Page 14 of Won't Let Go
“Do you remember your nightmares?”
“Sometimes.” Most of the time, but he doesn’t need to know that either.
Josh sweeps hair off my forehead and tucks it behind my ear. The gesture catches me off guard. I must make a face when he chuckles low and raspy. “Do you remember last night at all?”
“No. I didn’t wake up.” Which is freaking me out a little. I always wake up. I never make it past sunrise. Ever. I lay in bed, restless for hours, trying to fall back asleep, which leads to frustration, anger, and depression. You know the spiral. I’m a zombie most days.
Josh scratches his stomach and yawns. When he asks, “What do you think caused it?” his words are a drowsy mess.
I snort at the ridiculous question. “Rape caused it. Lots and lots of rape.”
He rolls his eyes. “Christ, Jade. I know that. I just wish you’d tell me about it.”
On a half-shrug, I rest my cheek against his warm pec to avoid having to look at him. The lub of his steady pulse through my ear is oddly soothing. I couldn’t tell you the last time I relaxed on anyone—especially a man. “There’s nothing to tell,” I explain, rubbing my feet together. It’s a nervous tic I’ve had since childhood. “Rape is rape. You’re held down, called all sorts of names, hit a few times, and stuffed full of cocks against your will. That’s it.” That’s what happened to me. Micro-tears turn into big tears. You bleed. Everything swells and hurts. You think you’re going to die, and you wish you would, so you wouldn’t have to feel their hands on you, or them biting your fat stomach to make you scream. Or worse, when they jack off and spray cum all over your face, yet never let you wash it off.
Josh rubs his thumb across my forehead. It strikes me as odd, but I don’t comment on it. “That’snotit.”
“It’s everyone’s story,” I argue, already done with this conversation.
“No. It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve done the research. Read survivor stories. Not everyone experiences the same thing. Most people who are rape survivors were not raped like you were.”
Whoa. He read up on this.
Something warm unfurls in my middle, and it’s not the most unpleasant sensation. Foreign, perhaps. But…not terrible.
“Guess they’re the lucky ones then,” I mumble. “They don’t wanna die. They can probably sleep at night.”
“Not everyone can. Thirteen percent of survivors attempt suicide. You’re not alone.”
Great, I’m a statistic now.
“Well. It feels like I am.” I tip my head back to wrinkle my nose at him. “Kit and your mom seem like they’re doing okay. That it’s not a big deal. They have sex with their men. Beth was sent away like she was a burden to deal with. Then Niki fucking killed herself… and those men… the assholes who did this to us…”
Pressing my lips together, I sigh, brimming with irritation just thinking about those fuckers. “We sure as shit didn’t get to watch them die. Hell, I don’t even know if they’re still out there, walking around, living their lives, raping more women, after what they did to us. They probably don’t even remember me. I’m just another body. A blip on their radar. While I can still smell their breath and hear their voices. I get to rememberandsurvive. Oh. What a gift.”
“Itisa gift,” Josh growls and wraps his arm fiercely around my shoulder, holding me tighter against his side. “Weget to keep you. I get to keep you. Hunter and I would be fuckin’ wrecked if you died.”
I wish I could see it his way.
“I’m a burden, Josh. Living like this, I feel…weak.” And there’s nothing worse than weakness. How is it that everyone else can just be okay? Yet I’m not.
He quirks a brow. “Have you ever thought about doing more?”
“Doing what? Therapy? I already tried that. Remember?” It didn’t go well.
“No. Helping victims of trafficking. People like Tati and Janie?”
No. I haven’t thought about it. But I’m in no position to help anyone. Bink, a sister and Josh’s club president’s old lady, has the bandwidth and support to be there for those girls. I don’t.
“I have a son in school, and I’m a tattoo artist. I’m a mess and totally unqualified. I’m not like Rosie. I can’t kill men. I’m not like that other sister who runs that underground stuff.”
“Kali?” Josh checks.
“Yeah. Her.” She’s the crystal lady who owns some sort of winery, I think. It’s a front, like most businesses are when it comes to the Sacred Sinners. They are more than they appear. I’ve been around long enough. I pay attention. Even our tattoo studio is more than it seems. We launder money. Gunz handles our books, and we don’t ask questions.
