“It turned out she was in love with a boy, much older than her, and he… He got her pregnant.” I leaf through the memory with a heavy sigh. “When he found out, he split. Can you imagine that? He got a fifteen-year-old girl pregnant and left her to fend for herself, to deal with this life-altering situation alone, not to mention the fear, the shame.”
“She must have been terrified.”
“On top of that, her parents forced her to have an abortion. Much to her luck or dismay, I can’t decide to this day, the doctors said she was too young and her body wasn’t strong enough to handle it. They said she could die in the process, so her parents hid her for the summer until she gave birth, gave the baby up for adoption and kept it all a secret.”
“That’s terrible. That girl must have been traumatized for life.”
“True, but in my opinion, that isn’t the worst part. Do you know what’s even more traumatizing? Nothing happened to that boy. He groomed a fifteen-year-old girl and got her pregnant andnothinghappened to him whatsoever, but I…”
Bitter hate stings my throat like bile. “I’ve spent all my life wondering what I could have possibly done that was more vile, more wrong, than what he’d done, that he’d get to live his life like a fucking king while I’d be beaten,” a tremor runs through me, “and called names…and locked up,” I force out through shudders, “and starved…and thrown out in the cold…and mutilated…and…” I can’t control the shakes or the sobs.
Suddenly, Butterfly Man’s arms are around me. He’s holding me tight, careful not to move the pins. He’s whispering things in my ear, like he’s trying to calm me down, but I can’t hear them over the sound of my tears.
It’s not an act. I can’t stop crying. I’m bawling my eyes out in the arms of my captor, and I can’t stop. Thirty-four years of pain unwrap and crack me open, and the only thing I have for solace is the embrace of my tormentor, the mercy of a serial killer in a mask.
“How could the guilty get away with anything while the innocent take the blame for it all?” I sniffle.
“Not anymore, darling. I’m here. No one can touch you again. No one. No more.”
No one but you.And yet, here I am. I don’t recoil or tell you to leave. I welcome the relief of your warmth, the tenderness of your embrace, and let it piece together what’s left of my fractured soul.
“There you have it. A truth I’ve never told anyone but you. How long does that earn me?”
His head lifts off my chest, and he stares at me for the longest time. Then, without a word, he flips the heater switch, gets off the table and heads for the stairs.
For some wicked reason, I mourn the loss of his arms around me. Part of me doesn’t want him to leave. Not now, at least.
He disappears in the dark, but I hear him ask, “The girl, did she give you a name for that monster?”
A chill runs through me despite the heat wrapping around me. “Yes. He was one of the boys who lived on our street.”
CHAPTER 13
Reagan
I spot Shane leaning against his bike near the edge of the school parking lot, helmet dangling from one hand. He’s scanning the crowd, and when his eyes land on me, his cocky grin spreads across his face.
It’s been three months since that night he climbed through my window, and he’s been showing up like this ever since. Not every day—the MC keeps him busy—but once a week, sometimes twice. Taking me home, or to the mall, or just for a ride through the city.
I shouldn’t look forward to it as much as I do, but those days when I get to see him are the best. I hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder and make my way over to him. Brittany and her friends are practically salivating over him. I’ve learned to ignore the whispers and the stares.
He pushes off the bike as I approach. “Hey, baby girl.”
“Hi.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly shy under his gaze. “You didn’t have to come. I mean, you must have better things to do.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Better things than seeing ya?”
My cheeks flush. “I just mean...things are better at home now. You don’t have to keep checking on me.”
“Better doesn’t mean good. She still giving you shit?”
I shrug. “No. No hitting.” It’s true. Sort of. After that morning she saw Shane in my bed, something changed. My mother doesn’t hit me anymore, and she gave me the guest room. Shestill drinks, though. Still calls me names. Still threatens me when she’s drunk enough. But, at least, the beatings stopped. For now.
His jaw tightens. “Good. ’Cause if she ever—”
“I know.” I cut him off gently. “I just don’t want you to worry anymore, and you don’t have to waste any more time coming all the way here.”
“Ain’t wasting shit, kiddo. Love my time with ya. You saying you don’t want me around?”
