Breaking Her (Love is War #2) (18 page)

"So he got it up that high?
 
Damn, he was close.
 
A few more moves and he'd have had it in."
 

I might've been in shock, but I went a little numb after that, my mind got a little hazy.
 
Distant.
 

"But you're saying, even though he got it right there, one quick shove away from your pussy, he still couldn't figure it out, still didn't penetrate you?"
 

I shook my head, chin to my chest, eyes pointed down, tears falling silently.
 
Not tears of sadness.
 
Tears of terror.
 

Because I felt terrorized.
   

"What next?"
   

"He was grabbing my chest, hard, hurting me."
 

"Your breasts, you mean?"
 

"Yes."
 

"He bruised you up good, I heard.
 
He really did a number on you.
 
How are they healing up?
 
I bet they're sensitive.
 
Big breasts like yours usually are."

I felt exposed, mortified.
   

I couldn't stop trembling.
 
The tears wouldn't stop leaking out of my eyes, and my hands went up instinctively, covering my breasts.
   

"They still hurt?"
   

"I guess," I said.
 
They hurt like hell.
 
I still couldn't put on a bra.

"You know, sweet girl, it's impossible for a busty girl like you to go around without a bra without it showing.
 
They must hurt.
 
How tender are they?"
 

"T-t-tender."
   

"Okay, so he was grabbing your big, soft tits and grinding his hard, bare dick against your asshole, over your jeans, and down lower, against your thigh, right into your shorts, just a quick prayer from that tight little pussy.
 
It's still tight, right?
 
Even after letting your boyfriend put it in there two hundred times?"
 

"D-d-d-d-do you have to say it all like that?
 
C-c-c-could you please try to be a little more p-p-p-p-professional?"
 

He didn't answer, and though his eyes were still kind on mine, I was quickly learning not to trust them.
 

"I was screaming by then, and struggling, trying to fight him, but it was hard, being on my stomach like that."

"Was he saying anything to you?
 
Was his mouth still at your ear?"
 

"Yes.
 
He was saying all sorts of horrible things into my ear.
 
H-h-he called me names, a c-c-c-cunt, a wh-wh-whore, a b-b-bitch, a s-s-slut, and told me to take my jeans off or he'd k-k-kill me."
 

"Did he have a weapon?"
 

"I never saw one."

"Did he say
how
he'd kill you?"

"No."
 

"Did you take off your jeans for him?"
 

"No.
 
I kept struggling until, um, he was done.
 
And then he got up and ran away."
 

"Do you know what made him leave?"
 

"He was
done
, I think."
 

"He finished on you?"
 

I nodded jerkily.
 

"Where did he finish on you?
 
Where did his cum go?"
 

I shuddered.
 

"Turn around and show me, as best as you can, where his semen went."
 

I did it fast, pointing from my rear all the way up my back, where I'd felt it and seen it when I'd taken my clothes off.
 

"All on your clothing?
 
Or some on your skin?"

"S-s-s-skin t-t-t-t-too."
 

"And you got a good look at him?
 
I remember you said that.
 
But nothing you just told me indicates that you were looking at anything but the ground."
 

"When he g-got up and started running, I stood.
 
I was dizzy, but I saw him.
 
I recognized him.
 
He's the homeless guy that always hangs out by the river, at the bridge right by the middle school.
 
I thought he was harmless before, he usually just ignores everyone that passes him, but I guess I'd never encountered him alone.
 
I usually walk to school with a friend of mine."
 

"Okay.
 
So you got a good look at him running away.
 
Did you see his face?"
 

"Yes.
 
He looked back at me as he was running.
 
It was definitely the same guy that's usually hanging out there.
 
I've probably seen him on the way home from school, camped out by the river, a hundred times."
 

"Okay.
 
I think we're done for now.
 
You did a good job today, sweet girl.
 
We're going to find this guy.
 
I promise."
   

I was so relieved I started crying harder.
 

He seemed to take that as an invitation to pull me into his chest, embracing me.
   

It was almost comforting.
 
The size and shape of him, so big and hard, reminded me of Dante.
 

But this was not Dante.
 
This was a middle-aged cop who I knew I couldn't trust.
 

Was he going to leave soon?
 
Please, please leave soon.
 

I tried to pull away, but he held me fast.
 
I started to struggle, and he let me know how strong he was by bear-hugging so hard that I couldn't move.
   

If only I could stop crying, maybe he'd leave.
   

"Hey now," he murmured into my hair.
 
"You're safe here, sweet girl.
 
I'm just trying to help you.
 
Just cooperate, okay?
 
And know this:
 
You can tell me anything.
 
I know you're a good girl, right?
 
I can see that, and I want you to know that if you have any questions about what happened to you, you can always come to me, with anything, okay?"
 

"I just want to be alone," I gasped into his chest.

"Okay.
 
Okay, I get it.
 
But you call me if you need anything, okay?"
 

I agreed to, just to get him to leave.
 

When he was finally gone I stood shaking at the door, twisting the bolt, again and again, to be sure it was locked.
       

I may have been in shock.
 
I didn't feel right.
 
I wasn't sure what to do.
 

I felt dirtier, more raw than I had even after the attack.
 
Somehow, this had felt like even more of a violation.
 

I took a shower and rubbed my skin until it burned.
 

What had just happened hadn't been normal procedure. I knew that, of course, but what could I do about it?
   

Who could I tell?
 
The police?
 
He was, sadly, the nicest one I'd met so far.
 

I knew absolutely that I could not tell Dante.
 
He was a maniac when it came to that sort of thing.
 
He'd fight anybody.
 
He didn't give a
damn
.
 
Cop or not.
 
Adult or not, he'd go after this creep and end up in jail.
 
I was certain of it.

It took a few days, but I worked up the nerve to call his partner, Detective Flynn, to try to tell her how he'd acted toward me, but she quickly put me in my place.
 

She was not inclined to believe anything I had to say, in fact she wanted to give me an earful.
 

She told me in no uncertain terms that I was nothing but a troublemaker, just like my mother, who she enjoyed informing me, spite in every word, had stolen her boyfriend from her in high school and was still feeling the sting of it.

Just my luck.
 

And who else did that leave?
 
The sheriff?
 
One of the other cops?
 
It was just a list of people that hated me, that thought I was trash, people who had become absolutely convinced a long time ago that
I
was the problem.
 

I thought that interview was the worst of it, and the worst had been bad enough.
 

But the blows just kept coming.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"She's mad, but she's magic.
 
There's no lie in her fire."
 

~Charles Bukowski

PRESENT

DANTE

What was I doing here?

I didn't have a good answer to that question.
 
Not even for myself.

Certainly I had no hope.
 
No more than I ever did.
 

But mostly, I couldn't help myself.
 

I could not stay away.
 

She was the siren that called men to their destruction, and I was the first and most eager to answer that deadly call.
 

Every fucking time.
 

Always there was a debate in my mind when I did this, when I gave in and went to her again.
 

Was this heaven or hell?
 

I'd never been able to answer that question, and that was the whole fucking problem.
 

It was both.

I'd pulled strings to gain access to her trailer while she was on set.
 
I'd done so promising I was just leaving her a gift and then I was supposed to go.
 

I didn't do that.
 
I set her gift on the small table then promptly sprawled out on her sofa, loosening my tie, kicking off my shoes.
 

She had to have a break at some point.
 
I had time.
 
I'd wait.
 

I was dozing when the door opened some time later.
 
I sat up with a start.
 

It was her, and for some reason she didn't call security on me.
 

Instead, she stepped in and closed the door behind her.
   

I took her in, let her presence wash over me, my eyes devouring her in nonconsecutive bites; her face, her legs, her hands, her lips, her feet, her eyes, her shoulders, her ankles, her chest, her neck, my eyes darting all over her like she might disappear.
     

Nothing I'd ever seen could touch her.
 
She was as ravishing as she was unattainable.

So heartbreakingly lovely that I ached with it.
 

A familiar, gnawing pang started throbbing in my gut, and I let the pain wash over me for a moment, indulged in it.
 

There'd been changes since the last photos I'd seen of her.
 
She'd colored her hair, for the part no doubt, lightened it up just a touch, but enough so that gold streaks overtook and dominated the color, making her some deep, tawny version of blonde.

She was dressed simply, outfitted for whatever scene she'd been doing in a soft white button up blouse tucked into a high-waisted, well-fitted light gray skirt.
 
It was an almost conservative ensemble, until you took in the shoes.
 
They were glittering ivory platform stilettos with a peep toe, and she wore them like a weapon.

I'd have bet money she'd made friends with the wardrobe person, that she'd had at least some say in those man-eater heels.

My eyes shot up to her face as her luscious mouth turned up mockingly at the corners, her fingers going to the front of her blouse, fingering the top button.
     

Without a word, she started to undress.

"Scarlett."
 
Two syllables.
 
Utter devastation.

She undid one button, and then the next, revealing silky cleavage, a lacy white bra.

"I didn't come here for this," I told her, trying my best to sound convincing.

We always said our lines, played our parts, but that didn't mean I wasn't sincere.
 

The problem was, no matter my intentions, when it came to her, I did not have one measly ounce of self-control.
 

She smiled and it was so vicious that it made me flinch.
 
"Once again, you're a fool.
 
What did you come here for then?"
 
She asked the familiar question with an unfamiliar something in her voice.
 

Something soft,
or did I just want to hear that?
 

Something forgiving?
 
No, certainly I must have been imagining that.
 

"I wanted to ask you a question."

She'd finished unbuttoning her shirt and shrugged it off nonchalantly.
 
Without pausing her fingers went to the front clasp of her bra, snapping it open.
 

My jaw went slack, my mind blank.
 
I may have drooled.
 

"What was the question?" she asked, sounding so annoyed that I knew she must have asked it several times before I heard it.
 

But seriously, what did she expect?
 
She was topless now, playing with her incomparable breasts while she spoke.
 
Of course she knew what she was doing.
 
The amused glint in her eye told me that she was messing with me and she loved the results.