Chapter 46

“Physical pain goes away, Jake … Don’t focus on injuries that healed in weeks.” I flop back down, the
irritation rising to strangle out my mellow drunkenness. Dismissing it. I don’t need this right now. My
insides start to clench with anxiety.

“What do you mean?” I sense his shift in position, so he’s looking at me.

Does he really have no clue?

The physical side means nothing in the grand scheme of things; it’s the emotional mess left inside of
me that I don’t want Jake to see.

“He broke my arm and ribs; he almost broke my nose and he gave me a concussion that had me in
hospital for days. But it all healed in time.” I don’t even remember how that felt.

Why am I telling him this? Alcohol is like a lubricant for my goddamn mouth.

I’m drunk and somehow it doesn’t feel as bad saying it out loud when I am this detached from normal
Emma. It’s like I’m talking about someone else; sad little Emma back home in Chicago, so far away. He
needs to understand that none of it means anything anymore. I’m not her.

Jake makes an odd noise; I think it’s a grunt, a snort—maybe a moan. I don’t know, but it’s not a good
noise, it’s a reaction to what I have said, and I talk fast to cover it.

“I mean, I don’t remember the physical pain. You should forget it too,” I say it so matter of fact, yet
softly, trying to fix the point I was making. It makes me sick in reality and tears sting my eyes despite
my shrugging it off.

“How can I forget it?” he looks at me as though I have two heads and it pushes me into over-sensitive
and defensively emotional Anytime we broach this subject, we fight. I don’t want that right now. I can’t
handle this tonight.



“Same way I do; push it out of your head. Ignore it. Lock it away deep down and don’t talk about what
he did to me.” I try for a shrug, but at this angle it’s more of a squirm because it IS upsetting me on
some level.

“He raped you?” his voice is quiet and unsteady, he sounds different—afraid. I guess he has been
trying to figure this out for a while. How far Ray had gone.

Oh, Jake, don’t sound that way. A lump forms in my throat and threatens to choke me.

“No … He didn’t … He tried … I fought back … My mom came home.” I stare at the ceiling of the car,
listening to another version of Emma, talking out loud, detached from the secrets she’s telling and
trying to quell the low pain building up inside. Killing me inside.

“Jesus, Emma.” His voice is breathy, talking as he exhales, he sounds relieved, but also sad for me,
and I don’t like it. I pull myself up and glare at him angrily. That spitfire ignited with his pity. I can’t take
sympathy or being made to feel weak.

“Don’t do that!” I snap angrily, swirling emotion from deep down suddenly jumping out. He spins his
head to look me in the eye, shocked, confused at my reaction.

“Don’t do what?” he frowns defensively.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” I spit, pulling myself up awkwardly while trying to force away the
spinning sensation. “Don’t look at me in that way, like I’m some sort of damaged broken glass who is
too fragile for life.” My feet have been in his lap this whole time and I pull them away fast. Struggling up,
I sway, and realize I’ve got a seatbelt clipped over my waist. Safety Jake! I un-clip it and pull myself to
sit properly and face him.

“Emma, how can I not feel something when you tell me that asshole beat the shit out of you and tried to
rape you?” he’s angry and it’s unexpected. I wasn’t prepared for pissed Jake, but maybe that’s better



than sad, sorry Jake. I don’t want sad sorry. I hate people looking that way at me.

“Well just don’t … I don’t need sympathy. I fought back … Hard … He broke my bones for it, but you
know what? He didn’t manage to rape me; he didn’t do what he wanted … I won!” I yell out loudly, not
at Jake, but at the world in general. Anger spewing out in every direction as I snap.

“And what if your mom hadn’t shown up, Emma? What if I hadn’t shown up in Chicago and he had
come back?” he retorts. I don’t even know why he’s angry, I’m the one who has the right to be enraged.
Not him!

“I would have kept fighting … I wouldn’t have let him do that to me. He wasn’t the first of her creep
boyfriends to try.” My face is wet, I ignore it, barely noticing the tears running down my cheeks,
oblivious until this second. I’m furious and I’m yelling, but I don’t even know why I’m yelling at Jake.
He’s not the one who did it. Sleazy Ray is the one who did it, my mom’s creepy ass boyfriends and
their wandering hands. I’m shaking with heartache, my body has betrayed me and heaving with tears in
my drunken stupor seems to let all this mess out.

“Emma,” he breaths sharply. Jake hauls me toward him, trying to wrap his arms around me, but I don’t
like it. I’m in memory mode and men’s unwelcome touch firing through my brain. I don’t want him to see
me cry over this, not over these memories and those men. Not over that shit or Ray Vanquis. My mind
is a chaos of rage and trauma.

“Stop it … Stop it …” I’m resisting him, but he’s stronger and faster and I’m still drunk with slow
reactions. The racking sobs making me weak and he’s determined to hold me.

“Shhh. Shhhh. Emma. Shhh.” He captures me, cradling my head against his cheek, even though I’m
still fighting, but I’m losing. I don’t like the noises coming from deep within me, like I’m spiraling out of
control. I hate this. I’m not weak. I’m not vulnerable. The wails don’t sound like they’re coming from me



and I push his hands off me again and again, but he’s relentless and his grip tightens. He pulls me hard
onto him, so he can get better control of me.

I’m in his lap in a blink and he’s all around me. Strong, tight arms and firm hands, trying to calm me so I
finally give in.

Ray wasn’t the first to try and touch me inappropriately, there had been many hands and each one had
met my sheer fire and fury. Ray hadn’t been the first man to hit me either yet despite all of it, I never
allowed myself to be a victim. I’m not a victim now. I’m stronger than all of them.

“You’ll never look at me the same way, will you?” I choke; it’s what I always fear about people knowing.
It’s one of the reasons I left Chicago. I hated people knowing what happened, looking at me that way.
My friends knowing that my mother never protected me against the myriad of perverted fucks she
brought home, refused to acknowledge it instead. Why she couldn’t be stronger and protect me? Sarah
never looked at me that way, she knew, even then, that I was made of stronger stuff. I look after Sarah
now, it’s my way of proving I’m stronger and somehow showing myself how my mother should have
been for me.

“Emma … You don’t know how I look at you … Even before this … This won’t change any of it.” His
voice is sincere, but I’m confused, I don’t know what he means, I’m too distraught to think straight. The
tears still rolling down my face while his forehead rests against mine, his hand cupping my cheek and
thumb trailing across my skin softly. His arm around me so tightly while keeping me against his warm,
strong body.

My eternal protector. He always brings these emotions out of me; they struggle to the surface
somehow.

“I’m not broken … I’m not … I’m strong and this means nothing.” I pull myself out of his embrace, off his
lap, and move away; he doesn’t stop me. I have to show him that I don’t need him to feel sorry, or sad



for me, that my past doesn’t change who I am now. I have a fire inside of me.

“I know you’re not, Emma … Is that what you think?” his voice is low and husky, as full of raw emotion
as mine is.

“Do I think I’m broken?”

No, did I say that? I don’t think I did. God why did I get so drunk?

Everything is spinning wildly and my mind a mess.

“No, Emma … Do you think I would look at you any differently?”

That’s what he meant. Well, now he mentions it. Yes, I did actually. Why wouldn’t he?

I let men think I want them to touch me, I somehow attract it. I must do something to deserve it for it to
have happened over and over. Even coming here, men at Carrero House still targeted me.

“Why wouldn’t you?” I reply flatly, staring out of the window absently, back in control of my sobs and
tired from the exertion.

“Emma … You did nothing wrong.” It’s breathy and tense, I think he’s having trouble believing I would
feel that way. He has no idea. He’s probably never been in a situation anything like my past.

“I’m supposed to be strong and cool and capable. I mean, you rely on me for everything. I can’t just fall
apart and whimper like some broken China, because I have a shitty past.” I stare away from him.
Trying to fully regain my cool. He’s looking at me with such an odd expression, and I realize we’ve been
driving for an age.


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