Breaking Her (Love is War #2) (17 page)

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.