Page 59 of Keeping Her Under
“And, of course, whatever back rent she hasn’t paid,” I add.
She grins wickedly. “Damn. You must really love her.”
I laugh. “She’s missed that much?”
Her grin splits her face in two. “Yeah, but it’s really no bother. I didn’t rent to her to make money. I just knew she wouldn’t take charity.”
For that, I throw in a kindness bonus and pay for the house to be professionally cleaned.
She whistles as the money comes through her banking app. The cash in my wallet was nowhere near enough. But as I turn to head back inside to finish packing up the books, she says, “Treat her right.”
“I will.”
“I fucking mean it.”
I pivot to face her.
“I don’t care how slick you are or how rich – you hurt her, and I’ll find a way to make you regret it.” She shakes her head. “That poor girl’s been through enough, and men are always thinking they can prey on the vulnerable. Easy fucking pickings. Well, she ain’t vulnerable anymore, you hear me?” She draws herself up to her full 4’11”. “She’s got me.”
I smile at her, but it’s a sad one despite how much I approve of what she said. Because I’ve seen that kind of postering before. I’ve heard that same venomous, protective empathy – from Asher. After he got raped by his father.
“I hear you,” I say softly. “And I hope the fucker who hurt you isn’t around anymore.”
She draws back, caught off guard. Angry tears glisten, and she blinks rapidly. “I didn’t get it as bad as others,” she says. The things we tell ourselves to make it bearable...
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t bad.”
She crosses her arms, protecting herself. From my seeing eyes. From her piercing memories.
“He’d rape me while I was asleep,” she whispers. “I’d wake up knowing he touched me.” She rubs at her arms, able to feel him.
I stumble back in horrified disgust.
“Shit,” Alina mutters. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to share.”
Her defenses are fully up. Her heart guarded. Her walls unclimbable. She knows all too well the judgement of society. As if we are the ones who need to be shamed for sharing our truths.
“No,” I rasp, shaking my head hard. Despite the tightness in my chest and the clawing pit in my stomach, I force the words out. If she was anyone else, I’d shut the door in her face, but she was there for my girl when I couldn’t be, so I will be here for her now.
“I… My mother’s boyfriends…” I try.
“Shit,” she repeats, and I know I must look as white as a fucking Irishman because her eyes are full of camaraderie. I don’t need to say the rest of the words for her to know I’m a survivor too.
But I need to let her know that I’m not disgusted by her truth. And so I push the words out. “I got myself drunk…”
“It’s not your fault –”
“So they couldn’t rape me.”
Her brow wrinkles in confusion.
And then it clicks.
And then there comes the pity.
The tightness in my chest grows suffocating.
“They didn’t rape me.” It was the only power I had to stop them. “They didn’t rape me,” I repeat. It’s how I justified fucking the unconscious. It was the only healthy way to have sex that I knew.
