Page 82 of Desperate Victory

“Yes.”

The shortness of my answer seemed to stump him for a moment. He looked at me, then down, then at the surrounding shops, then back the way we’d come before he blew out another harsh breath.

“I hate this.”

“Take your time,” I told him. Something was tearing him up. I didn’t know if it was the situation or having to discuss it.

“You know some of Boo-Boo’s story.” The words came out a hushed whisper, his voice dropping to something confidential. “What her uncle did. How her past dance partner treated her. The doctors at the facility. The abuse she took?”

“Yes.” I was very clear on it though no one had given me specifics, it hadn’t been that hard to put together. I’d rather enjoyed helping them get into Sharpe’s little fortress.

“She should hate men,” Freddie said. “Hate all of us and never let anyone touch her again. She would be within her rights.”

Then as if he couldn’t stomach standing still anymore, he set off walking. Agitation detailed in every single step.

“But she doesn’t—and everything they took from her, she’s fought to take back. She…” He downed the rest of his coffee, then tossed the cup into a trash can before he folded his arms. The need to self-soothe and protect was right there. “She’s let the others push her, especially when she hits a roadblock and they—we do everything we can to make it easier for her.”

“But she doesn’t want easier.” PPG didn’t seem the type. She was more of a throw herself right into it and fight. It was something she and Lainey shared. Probably what drew them together in the first place.

“No, she wants to feel what she feels. To touch us when she wants and for us to be able to touch her without any of those memories coming back to her. She’s winning… Fuck she’s incredible.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. The distress rolling off of him made my teeth itch. I wanted to kill whatever was bothering him, eliminate the threat, so he didn’t have to think about it anymore.

“I want to be able to let her touch me,” Freddie admitted. “But I can’t… Sometimes, if it's just my hand or she’s just leaning against my shoulder. That’s fine. But when the clothes come off…I can’t stand the feeling of her hands on me, cause then I see them and I don’t want that.”

See them.

Information began to slot into place and I spared Freddie a long look. He stared at the ground, hands opening and closing. More than once he reached for his pocket. The knife he usually carried. A lot of weapons had to be stored before we came here or replaced by items found here.

“How long?” I wasn’t going to ask for details. If he wanted to give me those and names. I’d take care of it, for now, I’d listen and see what I could do.

“It was how I grew up until I was seven. Kiddie porn. I was in a lot of them. All I ever knew about it was a lot of pain and strange people touching me. Eventually… I got away. But…”

He raised his hand and held it out in front of him. It trembled violently.

“Boo-Boo has let me do whatever I want to her. I can almost touch her and not hear those people or feel those memories… but if she puts her hands on me, it all crashes in and I can’t figure out how to make it stop.”

“You want it to stop.” Not a question. “You want to put that part of your life back together without the cracks or the breaks.”

“Yes.” One ragged syllable.

“Does she know?”

Eyes closing, Freddie seemed to deflate. “Yes. When she told me her truth in Pinetree, I’d told her mine… I needed her to know she wasn’t alone. Hardest thing I ever did, and I’d do it a thousand times over if it would help her.”

“So, she isn’t upset that she can’t really touch you yet.” Again, it wasn’t a question. I’d seen PPG with Freddie. She adored him. She was also very protective. Of all the people in the world, she would understand.

“You’d think that would make it better,” Freddie said. “But it doesn’t. I feel like I’m letting her down. She’s so damn brave and I can’t?—”

“Don’t count yourself out,” I said, finishing my own coffee. Then pointing to a pub down the street. We needed a real drink. “I mean it, don’t. Wanting something and having it—they aren’t the same. You love her. You want to be everything for her.”

“Yes.” He spread his hands. “I’m not scared of her. I know she isn’t those people.”

“You know that, here,” I told him, pausing to tap the side of my head. “Your cerebral cortex knows. It understands. It’s got the reasoning and logic skills to know that she would never hurt you and that she is not those people.”

“Then why?—”

“Because your amygdala is all about your survival. It has one goal, one primary driving force. Survive. Sometimes, survival means rejecting all touch, no matter what. Or rejecting all contact. Sometimes it can mean do nothing. Lay still and quiet, wait it out, and soon it will be over. If you don’t fight, you’ll survive.”

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