Page 102 of Already Home

He kissed his way down her neck. She wore a T-shirt over jeans.Her feet were bare. When he drew the T-shirt over her head and lightly touchedher breasts, she felt an actual shiver.

Nice, she thought hazily. This was nice.

He kissed her neck again, moved down to her collarbone, thenlower to the top of her breast. When he reached the curve, she snuggled close inanticipation of his soft, wet kiss. Instead she felt the sharp pain of histeeth.

“What?” she yelped and jumped back.

“You okay, baby?”

Cliff looked so normal, so much like he always did, that atfirst she couldn’t figure out what was wrong. She glanced down and saw he’dbitten her hard enough to break the skin. She saw the clear indentation of histeeth and blood seeping up through the broken skin.

“What was that?” she demanded.

“Don’t you like it?”

His voice and demeanor were so at odds with his behavior, thatshe couldn’t understand what was happening.

“You want me to do it again?” he asked, still speaking softly,warmly.

She reached for her T-shirt and started to pull it on.

He ripped it out of her hands. She never saw him raise hisfist. The next thing she knew, light and pain exploded in her cheek.

Instinctively she turned away, but she wasn’t fast enough. Shecould see the front door, her purse with her cell phone. If she could get toeither.

But she didn’t have a chance. He hit her face again.

“Whore,” he whispered into her ear. “You think I didn’t know?That I wouldn’t find out? I had a friend check up on you. He called me today andsaid that someone with your name was arrested in New Orleans for solicitation. Itold myself it wasn’t you, but then I saw that text message and I knew what youwere. What you’d always be.”

Violet cried out. “Stop!” she screamed. “Stop it now!”

She’d been beaten up twice before in her life—both times whileshe was still on the streets. Back then she’d been high and that had helped todull the pain. Now she felt the sting of the smack, the blood and loosened teethof his punch.

Cliff raised his arm again. She ducked, determined not to behit. But somehow she slipped and then she was falling. The side of her head hitthe coffee table.

Agony exploded. She felt the hot wetness of blood. She couldn’tseem to catch her breath, she thought as she went down on her knees.

Survive, she told herself, wishingthe high-pitched screaming would stop. Stayalive.

Someone pounded on her front door. “What’s going on inthere?”

She recognized the voice of her elderly male neighbor. Mr.McAllister was maybe a hundred-and-thirty pounds and used a cane.

I’m fine.

Violet meant to say the words, but they wouldn’t come out. Itwas only then she realized that she was the one screaming and she didn’t knowhow to stop.

Blood filled her mouth from the cut on her head, and shevomited.

Her front door opened. She heard Mr. McAllister demand, “Whoare you? What were you doing to Violet?” then the sound of hurried footsteps onthe stairs.

She allowed herself to fall to the carpet. As she hit, the roomwent blurry. She struggled to stay conscious.

Someone moved past her. She heard a voice saying somethingabout a beating and giving an address. Mr. McAllister, she thought, slippingaway. She would have to thank him later.

* * *

The police officer’s gaze was both sympathetic andunsurprised. Violet knew she saw this kind of thing all the time. You didn’thave to be poor or unemployed to be abused.

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