6. Rebel Rebel

6

REBEL REBEL

DAISY

ABOUT THREE YEARS AGO ― April 21st, 1972

"Oh, shut up, you big dork." I roll my eyes as I bring the bong back to my mouth, inhaling a fresh batch of pot. "I'm not watching that damn movie again. Once was enough for a lifetime."

I let the smoke spread through my lungs before I blow it out again. All of my limbs become relaxed, giving me that slight tingly feeling that I love. The car radio plays a new Alice Cooper song, and the volume is tuned up so loud that the car vibrates.

Nate's Impala is filled with so much smoke that I can barely see him and my other friend, Joe. Both of them are seventeen, two years older than I am.

"What should we do instead then, little Miss Burton?" Joe grins as he takes the bong from me, his spare hand lingering on my bare thigh. The little light above him illuminates the side of his caramel skin, his dark eyes glimmering beneath his bushy eyebrows.

My eyes switch to Nate with amusement. "Telling by both of your faces, you already have something in mind."

Nate's eyes pore over me from head to toe. So hungry for sex all the time. He tucks a strand of long, blond hair behind his ear, his baby-blue irises sparkling with excitement, the whites surrounding it reddened because of the weed.

I lean back on the leather backseat, spreading my legs slightly to expose my underwear―or, well, lack thereof. "I'm down. You know how weed makes me hornier than a damn goat."

Joe quickly blows out the smoke and pushes the glass bong against Nate's chest. Instantly taking off his faded Steppenwolf T-shirt, he climbs into the back with me. "Fuck yes," he groans, burying his face in my neck. He smothers my throat with wet kisses and bites, and it doesn't take long before he pulls his jeans down, slips on a condom, then proceeds to thrust inside of me.

"Bro, don't be greedy," Nate complains from the front seat, where he remains seated as he watches us, now playing with his dick, telling by the way his flexed arm moves up and down.

Giggles combined with moans slip from my mouth and I reach out my hand for Nate to take. "You know you don't have to wait for Joe to be done, right? I've got more holes, bro ." Amusement glimmers in my eyes as I meet his dirty grin with my own.

"Fuckin' A," he hums his appreciation.

Yep, I know how to have a good time.

As Joe takes me hard and rough, I wrap my arms around him and push his ass down to make him go deeper. The backdoor opens and Nate's hands are on my tits, squeezing them hard as he plays with my nipples.

Joe slips out of me as Nate drags me out of the car so we can switch positions. Joe waits for me with open arms on the leather seat, his cock up in the air. "Come and get it, baby."

Nate kisses my neck and I giggle before I take Joe's invitation and climb back on top of him. It doesn't take long before I'm all filled up, and I let both of them take me at the same time.

"What lucky guys we are to have you as our friend, baby Daisy," Nate hums in my ear as he hovers over my back. "Just ready to go whenever we want."

A comment like that should be offensive, maybe. But not to me. This is how I want it―dirty sex with no strings attached. Weed. Beer. Nice music and a good time.

I'd say I'm easy to please, though that would be a lie.

Despite me having a nice time with my friends, it's never enough.

The ache inside of me is never fulfilled. Never pleased or satiated. An endless longing for something to feed the cravings, to finally make it stop .

It's like an obsession.

I feel like I'm insane sometimes.

Maybe I am. Maybe I'm sick.

Once their condoms are filled up with their release, they slowly pull out of me. I plant a soft peck on Joe's nose before I get off and slide my skirt back down to cover myself up. "Were you able to get your hands on those Ted Nugent tickets, Nattie?" I ask as I lean against the black car and light a cigarette.

"Heck yes. Saving up for Zeppelin, too. 1972 is our year, baby. Too much good stuff is coming up in Greensboro." He takes the lit bud out of my mouth, inhaling a deep drag himself as he checks his watch. "It's almost your curfew. Should we take you home? I don't want to get into shit with your scary father."

I huff. "Yeah, that's probably for the best."

If it were up to my dad, I'd never leave the house. Good thing my mom always has my back and makes sure that he allows me the freedom to live out my teenage years.

When we drive onto my street, I quickly get out, allowing them to take off before Dad comes to have a look.

"See you guys later." I close the car door silently, then reach through the window on the passenger's side to run my hand through Joe's hair, messing it up.

"See you, Daisy." They both give me one last grin before I turn around. When I hear the engine roar behind me, I sigh deeply as I walk to the front door of my house.

It's never enough. It's never enough. It's never enough…

Nothing scratches my itch.

I wonder if something ever will or if I'll always be like this.

Obsessive. Compulsive.

Disgusting.

"Hi, sweetie!" The sound of my mom's voice pulls me out of my raging mind as soon as I step through the door. I meet her eyes across the room, where she's sitting at the kitchen island with her typewriter and a glass of wine.

"Hi, Mom." I give her a smile before I sink to my knees to pet the three happy little dogs at my feet. Eliza Doolittle, Gaby and Holly Golightly―a mix of rascals that Mom saved from the pound, consisting of a Poodle, a little wiener dog and a King Charles Spaniel. I let my back fall to the ground as they cover me in kisses. "Hello, my sweet little angels."

Her oldest dog, the Beagle, Jo, can barely get out of her basket at age fourteen, so I lie down at her spot next to the sofa, petting her little head.

"How was your day? Did you have a fun time with your friends?" Mom asks. Even at forty-five years old, she looks stunning, barely a wrinkle in sight. Which is something she credits her fancy face creams for, but I think it's just because she's so happy with my dad. They keep each other young.

Her hair is still the same natural copper shade it's always been, and there hasn't been a day that it's not been combed in perfect curls, usually adorned with a colorful hat. Her mismatched eyes―one pale green, the other dark brown―still have my father swooning each time he looks at her, and she makes them pop even more with her black eyeliner and mascara.

I stand up and walk toward her, looking around the room. "Yeah, I did. Where's Dad?"

"He's working. He'll be back soon," she answers, taking a sip of wine.

I nod, taking place beside her at the island, leaning over the marble counter. "What are you working on?"

The sheet of paper in her typewriter is almost entirely filled with words. "Something new. I'm not exactly sure where the story's going yet. But so far, it's good. Come here, give your mom a hug."

I wrap my arms around her neck and she gives me a kiss on the cheek. Then she sniffs my shirt and gasps. Ripping out of her hold, I take a step back. "What, Mom?"

"You smell like sex." Her eyes widen as she gets up off the stool and tries to reach for me. "Daisy…"

"No. I don't want to talk about this," I snap, pointing my finger at her. "I just want to take a shower and go to bed, okay? Can you drop it?"

"You told me you were studying at Lisa's house. Did you lie to me?"

"I did study there. But we finished early, and the guys picked me up afterward. We just hung out for a bit."

"The guys? What guys?" When I don't answer, she plants her hands at her waist. "What is going on with you?"

I let out an audible groan. "I don't know. I don't know what's going on with me, Mom."

"Why don't you talk to me anymore? You used to tell me everything. This is dangerous, sweetheart." She looks like she's about to burst out into tears, and that makes me feel even worse. "Are you being safe? Do you remember our conversations?"

"God…" I growl. "I don't want to talk about this!"

She raises her eyebrows purposefully, full of sass and determination. "Well, we're going to. You are too young for all of this, baby. Why do you want to grow up so fast? You're only fifteen!"

" Mhac na galla ," I mutter under my breath. Son of a bitch.

"Don't you swear at me right now. Damn your father for teaching you these words." She throws her hands up, shaking her head. "It's not just pregnancy you have to worry about. It's also diseases. Did you just disregard everything I've taught you?"

I slowly step back on my way to the stairs. "No. I use condoms, Mom. I'm not stupid."

"Those can break. Nothing is completely safe. You are putting yourself in harm's way." She sighs dramatically. "How many boys have there been, Daisy?"

It's quiet for a few agonizing heartbeats before I quietly admit, "I don't know. I didn't keep count."

"Oh, God… I'm at my wits end with you." She lets out a defeated sob. "You're grounded."

"Until when?"

"Until I say you're not."

We stare at each other for a few quiet seconds before I abruptly turn and run up the stairs, passing all the pictures of our family on the wall as I get myself out of that hellish conversation. "Screw this!"

I hear her call out behind me, but I ignore her. When I step into the bathroom, I lock the door and sink down with my back against the bathtub, letting my tears fall.

I don't know why I am the way that I am―why I have these urges, why my brain stops working when sex is involved. It's all I can think about. In the moments I engage in sex, it makes me feel empowered. Then right after that high is gone, I just feel numb. Empty.

I lick my lips, tasting my salty tears. Grabbing a piece of toilet paper from beside me, I blow the snot out of my nose and decide to man up and stop my utterly pathetic little girl crap.

The conversation between Mom and me blares through my head again. How many boys have there been, Daisy?

I truly don't know.

Clint, one of the older boys in the neighborhood, took my virginity when I was twelve. I was in the same grade as Clint's little brother, which is why my parents let me play across the street at his house. They didn't know that I secretly spent most of my time with Clint. We were always quick about it, so when I said I was going to the bathroom during their parents' supervision, they were none the wiser. We did it many times until he moved away to college a few months later. Then I found other guys to satiate me.

Ugh . I still can't believe I let a guy named Clint pop my cherry. Gross.

Once I've showered and scrubbed the smell of sex off my skin, I dry myself with a soft towel and wrap it around me, quietly unlocking the door and slipping into my bedroom. Turning on the little light beside my bed, I drop the towel and grab a fresh pair of underwear and a Black Sabbath shirt from my closet. I put them on before I slip beneath the green covers of my bed.

Looking around me, I sigh. Posters of Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Stooges, Bowie, Stevie Nicks, and so on cover every inch of my once-pink walls. The closets in the room are stocked full of books, records, and a few art supplies. My desk is a mess, stacks of homework assignments piling up along with my collection of stuffed animals.

They grate on my nerves these days. I'm not that little girl that cuddles with lions and teddy bears in pink dresses anymore. I close my eyes, but I feel them watching me―judging me. So I throw the sheets up and get out, angrily gathering all the toys and throwing them into my garbage can. "I don't need you anymore, you fuckers. The trash is your home now."

I want to be out before Mom has the idea to check up on me and resume our conversation, so I crawl back into bed and force myself to sleep. Everything turns black as I dive deep into unconsciousness, until I startle awake from a bad dream.

Checking the time on my alarm, I see that it's a little past eleven. I'm all sweaty, and my bladder is in desperate need of release, so I climb out of bed and go to the bathroom.

Once I'm done there, I stop in my tracks in the hallway when I hear my parents' voices. "You tell me right now who this boy is and I am going to pay him a visit. Maybe cut off his fucking hands for touching her."

I dig my nails into my palm to steady myself.

"You need to calm down. You will do no such thing. And I'm not talking about a boy. I've been holding my tongue, trying not to break the trust between me and her. But I can't do it anymore, Dubhie. There have been more. I'm sure there have been."

The sounds are muffled, but that sentence was clear as day. Stepping closer to the top of the stairs, my bare feet slip though the soft strands of carpet. I hide behind the wall and can hear them perfectly fine now.

"I'll pay them all a visit, then. Stefano can come. We'll have them all down in no time."

Mom groans. "You bloody man. What's your plan, hmm ? Just kill every single boy?"

"You know I have no issue with killing for my family, Lucy."

" Shhh . Keep it down." Mom shushes him. "You're going to wake her up." There's a pause, as if she needs to calm herself down just as much as she does him. "Dubhie, be realistic right now, please. I need you in this. We need to at least put her on birth control."

" Birth control ? What the hell, Lucille?" Dad whisper-yells, trying hard to keep his voice down. They're in the living room, and when I take a peek from behind the wall, I find Mom sitting on a chair and him pacing through the room. "That's just asking for disaster. Doesn't that just tell her that she can do it with anyone she wants?"

His dark, bushy eyebrows are drawn into a worried frown. His face is still smooth and young despite his stressful job as a mafia capo, and there are a few streaks of gray in his otherwise dark brown locks. With flexing, muscled arms, he reaches up to open a few buttons of his white shirt, as if he desperately needs a deep breath.

"The only way you'll stop her at this point is if you lock her up in her bedroom. And I know you're not that kind of daddy. You need to give her a bit more credit. She's smart―she'll think about her safety." Well, that certainly sounds like she's changed her opinion since we last spoke.

"I can't stand it. The thought of my little girl…" he trails off, and I feel a sharp sting in my heart. The thing I hate most in the world is disappointing my parents. "I never thought something like this could be hereditary. It was all fun and games with Annie, but to think my daughter… Fuck ."

Annie? Who is Annie?

"Maybe she could talk to someone. To someone who is trained, who understands what she's going through."

" Therapy ?" Dad whisper-shouts as if that is the most outrageous thing she's ever said. "No, Lucille. They will just make her feel like she's crazy, like there's something wrong with her. I was in therapy in Crimson Manor, remember? They didn't help for shit. And I know that it was the same for Annie. They drove her to absolute insanity."

I know my dad spent a few years in Crimson Manor―the asylum―before I was born. My parents have never told me much about it, but I know that he did something bad and he needed mental help. Twice now has he said the name Annie. Who the heck are they talking about?

"She's all alone in this. I'm trying to help her as much as I can, but I know she's not telling me everything. I smell it on her clothes when I do the laundry. She's having sex with God knows who. This can only result in something terribly bad. I want her to be safe. I want her to talk to someone who understands and can help her. Maybe you need to put your own issues with therapy aside right now, Dubhie. This can't go on. I think we need to tell her about Annie, no matter how much that pains me."

He keeps pacing through the room, moving his hand over his eyebrows as if his head hurts terribly. Then he suddenly turns around, grabs Mom's face, and kisses her. "Anything you want, mo chreach bheag . Haven't I always done that?" He puts some distance between them to look into her eyes, his hands slipping into her copper hair, massaging her scalp.

"Yes, you have," Mom lets out on a defeated sob, and he shuts her up with a kiss.

"Look for a suitable therapist. But I want to meet them."

"Okay," she answers softly, and I feel my heart sink all the way down to my feet.

I don't want to go to a therapist.

God fucking damnit. I fucked up. I brought this on myself. I should have been more careful.

"Now come on, sweetheart. I haven't seen you all day. I need you in my arms." He leads her to the sofa by her hand. "Besides all this, how was your day? Did you make any progress with the new book?"

I take that as my cue to go back to my bedroom. I'm not in the mood to see my parents be all sticky and cuddly and gross.

Slipping back underneath the soft satin covers, I take a deep sigh.

I am not going to therapy. I won't let them do this.

The last thought that goes through my head before I slip away is: who the fuck is Annie?