Afraid to Fly (Fearless #2) (8 page)

“Play those,” she whispered. “Triple word score.” Toby realized what she meant and sure enough, she was right. Her smug smile was equal parts arrogance and drop-dead gorgeous. Even covered in Pepto-Bismol bears, she was the most stunning woman I had seen in ages, and that was saying something.

Before Raven, every beautiful girl was quickly secretly compared to the one woman I couldn’t have: Kami. They were just one of a long line of
buts.

She’s pretty, but she’s not as pretty as Kami.

She’s smart, but she’s not as smart as Kami.

She’s kind, but she’s not as kind as Kami.

Raven wasn’t any of those things, and I was ecstatic. She wasn’t just pretty; she was striking in a dangerously edgy way with her nearly black hair, pale skin and vivid blue eyes. She was obviously smart, but it was more than that. She was shrewd and skeptical, which, considering she was the legal guardian of a troubled little boy, was definitely a good thing. And she wasn’t nice. Not at all. If I were a different kinda man, I’d say she was a straight up bitch.

But I wasn’t. So I didn’t.

Instead, I answered her little cutting glares, eye rolls and pursed lips with a teasing smirk, ensuring that she couldn’t ever truly believe I was a jerk, even if she wanted to. And yeah, she wanted to. She wanted to hate me, yet I didn’t understand why. Come on,
nobody
hated me. I was a good guy—easy on the eyes, respectful, loyal. Even when I shouldn’t have been—even when I should have been a total dick to everyone around me—I still chose to strive to be decent. There was enough ugliness in my world. I didn’t want to contribute to it.

Whatever the case, my plan seemed to work. It didn’t take long before she was actively participating, and—could it be?—enjoying herself. Even Toby had cracked a few toothy grins.

It was half past five when we finally wrapped up our game, with Toby and Raven taking the W. Well shit. And I didn’t even let them win. But the loss was totally worth it.

“Hey, kid, I’ll meet you at the car in a couple minutes. Go find us a good radio station,” Raven said, tossing Toby the car keys. The very second he was out of earshot, she was pinning me with her dubious stare, blue eyes filled with fire.

“What the hell is your deal with my brother?” she spat, fists digging into her shapely hips.

I frowned, caught off guard by her demeanor. We had been having a good time. Her brother was opening up, getting comfortable enough to communicate. I was confused. Had I missed something? “I’m a mentor here at HH. I’m interested in all our students’ success.”

“But I don’t see anyone else in here. Why have you taken a special interest in him?”

“Our center’s director thought he’d do better with one-on-one interaction, and I have to agree. Toby is a special kid, and we just want to see him do well.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she sneered. “Of course, he’s special. That’s why, if I find out that you have any interest in him beyond professional—if you even
look
at him in any other way—I will fucking castrate you. That’s a promise.”

She was out the door and marching towards the exit before I could assure her that if I did—if my worst fears came to fruition, and I became the very same monster that had destroyed my young, fragile body from the inside out—I would castrate myself. And that was a promise too.

I
WAS SIX YEARS
old the first time it happened.

At least that was as far back as my memory went.

The doctors said I could have been molested as early as four. The damage was so extensive, my insides so ravaged with scar tissue, that it was hard to pinpoint when the abuse began. So in my mind, it was six. Because that was when I remembered him coming into my room. That was when I remembered screaming and crying so hard that the sides of my lips ripped and bled.

It was a stifling hot night in South Florida. He was drunk off rum. Even then, I knew his drinking meant trouble for me. My uncle was kind and charismatic normally. A beloved member of the community. A devoted brother to his late brother and his young wife. A caring, loving uncle and caregiver to an orphaned toddler. But when he drank, he became frightening. The way he watched me as I colored at the dining table or played with my trucks on the floor. I felt his eyes on me as I watched my favorite cartoon. And even worse, his touch . . . the way his hands felt on my tiny body during bath time. Fingertips grazing my spine from my neck to the top of my backside. The extra attention he paid to washing between my legs. I told him I was a big boy—I could do it myself. But he was so insistent on proving that he was an attentive caregiver. He wanted to make sure it was done right.

It was wrong. I knew it was, even then. He was a liar and a thief. He stole my innocence and told me it was done out of love.

He had to hold me down. I still remember the weight of his palms on the backs of my wrists and the sweat between our skin. I cried so hard for so long that my pillow was soaked with tears and blood from my cracked lips. At some point, I must’ve vomited too. It was hard to fully grasp what was being done to my body.

I lay on a mattress saturated with my blood, urine, feces and his fluids for two days after. I was afraid to get up. It hurt all over, and I had no control of my bathroom functions. My insides had been pulverized into pulp, and I was sure I needed to go to the hospital. But I had no one to turn to. No one to talk to. But him.

He came in to carry me to the bath. I was too exhausted and sore to fight him. I was frightened and I was sick. I had been naked and covered in filth and sweat for days, and with my open wounds going untreated, I surely had some type of infection.

He washed the dried blood from my thighs and shampooed my hair. He touched me gently, reverently. And after a long time, he told me how much he loved me and how proud he was to be my uncle.

He said I was a good boy.

That was all I had strived to be. After my parents had died, I was so afraid of losing someone else that I always tried my best to be good. I was quiet, respectful, helpful. I kept my head down and did as I was told. Sometimes my uncle would reward my good behavior with candy and toys, so I quickly learned that being good also benefitted me.

This was his reward. This was his prize for taking me in and caring for me.

That was the first time I remember wishing that I would have died on that stained mattress. Wishing I had had the courage to bury my head in that tear-streaked pillow and smothered myself to death. At least I would’ve been with Mama and Papa again.

Tonight, it was Lauren.

Aerobics instructor at Planet Fitness. Vegan. Very flexible.

She and I had flirted before in the cardio room. She said I should check out her class. I told her only if it was a private session.

Tonight I got my wish.

After Raven stormed out of my office, wisps of black hair becoming unraveled from her messy bun from the sheer force of her stride, I couldn’t clear my head of all the putrid bullshit that put me back in that place . . . that place where I was a helpless little boy crying out for a mama and papa that would never, ever hear him again.

I didn’t want to go to Dive. Kam would see it on my face, and chances were good that Angel would be there too. I couldn’t escape those two. They knew . . . they knew how it was for me when the memories took hold.

I wasn’t ready to be alone either, so I decided to grab my gear and pound out my frustrations on the treadmill. Eminem was blasting in my headphones, spitting venom over vibrating bass lines and digitized drumbeats. I had just hit mile 3 when Lauren approached, resting her forearm on the handle on my machine and striking a pose. She wore tiny spandex cropped pants and a sports bra. The laces of her sneakers matched the hot pink pattern on her scant top.

I removed my headphones to be polite. I didn’t feel like being bothered, but I also didn’t want her to think I wasn’t interested. I was. Or at least I could be.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking about that private class you had mentioned,” she smiled, her lips looking much too glossed to have been working out. Her sun-streaked hair was in a messy knot on top of her head, which instantly made me think of Raven’s mane being pulled up in the same way. I shook it off. Our last conversation left a bad taste in my mouth, and
shit,
just thinking about her triggered my saliva in preparation for vomit.

I hit Stop on the treadmill and went for my water bottle before I got sick all over this poor girl. “Oh yeah?” I asked breathlessly. I wiped the sweat from my brow with a towel and returned her flirtatious grin, despite the bile roiling in my gut like a whirlpool. “Draw any conclusions?”

“I did actually. The studio is free if you’re still interested.”

I told her I’d meet her in there, and dashed to the locker room to wash my face. I didn’t bother to shower or any shit like that. This girl knew what she was getting, and part of me thought she liked it that way.

I was right.

A few stretches and breathing techniques later, I had her back stretched along a yoga ball, her sneakers locked together above my bare ass and her hands fisting my sweat-drenched hair. Thank God, I never left home without condoms. This actually wasn’t my first gym romp. You’d be surprised how many chicks dig sweaty, funky sex.

I didn’t shower until I got home. Public showers around other men was completely out of the question for me. It was hell for me in high school, but I made do.

When I was finally able to stand under the hot spray, letting the water wash away sticky layers of sweat, sex and shame, I gave into the ache in my chest and released the sob that had been stuck there since the moment Raven had fled my office with a piece of my dignity. I let myself cry for the little boy that endured years of agony and abuse because he thought that was the price of love. I cried for all the nights he was pressed into his twin mattress, that monster’s rum-tinged, hot breath fanning over his tear-streaked cheeks, telling him what a good boy he was. I cried for every doubt he had about himself and what he was as a man thereafter, feeling like his masculinity had been tarnished. And I cried for that man whose heart and body had been broken beyond repair, who had longed for someone to see all those horrid cracks and fissures and not run in repulsion, but instead, help him to repair the damage.

As I slid onto the tiled floor, scalding hot water beating down on my back until it was raw, I found that I was crying for Toby too, for fear that someone had hurt him in the most reprehensible way, stealing his voice and all the goodness in his young world.

I
DID MY BEST
to do right by Toby and uphold my end of our bargain, but I was still rattled by Raven’s warning. Maybe she saw something in me that I had been trying to deny. Maybe she could tell I was meant to be a statistic—a clinical fact in cases like mine. I had spent most of my life trying to prove I was nothing like Hector Trevino, but maybe I was. Maybe his sickness had infected me. Maybe that sordid depravity was contagious.

I could tell Toby knew something was up. He kept watching me with those sharp, brown eyes, his stare as piercing as his sister’s. After a few minutes of awkward silence during a mindless game of Connect Four, he picked up the pencil and pad.