by R. K. Lilley
"Go back to practice," I told him. "You can come get me when you're done."
He wasn't pleased about that. "Fuck practice. I'm not leaving you."
He was immovable on the subject, and I was secretly relieved.
"Oh look who decided to come home after three fucking days," was my greeting from Glenda as I walked into the trailer for the first time since the attack. "No word from you, not even a phone call, and you come waltzing in like you still live here."
"Didn't Gram tell yo—?"
"She's not your gram, and you should have told me. Something like that happens, and you don't even call?"
I hadn't even considered it. When I needed someone or some comfort or support, I never thought of her.
"You want to stay up on that fancy hill, you go right ahead, you little brat! I never wanted you here anyway! Collect your shit and get out!" she said and left with a slam.
Oh that's right, I thought. It was Friday. I was interrupting her weekly binge-drunk, and I assumed she was heading to a bar to remedy that.
Dante pressed his chest against my back, leaning down to kiss my temple. "Are you okay?"
I mulled it over. "She told me to leave. I get to leave."
He threaded our fingers together and nuzzled his face into my hair. "Jesus. It's about fucking time. Just think, we get to wake up together every morning. Let's pack your stuff and get the hell out of here."
I was kind of amazed at how much stuff I actually had. We filled up his entire car and we still weren't even done, but I was tired, so we quit. I could get the rest later.
I couldn't quite believe I got to leave the hated trailer dump to stay permanently with Gram. I was reeling, almost giddy about it. It felt like Dante and I had been waiting our whole lives to live together, and finally it was happening. We could be together, day and night. Just the idea of it overshadowed everything else that had happened, for a time, and I was almost lighthearted.
But it wasn't meant to last.
*****
I borrowed Dante's car the next day while he was at football practice, telling him I was tired and going to Gram's to lie down.
"I can skip out. I'll take you home." He looked like he wanted to. Football had fallen very low on his priorities since the attack.
Everything had a silver lining of some kind.
I waved him off. "No, don't bother. Unless you mind me borrowing your car?"
"Of course not. Be careful. And I can just walk home."
I was worried about him doing that, not because I thought he'd get attacked like I had, obviously. I was worried because I thought he wanted to. He'd been relentless and had finally gotten it out of me who the attacker was.
It was a homeless guy that we saw most days on our walk home. No mistaking him. Dante didn't just know who he was, he knew where to find him.
I knew he'd go after the guy given half a chance.
"I'll come back to pick you up," I assured him.
I didn't head straight to Gram's. I had a few things yet to get from Glenda's trailer, and I figured the sooner I did it the better. She was liable to burn the stuff if I left it there for long.
I was nearly finished packing one last little box of pictures and keepsakes when I heard the loud sound of a car pulling onto Grandma's loose gravel driveway.
I glanced out a window. It was an old, brown sedan, and as I watched, Detective Harris stepped out of it.
I was not happy to see him.
I wanted the creep who'd attacked me caught, but I'd had more than my fill of dealing directly with the police.
Still, I went to the door and greeted him.
He smiled and asked how I was doing, citing that he hadn't wanted to intimidate me by pulling me into the station again for more questions, which I thought was supposed to be nice.
Nice, but nerve-racking. I didn't want to be alone with a strange man after what had only just happened to me.
Still, I did hate the police station. It always made me feel paranoid. I was so used to being in trouble that it just felt instinctual to stay away from a place like that.
"Where's Detective Flynn?" I asked him warily. I really didn't like her.
"She's back at the station, doing some paperwork. I got the impression that you'd be more comfortable without her." As he spoke he was looking down at his notepad, jotting down something that I couldn't make out. "Can I come in?"
I didn't want to let him in. Felt a powerful urge to refuse him, in fact. "Can I call my friend?"
He cocked his head to the side. "Why?"
"To, you know, have a friend here with me for this."
"I don't understand."
"It would make me feel better."
He smiled kindly at me. "I'm your friend, Scarlett. And I don't think it's . . . appropriate to have some teenager involve themselves in an official police case. Listen, this will be quick, and I promise you it is necessary. Can I come in, or would you rather go to the station?" he asked again.
"I suppose not," I said stiffly, truly rattled. "You can come in." I knew it was just the fear from all that'd happened, but I did not want to be alone with this man, cop or not, or any man at all just then, for that matter.
"Can I call Mrs. Durant—Vivian—and have her join us?" I tried again. She wasn't a teenager, and I knew with certainty that she'd come if I needed her.
He'd been jotting something on his pad again, but he looked up at that. "Also not the best idea. All of this is sensitive information about an active case. I really can't allow you to divulge any of these details to anyone not actively involved."
Should I tell him that I'd already told Gram and Dante virtually everything, or would that get me into some sort of trouble? I wondered.
"Now have a seat, Scarlett," he said, perching himself on the sofa. He patted the spot next to him.
Trying not to visibly shudder, I sat down, getting as far away from him on the couch as I possibly could.
"Dear girl," he said, still giving me that benevolent smile of his. "I know you've been over all of this, but I want you to do it again, for my direct ears this time. Maybe I'll catch something that Detective Flynn didn't."
My original statement at the station had been given to Flynn alone out of sensitivity to the fact that I was a teenage girl who had just been sexually assaulted.
Where the hell was that sensitivity now?
Harris shifted closer to me, and I had to fight not to cringe away. "I know this is hard. Just take your time and explain it to me as best you can. Every detail you can recall. Details are very important. Crucial in a case like this, if you actually want us to catch the culprit. You want that, right?"
I just froze, staring down at my hands. I did not want to go over it all again, and certainly not here.
"Here, let me try this again," he said gently. "I'll start with some questions, so it's less daunting, okay?"
I glanced at him and he smiled again. He had a great smile framed by an even greater face. His teeth were straight and white, his features even and handsome, his skin olive-toned, his eyes deep set and so dark that his pupils blended seamlessly into his irises.
I studied him closely for the first time.
He didn't look like a small town cop. He looked like a hard as nails sexy cop from a TV show.
Even so, I didn't want to be alone in a small space with him. And I particularly didn't want to tell him what had happened to me in detail.
Mostly what I wanted was to be left alone for a very long time.
But I wanted the creep that'd attacked me to be caught most of all. I didn't want to be scared every time I took a walk by myself, if I could ever bring myself to walk alone again.
"Okay," I finally said, looking back down at my lap.
"Did the man penetrate you?"
I jerked at the word, bewildered eyes flying back to his face. "N-n-no," I finally and with great effort got out.
"What did he do?"
I touched the back of my skull, eyes aimed at my lap
. "I didn't see him coming. Something hard hit the back of my head—a rock, I guess?—and then he pinned me on my stomach. His arms reached around me, and he was trying to take off my jeans. He was clumsy and out of breath, strong, but he couldn't get the button undone. His mouth was at my ear. His whole . . . body was on my back. I always thought he was skinny, but he was so heavy on my back."
"Don't stop," Detective Harris said when I'd paused for too long. "Continue."
"He kept trying, for a while to get the button open, and while he did that he was . . . grinding against me."
"Where was he grinding on you? And what exactly was he grinding against you?"
I was red with shame. This retelling was even more embarrassing than the first one, which had been horrible.
"My . . . butt."
"Stand up, turn around, and show me where exactly."
My bewildered eyes shot to his.
His eyes were apologetic. "I know it's embarrassing, but it's for the case. I need to work through every detail. Exhaustively. The more you cooperate, the more likely it is that the D.A. will have a good case against this guy once we catch him."
I was shaking as I stood and turned. I wished I'd worn something other than short cutoffs, but I hadn't been expecting a detective at my door.
I pointed to the spot on my butt then quickly sat down.
He was watching me, studying me so relentlessly that I couldn't look at his eyes.
"And what did he grind there, right against your asshole?"
My eyes shot back up to him at that. My shame and bewilderment working together to nip at my volatile temper.
What the hell was wrong with this cop? Was he trying to embarrass me?
"Answer the question, Scarlett."
I looked down at my hands. "His p-p-p-penis."
He cleared his throat. "Was it hard?"
"I think so. Yes."
"You think so? Why the uncertainty? Do you not know what a hard dick feels like?"
My snapping eyes were meeting his sympathetic ones now. Hello, temper.
"I do. It was hard. Are we done?"
"Not at all. Semi-hard or hard?
"Hard."
"Hard. Completely hard, not semi-hard, and he was grinding it against your butt, trying to shove it in your asshole through your jeans. Is that accurate?"
I nodded, shaking with fury. With shame. Fear.
"Had he pulled his hard dick out of his pants, or was it grinding against you through his pants?
Nausea moved through me, because I'd felt it enough to know the answer to that. "He'd pulled it out."
"So it was bare and hard and grinding against you?"
"Yes."
"I'm just trying to get every bit of information I can, sweetie. Details are more important than you think."
"Are we almost done?"
"Almost. And you were just lying there? Or were you fighting him?"
"I was stunned at first. I think the blow to my head maybe knocked me out for a second or two. And I was just trying to breathe. He'd slammed the breath out of me. But after a while, when I realized what was happening, I started to struggle.
"Did he get the button undone? On your shorts?"
"He didn't."
"How tight were those shorts? Were they as tight as the ones you're wearing now?"
I shrugged, hating that he'd pointed something like that out, wishing that my shorts were less tight.
"Stand up again, sweet girl," he told me, voice careful, gentle.
I did it, wondering if I could refuse to do this. Whether they caught the guy or not, this interview was starting to make me feel sick to my stomach. Something was very off about all of it.
Something was very wrong with this cop.
He stood up, looming over me.
"Lift up your arms," he ordered softly.
I did it, trembling.
The motion brought my shirt up high enough to expose my stomach.
His eyes were on his hands as he fingered the waistband of my jean shorts. "So tight. Not an inch to spare here. Were your shorts that day as tight as this?" he asked again.
"Yes," I said through my teeth.
I wanted to sock him, but I refrained. I had a healthy fear of police. Even I had never hit one before.
"Keep going. What did he do then?"
"He started pulling at my pants, trying to get them down over my hips with the button still fastened."
"Did he succeed?"
"No."
"Those tight jean shorts of yours might have saved you, you know. Were you a virgin?"
I flushed and sat down without asking.
He moved to stand directly over me, and I regretted the decision. "Are you a virgin?" he repeated when I'd been quiet too long.
"I have a boyfriend," I finally gritted out in answer.
"It's a yes or no question, dear girl. Have you had sex?"
"Yes."
"Yes, you've had sex? Or yes, you're a virgin?"
"I've had sex. With my boyfriend."
"How many times? Just once? A few times?"
I blushed and shook my head. "More than a few times."
"How many?"
I shrugged. "I have no idea. I haven't been counting."
"Guess for me. More than a hundred times?"
I glared at him. "Probably. Does it matter?"
"Yes. All of this matters. Guess a number for me, sweet girl. Approximately how many times have you had sex with your boyfriend? Vaginal sex."
"Two hundred."
He looked strange, like I'd riled him.
I started shaking harder, wondering if I could get past him and out the door, or if he'd stop me.
"Two hundred?" he breathed. "Are you messing with me?"
"Like I said, I haven't been counting, but I'd guess closer to two hundred than one hundred." My tone was defiant to hide the fact that he was terrifying me.
"With his dick in you? Two hundred times?"
I barely nodded.
"So your boyfriend puts his dick in your pussy pretty much every spare moment of the day? What else do you do? Does he fuck you in the ass?"
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I whispered at my lap.
"Did this other guy, the one that attacked you, put it in your ass?"
"He didn't," I said through my teeth.
"Did he penetrate you anywhere?"
I was blinking hard, trying not to cry. I was so angry, and ashamed, and confused. I felt so helpless that I didn't know how to react. This wasn't right. None of this was right.
"I t-t-told you, he c-c-couldn't get my jeans off."
"So the jeans stayed on. What happened then?"
"He -k-k-kept . . . g-g-grinding against me.
"His bare dick against your asshole, but over your jeans."
I nodded, glaring at him. "There." I paused. "And against my thigh.
"Where on your thigh? Get up and show me?"
I shook my head, tears pouring down my face. "N-n-n-no. P-p-p-p-please. I don't want to, sir, please."
"Dear girl, if you want to catch this guy, you're going to have to do your part." His voice hardened. "Stand up now, or I'll assume you aren't serious about catching him. Did you know we've been studying a string of serial rapes over the past decade? A violent man attacking women in the woods across three cities. And a few women have even disappeared. Did you know that?"
I'd heard about one attack locally but it'd been years ago, and several more attacks, but not here, in other towns, if close ones. I'd never heard a word about the disappearances, though.
On trembling legs, I stood.
"Show me where on your thigh. Was it more toward the back? Turn around and show me."
I turned, and bent, and touched the very vulnerable spot where my groin met my thigh, deep up into my shorts.
He was a very large man with a badge and a gun. I was out of my depth. Helpless. Completely. And the way he was acting was not right.
"So he got it up that high? Damn,
he was close. A few more moves and he'd have had it in."
I might've been in shock, but I went a little numb after that, my mind got a little hazy. Distant.
"But you're saying, even though he got it right there, one quick shove away from your pussy, he still couldn't figure it out, still didn't penetrate you?"
I shook my head, chin to my chest, eyes pointed down, tears falling silently. Not tears of sadness. Tears of terror.
Because I felt terrorized.
"What next?"
"He was grabbing my chest, hard, hurting me."
"Your breasts, you mean?"
"Yes."
"He bruised you up good, I heard. He really did a number on you. How are they healing up? I bet they're sensitive. Big breasts like yours usually are."
I felt exposed, mortified.
I couldn't stop trembling. The tears wouldn't stop leaking out of my eyes, and my hands went up instinctively, covering my breasts.
"They still hurt?"
"I guess," I said. They hurt like hell. I still couldn't put on a bra.
"You know, sweet girl, it's impossible for a busty girl like you to go around without a bra without it showing. They must hurt. How tender are they?"
"T-t-tender."
"Okay, so he was grabbing your big, soft tits and grinding his hard, bare dick against your asshole, over your jeans, and down lower, against your thigh, right into your shorts, just a quick prayer from that tight little pussy. It's still tight, right? Even after letting your boyfriend put it in there two hundred times?"
"D-d-d-d-do you have to say it all like that? C-c-c-could you please try to be a little more p-p-p-p-professional?"
He didn't answer, and though his eyes were still kind on mine, I was quickly learning not to trust them.
"I was screaming by then, and struggling, trying to fight him, but it was hard, being on my stomach like that."
"Was he saying anything to you? Was his mouth still at your ear?"
"Yes. He was saying all sorts of horrible things into my ear. H-h-he called me names, a c-c-c-cunt, a wh-wh-whore, a b-b-bitch, a s-s-slut, and told me to take my jeans off or he'd k-k-kill me."
"Did he have a weapon?"
"I never saw one."
"Did he say how he'd kill you?"
"No."
