifically for Joe “Shit Bag” Chase. Back then, I felt sorry for him. When a man who is reduced to rubble walks aimlessly though life right before your eyes, it’s hard not to feel sorry for him, especially when that man is your father.
I moved out when I graduated high school. I couldn’t let him drown me in his own despair.
I got two jobs—one as a waitress at the Hare and the Hound and one as a receptionist, which gave me enough income to get an apartment in the outskirts of Tryon. Not a very good place for a single female to live on her own, but it was temporary. I moved up and slid right into management at The Hare and the Hound. I became the general manager, moved across town to the nicer part of Tryon, which was much safer, and worked there for the next six years. Until now. I also bartended three times a week, which had been approved by the owner, so that I could make tips. I pulled at least $800 in cash a week—I’m a damn good bartender—and all of that money went to the Shit Bag account. Money that I could have used to better my life.
I was so damn stupid.
He shit on everything. Like I said—a goddamn disease.
So not only is the Shit Bag account empty, but now I am also a rape victim—all because of him.
And now, here I am, sitting on the lap of the man I love with all of my heart while he gapes at me with pain and determination in his eyes.
So for the next two and a half months, I do everything in my power to stay away from him.
Chapter Four
The man who raped me was caught two weeks after the visit to my apartment thanks to my descriptive memory and a good ol’ rape kit.
Jose Delgado was caught outside of the bar I used to work at getting his dick sucked by a Tryon hooker. Yes, even in this little town, we have our fair share of hookers, drugs, and drama.
The man is disgusting. He is still sitting in a cell awaiting trial. I hope he gets butt raped in the shower.
A girl can dream.
I called work after three weeks of being off and told them that they could go ahead and look for a new manager.
The Hare and the Hound is a small sports bar in Landrum, which is the next town over. I really did like my job, but I knew I wouldn’t be going back.
I wasn’t physically or emotionally ready to go back. My boss Charlie was cool about it. He wasn’t happy about my decision but supportive nonetheless. It’s hard to find good-quality employees in the restaurant and bar industry. Especially in a small town where your choices were those who work in the biz because it is conducive to their active party lifestyles and the lazy ones you’re always picking up slack from.
Most of the time, you just find yourself taking up most of their slack and working harder for the same pay.
After being released, I insisted on going to a hotel. Holly insisted that I stay with her.
And that was that.
When we first got here after I was released, SHE insisted that I rest and that she would wait on me hand and foot. She fed me takeout Chinese and pizza in bed, brought me skim vanilla lattes from The Ugly Mug, held me when I cried, and took the punishment of my being a plain old bitch when I got frustrated that I couldn’t move around as easily. She spoiled me.
She even helped by washing my hair and painting my toes. At first it was a bit humiliating. I don’t like being helpless. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer so I just let her do her thing.
So for the last two and half months, I have stayed with Holly. What started off being a temporary stay became a more permanent roommate situation.
I spoke to the management of my old apartment, who quickly let me out of my lease, giving me back every cent of my deposit.
Holly got together with Braden, Olivia, Tristan, and Jake to pack up the apartment, taking most of my furniture to storage. Management said they would take care of the cleanup. I thought that was really nice.
Either they were trying to make this a smooth move or they really just wanted me the hell out of there. I assume a girl getting brutally raped in one of their apartments and a heavy police presence probably doesn’t do well for business.
Over the past couple of months, Braden has been trying to see me. I have used up every excuse I can think of. I even pulled out the, “I have to wash my hair” bit—twice.
He has kept to his word about not letting me push him away, at the same time giving me my space, which I am extremely grateful for. I get a text or a call from him every day. He promised to give me time to “sort shit in your head,” as he calls it, but he hasn’t given up, and I don’t see him doing so anytime soon.
Holly has been fantastic and so supportive. She let me move right in, and I haven’t given her a cent towards rent yet. I did, however, try to give her money and she held up her hand, palm out, and shook her head.
“Get on your feet first, honey. I got the rent for now.”
Holly Madison is a paralegal over at the courthouse. Incidentally, that also means she gets to keep tabs on the jail where Jose Delgado is being held. She’s made sure that I am kept informed of any new information coming in about the case or his status. So far, no one has posted his bond, which is a huge relief for me. She also made sure that I was registered with the Victim Witness Program, so if he does get released, I’ll get notified immediately.
Holly makes a nice living for herself.
She is also gorgeous with her long, light brown hair, hazel eyes, perfectly symmetrical nose, straight, gleaming white teeth, and a banging body. The girl has J-Lo curves, only with less booty, and she knows how to show them off--with class, that is.
We became friends back in high school. She moved to Saluda with her mother when we were freshman.
Her father was incarcerated. For what, I don’t know. It’s a sore subject for her and I always figured that one day, when she is comfortable, she’d tell me her story. I am not going to push it. I know all too well about deadbeat dads. A couple of times she came close but shut it down.
It has been seventeen years since we met and I still don’t know the details.
Maybe that is why the two of us get along so well. Her father was a deadbeat, my father was a deadbeat, but her mother was golden. She took me in and let me stay over with them on many a night when Joe would go off on one of his gambling or drunken benders, not coming home for days. No warning, no call—nothing.
Holly and I are kindred spirits. We are meant to be there for each other. We can relate to each other on so many levels. We formed a bond that no one can ever take away from us. We live the same reality and we understand each other.
For her generosity, I go to the supermarket on numerous occasions to fill up the fridge and cabinets with food. I also make sure that there is an endless supply of wine in the house at all times.
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I am ready to get back to work again. Not only is what little I did have saved starting to dwindle, but I can’t take being cooped up in the house any longer. It is time to become a productive member of society once again.
Every day I am getting stronger physically and mentally. My nose and eyes are back to normal, but I have a small scar on my cheek that I can live with. It’s the other scars I’m left with that are harder to heal.
It makes it easier having Holly around. I love living here with her. Our apartment is cute and spacious. It was remodeled about three years ago with all new stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops in the kitchen as well as in the bathrooms. It has hardwood flooring throughout the entire apartment. The kitchen, dining room, living room combo is spacious. The only distinction between the living spaces is the sunken living room. You have to walk down one step into it. The kitchen has a U-shaped bar that separates it from the dining room.
Holly has a badass TV and surround sound speakers. Not because she is a sports fan—she is a huge movie buff. Her DVD collection alone is impressive. She has everything from Star Wars to the Gone With the Wind. She likes the sensation like she is in a movie theater when watching her movies.
Well, considering it is a sixty-inch TV, it takes over most of the living room.
There is a green sectional sofa that has two recliners and a pullout couch, a coffee table, and two end tables. On the coffee table, there are eight remote controls. Yes, eight. I still haven’t figured out what remote belongs to what piece of technology.
Down the hall off the living room is where our bedrooms are located along with a guest bathroom.
It is Friday night and we are having a movie night. Holly insisted on a chick flick and some wine.
It is October and I am dressed in a white tank top, my favorite flannel pajama bottoms, and pink fuzzy slippers. I tie my hair up in a messy ponytail and flop down on the couch. Fall weather in the mountains is unpredictable. Some days I can get away with a tank and others I am bundled up in sweaters and scarves. This is a tank kind of night.
