Stain

by Francette Phal

  He’ll kill him.

  Help me! The man’s eyes seem to wail out to me when they momentarily catch mine. Without thought, I set my hand on Maddox’s forearm. There’s just the slightest jerk of muscles tightening reflexively from the unexpected touch. But it’s the lightning-quick electric heat beneath my fingertips the instant my hand lands on his bare, tattooed forearm that rattles me to the core.

  “Let’s go,” I barely manage, still shaken. When he fails to move, I tighten my hold and tug. “Don’t be stupid.” That gets his attention as he spears me with sterling eyes. I don’t look away. Not this time. Why I choose now to hold that intense stare I can’t quite say, but I’m glad for it. I’m glad for the momentary backbone. “I think you’ve out road raged him. I also think it’d be really stupid if you ended up in jail because of it. All this would be pretty much pointless.” I’m not sure how effective my words are until he walks away a very small eternity later. I rush behind him, hop back inside the passenger seat, and close the door just before he takes off. I don’t stop looking at my side mirror till long after we leave the scene.

  ***

  “You can take the next left and drop me off at the corner of Birch Drive, my house is right around the corner. I’ll walk from there,” I say, into the silence, when he turns on the street that parallels mine. We didn’t speak about what happened earlier at all throughout the ride. The last fifteen minutes have been spent in repressive silence charged with tension thick enough to cut with a knife. This time there isn’t any music to fill the silence. I’ve been going back and forth on whether or not to ask him exactly what happened back there. The sort of rage he displayed had to stem from something. And I want to know. I want to ask. But I won’t because I’ve been unable to work up the courage to do so for namely two reasons: 1) I know I have no right to pry since I was so reluctant to talk about my own issues earlier. And: 2) Fear of his derision as he’ll most likely charmingly tell me to “fuck off” keeps me reasonably quiet.

  “You live on Birch?”

  I shake my head. “Denton. Just the street over.”

  “What number?”

  “At 76 Denton Avenue.”

  He says nothing more after that as he turns right on Denton. Soon we’re idling in front of the white and blue single-family house with the two-car garage and the pretty perennials lining the cement walkway leading up the four-step porch with the light on. My heart jumps to my throat at the sight of the Durango in the driveway.

  “You hold your blades a little too tightly and I always want to smash someone’s face in.” When I look at him, the reason for my fear temporarily vanishes like vapor and he becomes my only concern, the only thing my mind wants to orbit around. His glance is lazy, slightly narrowed, and yet the intensity in it remains unparalleled. In this truck, this space, up so close, his striking features are made even more so by the shadow and light caressing his face as softly and as sweetly as I want to do. “Guess we have to satisfy our demons somehow,” he quips. There’s a self-deprecating resonance to his tenor that pulls one side of his mouth into a humorless grin. “Looks like your old man is waiting.” I follow the path of his gaze over my shoulder to find Tim leaning against the porch railing with his large arms folded across his barrel chest. With the brightness of the porch light beaming behind him, his facial features remain obscured. But I don’t need to see his face to know the expression he’s sporting. Anger is his default emotion. He’s looking in our direction, and I’m praying he doesn’t see much.

  The sudden urge to remain in the truck and beg Maddox to keep driving is so strong that I have to chomp down on my bottom lip to keep the words from tumbling out. “Thank you,” I reply, tugging on the string on my shirt sleeve from earlier and mindlessly twirling it around the tip of my index finger once I pull it free of my shirt. “Thanks for the ride.” By the time the string is gone, I’ve wrapped it several times around the tip of my finger, effectively cutting off the blood from circulating to the area.

  “So, not just blades then.”

  I blink before pulling my hand out of sight. “Will you pose for me?” I ask, ignoring his remark.

  He shrugs. “Haven’t decided yet. Like I said, I don’t have time to waste. You gotta make it worth my while.” I’m a target locked at the end of his loaded stare.

  My tongue darts out to lick my lips nervously. “How?” I’m not altogether sane, but I’m not stupid. I know what he’s implying. I know where he’s steering this conversation. Even now, his unspoken words charge the air in the truck. It’s heavy and stifling. Every breath I take is saturated with his unrepentant sex appeal. A flush bursts in my cheeks when he reaches out a hand to cup my jaw and languidly grazes his thumb across my damp bottom lip. His gentle caress forces me to acknowledge the part of my flesh I refused to pay attention to before. It’s awareness that’s too strange, too foreign, and yet remarkably familiar. He makes it familiar. I’m a girl and he’s a boy and the suggestion of his touch makes me cognizant of that. It’s electrifying. I want more of it. My breasts feel so full that every time I breathe my tight, pebbled nipples chafe with the sweetest torture against my bra. My pulse is racing, fluttering to the same maddening cadence of my beating heart.

  “You’re a smart girl, Aylee. I’m sure you can come up with something.” The dropped octave of his voice coaxes a slickness that runs hot and wet in the valley between my legs. The way it dampens my panties is both embarrassing and oddly alluring.

  His sensual mouth forms a grin like he knows. Like he understands exactly how his touch is a sweet devastation. “You should go now.” I mourn the retreat of his hand. “Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “I…” Don’t let me leave. “Thank you, again.” I remember to grab both my canvas bag and my backpack before I jump out of his truck and close the door behind me. I’m about halfway between the house and the truck before I give into temptation and look over my shoulder. Maddox is looking back, gaze focused on me. I falter in my next step like my body is trying to turn in the opposite direction. Toward the white pickup. Toward Maddox. Toward something unknown and yet so beguiling. But I don’t. I do nothing. The chance to do or say anything has passed. My cowardice is in control now, and it won’t contemplate any sort of defiance. Meek, weak, and regulated, I walk toward the house, toward Tim, toward a misery that I know, one I’ve been conditioned to never stray away from. My subconscious crawls further inside that dark place in my head, while reinforcing walls I’ve built so long ago, preparing for the worse.

  The worse is a strong hand at the nape of my neck when I get close enough for Tim to grab me. It’s a viselike grip he uses to guide me the rest of the way to the house. I pray Maddox has driven away by now. I pray he doesn’t stay to see this.

  Chapter 11

  Maddox

  It’s not your motherfucking problem.

  She’s not your motherfucking problem.

  Mind your own motherfucking business and keep driving, asshole.

  This is the annoying-ass banter taking place inside my head while I’m white-knuckle gripping the steering wheel. I’m rolling down the street of this Pleasantville nightmare, my usual lead foot barely skimming the gas. In my neighborhood, if you’re driving this slow, you’re either going to shoot up the place or you’re looking for drive-thru ass. It sure as fuck wouldn’t be because you’re seldom-working conscious decides to take this particular time to fire on all cylinders.

  “Fuck!” A hard punch to the steering wheel does nothing to take away my irritation. Telling myself I want nothing to do with this chick seems like a moot fucking point as I make a U-ey at the stop sign and double back to her house.

  Aylee Bennett has ‘clingy virgin’ written all over her, and after Grace, I’m not in the market for another sycophant. It would be smart of me to continue down the road, hop on the interstate, and drive my ass back to the slums. Light a blunt, maybe hit up Bria, and forget all about the scared little mouse and the fear I saw in her doe, mismatched eyes. Tha
t sort of fear is ingrained. It’s the sort of fear that comes with some pretty heavy shit, and from what I saw of her arms, she was trying to kill monsters on the inside by cutting herself on the outside. Somebody put those monsters there. And I would bet my left nut that it was her old man. The way he’d grabbed her just now set off old warning signals I’ve recognized since I was a child.

  But honestly, I shouldn’t fucking care. Jesus, I don’t even know the girl. What the fuck is she going to do for me? What the hell am I going to gain if I fuck around and get involved? Not a goddamn thing, that’s what. She sure as hell doesn’t look like the type to give up her pussy without tacking on some emotional baggage to it. I have all this running through my head, and I know getting involved is one of the stupidest things I could possibly do, but trying to convince myself to do otherwise is pointless right now.

  I come up to the front curb of her house, park the truck, and jump out. From here on, I’m running on autopilot, because if I let myself think about this anymore, it’s more than likely I’ll say ‘fuck it,’ and leave. I get to the porch. I’m standing in front of her door when I hear the crash. I’m not dumb enough to make excuses for what that sound could be. I already know. I raise my fisted hand and pound at the door.

  Chapter 12

  Aylee

  I forget all about Maddox and his touch and my furtive sexual awakening when I’m shoved inside the foyer. The door slamming shut coincides with my stumble over the blue-and-brown, patterned carpet in the entryway. Losing my grip on the bags, I catch myself before I fall, but Tim is there, wrenching my arm back so hard that it feels like he pulled it out of its socket. I cry out, tears forming in my eyes as he shoves me against the wall.

  “You fucking lying to us now?” He’s pressed up against me, a large mass of rage and evil intent stuffed into a man’s body. His hand is at my throat, fingers curling around my neck as he forces me to look at him. His gin-soaked breath wafts across my face like fumes from an exhaust pipe, while black, glazed eyes spear right through me. “Where the fuck were you?”

  A small whimper escapes my mouth as my mind scrambles to come up with an answer. “With…with Mallory…”

  The back of his hand smashes across my cheek even before I can finish the lie. The impact of the blow is hard enough that the side of my head whips to the other side and smacks into the wall. Dizziness washes over me, but it’s nothing compared to the scorching blaze firing up and down my cheek.

  “Are you fucking guys now? Letting their disgusting dicks in you? You still a fucking virgin?” This he asks very close and very quietly to my ear. He wouldn’t dare say it above a furious whisper. He reaches for the collar of my shirt and yanks it down hard enough to tear.

  “Tim?” It’s Rachel’s distressed and quiet call that stops him.

  “Lie to me again and I’ll rip your tongue out of your filthy lying mouth!” His spittle splashes against the side of my face as he beats me down with his fury.

  “I’m not lying…” I don’t know why I insist with the lie. Maybe it’s a perverse sense to see how far I can push him. How much damage will he do? Will he beat me if I tell him I want Maddox to do to me all the sick and perverted things he’s been wanting to do to me since they adopted me? Will he kill me if I say I’d give up my virginity to a boy I hardly know than ever allow him to forcibly take it from me? He thinks he owns me. He thinks I’m his property. In his disgusting, deluded mind, I belong to him. To him, my vagina belongs to him because he touched it first, long before I even knew it was there. Long before I knew ‘secret touches’ weren’t supposed to be something that happened between a man and a child.

  “Mallory’s car broke down after school. Luckily your father was able to drop her off at home. She told him she was waiting for you at the field after track practice, and you weren’t there,” Rachel explains, her voice still quiet, like raising it higher would anger the monster standing right between us. “Where were you, sweetheart? We’re not trying to make you feel bad, but your father and I were worried sick.” If she’d witnessed the slap and everything shortly after, she makes no mention of it. Why would she when she’s a victim herself? Why make herself a target of the monster’s wrath? I guess it’s easier burying your head in the sand and pretending nothing is happening.

  In the seconds of silence that falls on us like a thick shroud, I try to find an answer to her question. An answer that’s not going to incur more of Tim’s wrath. It’s one thing to think about antagonizing him, and another thing completely different to actually do it. I’m saved from saying anything by the unexpected pounding at the door. There’s a brief pause in which Rachel and Tim share a look before Rachel, being closest to the front entrance, walks the three steps it takes to open the door.

  My heart thuds against my breastbone in both elation and fear at the sight of his intensely handsome face. Maddox stands at the door like some archetypal bad boy, with his tattoos and gauges. He wears that same blasé expression that seems to be his signature, along with his half-cocked grin.

  “Yes?” Her voice isn’t the least bit warm or welcoming, and I’m sure there’s a deep frown line of disdain knitting her brows together.

  “Hey, sorry to bother you. I’m a classmate of Aylee’s. We were working on a project together in the library earlier. Anyway, I gave her a ride and I guess she dropped this on her way out of my truck. I was wondering if I could give it back to her?” While he holds something up in Rachel’s line of sight that I can’t see from this distance, he takes advantage of his immense height to look over her head. Our eyes meet but only for a few fleeting seconds before Tim steps in my line of sight, effectively blocking my view.

  “Get upstairs.” So much of me wants to ignore his order and sidestep him, but I don’t. I only jump into action when he barks, “Now!” in my direction.

  It takes forever for me to climb the stairs, not because I’m in any great pain but because I don’t want to leave. Tim trudges to the entryway, and I want to hear what he’ll say to Maddox. Will he warn him away? Tell him I’m unstable, go into excruciating detail how I’ve attempted to kill myself three times over the last year alone? Will he tell Maddox of my nightmares, the ones where I wake up screaming because in them Tim is holding me down to eviscerate what’s left of my innocence? I wouldn’t put it past Tim to say all this. To tell Maddox the extent of my mental illness just to make him stay away from me. And he will, I’m sure. Not only did I follow him to his home, but if Tim tells him all these things about me, it’ll only drive home for Maddox just how truly crazy I am. And no one wants to be associated with crazy.

  It hurts my heart to think that Maddox will see me like that. Painted in the light of a mental patient. I hate that I even care, that his opinion of me matters. At the top of the stairs, their conversation is too muffled for me to hear or understand anything. But it’s brief and soon enough I hear the front door close and Tim’s heavy footsteps. I run to my room, close the door, and turn the lock in place. With my heart in my throat, I wait. Five…ten minutes pass, and then…

  “Aylee?” The inquiry that follows the soft knock on my bedroom door has my body sagging in relief.

  I open it to find Sarah’s sad face staring back at me through the dimly lit hallway. “Hey,” I greet with a small, pained smile, my cheek still throbbing. “What’s up?”

  “Are you okay? Daddy didn’t hurt you...right?” There’s a plea in her voice, a glint of hope in her blue eyes that my next words will be exactly what she wants to hear rather than the brutal words of honesty. She wants me to lie to her. Rachel wants me to lie to her. Like mother, like daughter. They can’t face the truth. Tim is a great dad to Sarah. He’s never struck her. And I want to believe so badly that he’s never inappropriately touched her. Sarah worships her father. Rachel worships her husband. He hits her but the fact that he shows her affection outweighs that tragedy. Tim is beloved in this house by two very deluded people.

  “I’m okay.” It’s not the truth. But not a lie either. I�
��m going to be okay because I’ve been through this before. Much worse than this. “Did you want something else? I’m really tired. I was going to take a shower and go to bed.” I’m not up for entertaining her right now.

  She pouts disappointedly, “Okay, then we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, tomorrow.”

  I’m closing the door when she stops me. “Aylee?”

  I sigh. “Yeah?”

  “Daddy…daddy loves you. You know that, right? Even when he does bad things…he still loves you. He loves all of us.”

  His love is wrong. He loves me the wrong way. Will she understand if I tell her that? Will she understand the implication?

  With a nod, I bite the inside of my cheek. “Night, Sarah.”

  I see it on her face; she wants to say more. Tell me more positive shit about her father so that I don’t think badly of him. She wants to take me into her idyllic world and show me that her dad isn’t the monster who preys on me. I don’t give her a chance to speak further as I promptly close the door with her still standing there. I come away from the door, and OCD has me triple checking the knob just to make sure it’s locked. I assume Rachel has gotten Tim’s attention somehow or he’s on his way to his den in the basement, where he’ll spend the next few hours drowning in amber liquid. The sudden strong urge to shower brings me to my bathroom and it’s beneath the running jets raining down on me that my body truly relaxes. When I’m done, I head back to my room and catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. There’s a bruise forming from where he hit me. By tomorrow it will be hideous. Glaring at nothing in particular, I walk away, unable to look at myself for too long. Before crawling on my bed, I find my cell phone inside my backpack and bring it with me. There’s a long, colorful text from Mallory.