“Were you?” I choked out.
“No,” she whispered and shivered at the bad memory. “I was lucky, I guess.”
I was relieved.
That she hadn’t had to go through the trauma of a miscarriage like Kassa had.
That she hadn’t had to carry that monster’s spawn inside of her when she’d already been through so much.
That she didn’t have to associate having a baby with the man who stole so many other things from her.
“But even though I told him I wasn’t pregnant, that I got my period, he wouldn’t believe me. He started hitting me, and that got him… Yeah. He was on top of me when the girls came in, screaming so loud the neighbors heard and called the cops. Genesis and London grabbed him by the arms and pulled them behind his back so hard, he screamed in pain. It woke up some of the other girls, and they came running to see what was going on. By then, Aubree had already cut him, and there was blood everywhere. It was hard for the medics to figure out what was his blood and what was mine when they tried to clean me up.”
“I don’t like those three most of the time, Ro,” I told her honestly. “But I will always tolerate them because they saved you.”
She lifted her head, tears glistening in her eyes. “Thank you. They’re my soul sisters. They mean everything to me. If it weren’t for them, I’m pretty sure he would have killed me that night.”
I cupped her cheek, wanting to kiss her so damn bad, but afraid it would make her uncomfortable after reliving all those bad memories. “I’m sorry that happened, baby. I hate that you had to go through any of it. If I could change it for you, I would.”
Her hand covered mine. “I know you would. I wish I could change what happened to you with your stepmom, too.”
Not wanting to think about Brandi when I had perfection in my arms, I pulled Roanna back down on my chest and kissed the top of her head. “Try to sleep, Ro. I’ll be right here if you have another nightmare. I’ll protect you.”
But as much as I didn’t want to think about my stepmom and the ugly past, my mind couldn’t push any of it out. For the longest time afterward, my dad had acted like he hated me. Like it was my fault his wife got bored with him and decided to turn me into her sex toy.
For years, I thought it was my fault, too.
It took a while before I could admit to myself that what she did was the definition of statutory rape. Guys didn’t get raped—or so I’d told myself. I was willing; she didn’t do anything I didn’t want her to—again, that was what I told myself. She was in her twenties; I was a horny fifteen-year-old with sex on tap whenever I wanted it.
I hated her, and I showed her how much every time I fucked her. It only made her want me more. She liked how rough I was, how I only seemed to want to hurt her even as I was getting off inside her. It was sick, and I began to hate myself for it. All the shit I’d pulled in the past seemed like child’s play compared to how I started acting out.
I wanted someone to notice that I wasn’t okay, that I didn’t want to go home because I couldn’t stop what happened when Brandi touched me. I lost control. I fucked her even when I tried not to. When I locked the door and turned up the music so I didn’t hear her out in the hall, telling me how good I was at licking her cunt, she would find a way to get the door open and, within minutes, be on my dick.
And because my cock got hard for her, I thought it was my fault. I didn’t think of myself as a victim because I didn’t know I was one.
I didn’t want to be one.
Then Dad caught us one night after she snuck into my bedroom. I was asleep and woke up to her on me, my cock already hard and inside of her. I shouted for her to get the fuck off me, not realizing what time it was or that Dad was home.
Or maybe I did and just wanted it over with.
I still wasn’t sure.
But Dad was suddenly in the doorway, watching his wife ride my cock even as I was yelling at the bitch to get away from me.
I’d never seen him get so pissed, never seen him raise a hand to Mom or even Brandi before that day. But he grabbed her by the back of her hair, pulling her off me, and throwing her across the room. He told her to pack her shit and get out, and I almost cried in relief that night because she did.
It was over.
I didn’t have to worry about coming home because she wouldn’t be there anymore.
I could sleep. I could do whatever the hell I wanted, and she wouldn’t be there to jump me anytime she wanted.
But Dad stopped talking to me after that. For years, we were like strangers living in the same house. We never ate together, barely grunted at each other in passing. And I was okay with that. Because even though I thought it was my fault, I knew it was his fault too.
It wasn’t until later, when the high school had an assembly on rape, that I realized what Brandi had done was considered statutory rape. That even if I was willing, I was too young to give consent. But I kept quiet, not even telling my two best friends.
Who would have believed me anyway?