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Reaching up with one hand, Johnny cupped my chin and used his free hand to gently sweep my hair off my neck.
He didn’t ask permission if he could touch me. He just did it.
Then his fingers were tracing the fingerprints left by my father, his featherlight touch making my entire body tremble.
“Someone touched you,” Johnny whispered in my ear, placing his fingers on the marks. “I want to know who.”
The air escaped my lungs in an audible gasp. Unable to stop myself, I sagged against his chest, eyes glued to our reflection in the mirror as he stared right back at me, blue eyes scorching holes in my soul, waiting for an explanation I could never give him.
“Tell me who put their hands on you,” he coaxed as he stood behind me, my face in his hand and his fingers on my throat. “And I’ll make it better.”
Think, Shannon, think…
“Well?”
Hurry the hell up…
“Shannon?”
“I got smashed up in P.E.,” was all I came up with.
Johnny didn’t respond. He just continued to stare at my neck with a dark expression.
Panicking, I hurried to add to my lies. “It was my fault. I got in the way of the boys during soccer, and four of them ended up crashing into me.”
Slipping around Johnny, I walked back into his bedroom, putting some space between us.
“I ended up on the bottom of a pileup. Happened just before you came in.” Shaking my head, I forced a small laugh. “It was total carnage.”
Johnny hovered in the bathroom doorway, expression tight, eyes sharp and intelligent.
“So, the hand of one of the lads in your class just so happened to land on your neck?” he asked, tone laced with disbelief. “His fingers just so happened to squeeze your throat?”
This one’s nobody’s fool, I thought to myself. Lie better, Shannon.
“It didn’t feel like that at the time.” I gave him a weak shrug and sat down on the edge of his bed. “But I guess that’s what happened.”
“You guess?” he repeated, folding his arms across his chest.
The movement caused his huge biceps to bulge. He was seriously huge. It was incredibly intimidating. But I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.
It was one of the few things in my life that I was absolutely certain of. This boy would never put his hands on me in anger.
Inhaling a steadying breath, I added, “Maybe he caught me when he was trying to stand up.”
“Maybe,” Johnny mused, nodding in agreement.
I sagged in relief.
“Or maybe it was those Legos again.”
My heart sank.
“Was it?” Johnny demanded. “Did you fall over the same Legos getting those fingerprints on your throat that you did when you busted up your face on your birthday?”
“Johnny—”
“And how about the bruise on the back of your neck the time before that? Or the red mark on your face the time before that again? Or the bruises on your thighs? And your arms? And the rest of you?” He glared at me. “Was that those pesky Legos, too?”
