Page 99 of Broken Lines

Obviously, half a lifetime of excess and self-destruction later, I understand how fucked up that is. And how poisoning it was to keep those things inside. But it was what it was.

“Eventually, he caught her with me again. And again. And every time, she’d cry and sob and tell him what a pervert I was, and how I wouldn’t leave her alone or couldn’t keep my hands off of her. And every time, I was sure it was going to be the time he finally just kept going until I was dead.”

I shake my head bitterly.

If there’s a hell, they’re both there. And I fucking hope it burns.

“Then one time, he walked in with a gun.”

Melody’s face pales, and her hand tightens in mine.

“He sat there in my room, pointed it at me, and told me to keep going. And that if I stopped, he’d fucking shoot me.”

I close my eyes.

“The next day, he was gone. He just went to work or wherever, and never came home. She didn’t work, so she took it out on me—called me a bastard and a home wrecker, and all this shit. So, I left, too. Went to stay at Iggy’s house, which was its own nightmare, but it was better than that.”

I draw in a slow breath, turning to look at Melody. I take her other hand, bring them to my lips as I kiss her knuckles.

“I knowthe fury and the pain of those broken pieces inside, Melody,” I growl thinly.

Tears slide down her cheeks. Slowly, she starts to move closer to me.

“You havenothingto prove—”

“I want to be touched,” she chokes in a hushed whisper. Her face caves, her eyes squeezing shut. “Ineedto be touched. By you.”

I pull her softly into my arms, wrapping them around her as she pulls curls into my lap.

“I was thirteen.”

“You don’t need to tell me this.”

“I know.”

Her breath exhales against my chest.

“He was dating my mom, and when she was gone one night, he came to my room…”

She shudders against me.

“He’s…” she shivers. “He’s why I don’t sing in front of people anymore. And I used toloveto sing,” she says softly. “I mean I really loved it. I still do, I just…can’t. Because he…he…”

Fury explodes deep in my chest as my hands tighten on her. I grit my teeth, eyes narrowing into the fire.

“He…” her voice shakes. “When he was touching me, he told me to ‘sing pretty’ for him.”

Fucking Christ.

That’s what did it. That’s what pushed her into that hole, before. Because I fucking said thesame thingher fucking monster said to her.

“I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s…” she shakes her head, dragging in a shaky breath. “I hate him for what he did to my body. But it’s like I hate him even more for what he took away from me.”

The rage threatening to explode out of every pore in my body actually shakes me. The pure, murderous rage I feel for the motherfucker who silenced her and took something as personal as the expression of music—singing—from her, is staggering.

“Who,” I rasp thickly, shaking in my rage. “Who thefuckis he.”

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