9. 1994

BUNNY

You don't survive in foster homes without being a light sleeper. It's a lesson you learn early. Wake with every sound. It's how you keep yourself safe. So when the latch came undone, and the door swung open, I was on my feet before anyone knew what hit them.

I grab the closest object, a brass lamp with a mushroom-shaped, opaque glass shade, and throw it across the room. My aim has never been amazing, but at this moment, it's perfect. I hit whoever broke into my room square in the nose. Watching the intruder fall to his knees, I waste no time sprinting forward, racing toward the door.

Adrenalin tells you that you'll make it far. It pumps fire through your blood, forcing you to believe you can escape. It's so close, and then a hand snaps out, nails short and jagged, spearing into your rippled flesh and taking you down just before you reach freedom.

A scream rips from my throat as a man flips me over onto broken glass. Our faces are inches apart, allowing me to see his pearly white teeth I remember so well, and taste the nicotine on his breath. He smelled the same last night, when he was tipping alcohol down my windpipe.

"You stupid bitch!" Blood from his busted face drips across my cheek, leaving searing speckles on my skin. I struggle underneath him and fight his hold while trying to catch my breath. The rough fabric of his pants scratches against my bare legs as he attempts to keep me from kicking.

"Get the fuck off me!" I growl. Thrashing from side to side, I wiggle myself enough to bring my lips close to his skin, sinking my teeth into the space between his thumb and forefinger.

As I hoped, he flings his torso off me, but as quickly as the pressure of him leaves, his fist comes flying down, colliding straight into my cheekbone. The force of his knuckles slamming against my bone expands across my entire face, creating bursts of light behind my eyes and a violent pounding in my skull. It stuns me, leaving me motionless for a second too long.

It takes nothing for him to curl his hands under my arms, hefting me up and over his shoulder to toss me on the bed. The first bounce is enough to jar me out of my stupor, but by then, I've wasted too much time. I hate begging. I learned early that it gets you nowhere, but I can't help it now.

"No! No! No! Please!" I scream it until my throat is hoarse, until the word help is nothing but garbled sounds.

He doesn't stop.

That sinking feeling I remembered this morning returns. The flashes of Marone, me, and the camera flare through my mind, only this time, the tearing between my thighs is too much to misunderstand, too hard to ignore—too fucking painful to forget.

The rutting in my ear goes on forever. At some point, I don't even think I hear it anymore. Other sensations become too powerful, like the softest cotton on my spine, the imperfections made into the white, scrolling, floral crown molding, and the callouses on the sides of his thumbs as they roll and dig into my hips.

"Fuck! You do feel good." Do I? I can't feel my insides anymore. I only know he stops when the weight of him on my chest lifts and the sticky openness of my center feels the air of the room.

A sigh of satisfaction escapes from his lips, along with the shuffling of feet before the spray of the shower hits the ceramic bathtub. Hums filter in from the other room, filling my little space with a cheerful tune. I listen to it as I remain lying on the mattress, allowing it to blur the dark thoughts running through it.

"Would you like to join me, beautiful? There"s more than enough room in here for the both of us." The tears slipping down the corners of my eyes are enough of an answer, and though he can't see them, he seems to know. "Aw, come on. Don't be like that. You know it felt good."

I curl myself into a ball, tucking my knees to my chest and wrapping the blanket tight across my body, thinking of nothing but how to forget this moment. I'm unable to, not when the man comes to stand before me, naked, smelling of my apricot scrub—smiling down at me with a very familiar grin.

"What? You didn't like it? That's too bad, beautiful. Maybe tomorrow will be different." Daniel walks away from the edge of the bed, shaking droplets of water onto the dark carpet. The jingle of his belt, the smell of him on my skin, the sight of him half-dressed in my new room, preparing to rifle through my stocked fridge…it"s all too much.

"What are you doing here?"

Taking a large bite out of a crispy Granny Smith, Daniel considers me, that same smirk in his eyes. "You were listed today, beautiful, and I knew yesterday that, if I got the chance, I'd have to have you first." He pauses, dangling the fruit at his side to kneel beside mine. "I paid a lot for that prize, and now, baby, I'm going to have a piece of you every chance I get, but don't worry. I'll be much nicer than the rest."

Those are his parting words, and they blanket me in dread. Leaving the apple beside my head, Daniel finishes redressing, ensuring the tail is tucked into the waistband of his slacks before slipping out of the doorway. A light beeping goes off after the door is closed, followed by the clicking of a latch. I don't know where it"s coming from, and I'm too tired to find out.

This isn't the first time I've been in a situation like this. I was no stranger to having given pieces of myself to survive. Every man I ever met took and took, but this is the first time a man has been successful in taking it all.

I lie in bed until the sun rises, numb as warm rays shine across my tear-streaked face. Sensations returned to my body hours ago, when the night still shone with city lights, but I feel nothing.

Slowly, almost as if my muscles have a mind of their own, I roll off the mattress, ignoring the tingles that prickle up my legs when I take my first step. They disappear the closer I get to the front door. It saddens me. The first sting that broke through my fog dissipated before I had a chance to grasp onto it.

I should have known not to expect anything when I reached for the doorknob. I should have known the minute Daniel broke into my space as if he owned it that my life would never be okay again. I should have known all of this, and still, when I touched that handle, turning it in all directions, I can't stop the sickening sinking of my stomach.

"Please… no." Petrified, I fight the door, twisting, pulling...yanking on the knob until the wood rattles and shakes. I pound my flesh against its thickness, whispering my pleas until they turn to screams. When none of that works, when no one comes to be my savior, I sprint to every window in this loft.

None of them. Not one single fucking glass opens.

Not when I push.

Not when I pull.

Not when I try to slam my fucking fist through the pane.

Nothing works! I end up throwing whatever I can at the windows, lamps, chairs—my bedside table. Everything bounces back in my face, leaving me feeling more hopeless than I was a second ago.

Sitting in the middle of disarray, I sink onto the floor, processing the past fourteen hours. How did I go from Denise to homeless to Craig to Marone…to this? How did what was supposed to be the beginning of my dream turn sour so fast? I tell myself it was just my shit luck—that, of course, this would happen to me, but something Daniel said sticks out.

"You were listed today, beautiful, and I knew yesterday that if I got the chance, I'd have to have you first."

Listed? What the fuck does that mean? And have me first?

Huh?

Paid. He said he paid…

Head throbbing, I tuck my face between my knees, practicing the breathing technique I showed Missy whenever she had a panic attack. One long breath in. One long breath out. I do that repeatedly—exhaling, inhaling—until my chest isn't as tight.

I can see clearly again now that the blurriness from my tears has faded. I can see the mess, the unbroken glass… I can see the bruises that slowly form on my thighs, the thumb placement that pried my legs apart. Running my fingers over them, I feel no pain, at least not on the surface, but each graze is a punch to the gut.

Just as a tear slips down my cheek, the door springs open, scaring me out of my hunched position on the floor. Instinct has me jumping to my feet, my face hardening as I bare my teeth. "Who the fuck are you?!"

A woman, probably in her mid-forties, steps through the door. Pin-straight black hair dangles across white-washed jeans, swishing as she softly closes the latch. She still hasn't said a word to me, so I reach down, wrap my fingers around a broken shard of glass, and ask again. "Who the fuck are you?"

She eyes the trembling crystal slicing across my palm and stalks left, rummaging through my freezer with her back turned to me. "Put it down. No point in hurting yourself."

Slamming the opening shut, she spins to me, extending an ice pack forward. I glare at it skeptically, eliciting a scoff from her thin, straight lips. "For your bruise. The ice will make the blood flow slower."

When I glance down, I notice the fingerprints on my thighs have darkened, turning an ugly purplish-red hue.

"Who are you?" I repeat, taking the pack from her red-painted nails.

Instead of answering me again, she stalks around the bed, expertly stepping over the disarray to get into the bathroom. I listen to the water run as I sit on the edge of the bed, wondering how much worse this day could get while ice stings my skin.

"Please help me," I whisper when she comes out a second later, a drenched cloth wrapped in her fist. "This man came in and attacked me. I-I don't know how he got in here, but I couldn't get out. You came in, please… Please get me out."

A spark of something passes through her brown eyes, almost like a sliver of sympathy, but it's gone as soon as it came, leaving me to believe I made it up.

"Here, put pressure on your wound. Stop the bleeding."

"Did you hear what I said? I said I was attacked! You need to help me!"

"You need?—"

Throwing the rag in her face, I stand to my feet, holding the ice pack above my head as a weapon. "Get me fucking out of here!" I charge at the door, ready to bust it down with nothing but anger and force, when she grabs me by the hair and shoves me back down.

Her finger is pressed to her lips the second my ass hits the sheets, telling me to be silent while her stare flicks to the door.

"What is going on?" Kneeling at my muffled question, she stares at the door once again, warning me of something waiting outside.

She drops her finger and rests her hands on her knees. "You need to calm down. Everything will be fine as long as you keep calm."

"What are you talking about… I-I—" Her hands fall on my legs now. They're kind and gentle, almost as much as the sadness in her stare. I know she's trying to offer comfort, but her next words take it away.

"Just take it silently, and I promise it'll be over before you know it."

That sinking feeling comes back, doubling as her hands leave my skin. She rights some of the furniture on her way to the door, picking up chairs and throwing away broken dishes before reaching for the knob.

"Wait," I blurt as she raps on the door, rushing from the bed to get to her. She tries to stop me, but I latch onto her arm before she can say anything. "Please, please help me. Get me away from here, and I won't say a word. I promise! Please. Please!"

"You need to let me go and step away from the door.

Now."

"Please! My name is Bernice Walker. I'm seventeen

years old. I have a sister who needs me. Ple?—"

Pulling out a small silver pistol that was tucked into the back of her pants, she aims it at my head. "I said step back."

My heart stutters as I do so with my hands in the air, with the word please still on my lips.

"I'm sorry," she mouths as the door opens. Two men dressed in black escort her out with their hands on her biceps. They don't even look in my direction as the door swings shut.

Just like last time, the slam is followed by a light beeping. I rush to check, but, of course, it locks automatically and doesn't open again until two in the morning, when another man, this one I do not know, comes drunkenly barrelling in.