Page 63 of Bake the Town Red

To why I break into Dahlia’s apartment and jack off.

Why I fantasize about spanking her raw and making her cry for me.

It didn’t. The abuse he and Dahlia went through fucked with my head.

Badly.

“Stop!” A muffled scream reached my apartment. I could hear Ian all the way up to the fifth floor. “Leave her alone!”

Dahlia hardly ever screamed. For the past two months, she’d barely let out any sound while Al tortured her. While he made Ian hurt her.

Ian couldn’t stay silent. Wouldn’t do it.

He’d told me a week ago he kept hoping someone other than me would call the cops.

I’d done it twice before. Every time they showed up, Al would put on his charming smile. Claim the bruise on Dahlia’s cheek was Ian’s fault. Just normal siblings in a normal fight.

Twice, the three of us had claimed Ian had nothing to do with this. Twice, Al had managed to convince the cops that Dahlia was a little liar and I was too in love to see through her lies. That I was a sexual predator.

I had no such feeling for a fifteen-year-old girl. No twenty-seven-year-old ever should.

Too bad Al was more convincing. They’d warned me if they ever see my predatory ass here, they’d be forced to book me.Me.

Another good thing about Al’s death was that the false rumors cleared out. The detective who came to interview Dahlia after the fact had nothing to do with her sick uncle. Shelistened when Dahlia told her about the abuse. She believed her when Dahlia showed her the scars on her neck.

She even told her Ian could come back. That they wouldn’t charge him.

Ian was nowhere to be found.

And I got to be Dahlia’s ward.

But I digress.

They hadn’t bothered interviewing anyone in the building. They left after that.

No other neighbor called like Ian wished they would. No one backed us up.

No one.

“You have to help them.” Grams clutched my hand.

We were sitting on the couch, watchingCasablancalike we did at least once a month. She loved that movie. But she wasn’t paying attention to the screen anymore. Neither had I.

My body vibrated from pulses upon pulses of rage. My jaw ticked.

Staying here, not risking being arrested, was eating me alive.

“Tyler, make him stop. Please.” Her slender hand had a surprisingly strong grip. “I can’t bear it. Those poor children.”

“The police—” The start of my sad excuse made no sense to me, so I clamped my mouth shut. Got up. Pushed my feet into my boots.

I didn’t bother changing into jeans. My sleep T-shirt and gray sweats had to do.

No time. No time. No time.

“Don’t call the cops,” Grandma whispered after me. I was already at the door. Hand on the knob. “Save them. You. Only you can put an end to this. At least for tonight.”

One firm nod and I was out. Into the hallway. Down the stairs.

---