Puck

by Marata Eros

  The pain is immobilizing, but Temp doesn’t let the present impede her visceral reaction as her attacker drops to his knees.

  She slams her elbow into his nose. Hearing a satisfying crunch, she gasps for air.

  Maybe Temp could have escaped if the girl hadn’t taken that moment to appear.

  “Daddy!” she yells.

  Temp’s face whips to the screaming girl, taking in her torn shirt and the perfect circle of fingerprint-sized fresh and coloring bruises at her throat, clearly caused by restraint.

  Temp freezes at the sight.

  Sweeping a heavy arm out, he collapses Temp’s knees and lands smoothly on her back in a practiced way, utterly knocking the breath out of her body.

  Using his knees, he splits her legs as she bucks and squirms beneath him, fighting for air.

  Just fighting.

  The girl screams as the man jerks down Temp’s pants with one hand.

  Sodomizing her.

  Twice.

  Until her rectum is torn and bleeding.

  By the time the police come, the girl has joined Temp in taking the abuse. But their outcomes were different.

  Temp lived.

  And her first client died while Temp watched her murder, sobbing and bleeding.

  I am held prisoner in my own déjà vu. The history of Temp’s abuse so closely mirrors my own.

  My fingers shake as I attempt to neatly tuck the papers back inside the folder.

  While my hand rests on the top of the file, suspicion grows like a black cloud inside my fertile mind.

  I press my fingertips to my clenched eyelids, then my fingers come away wet.

  Fuck it.

  Standing, I grab the folder and secure the top flap. Throwing on my cut, I stalk out of the club.

  There’s shit people need to tell a person before they start a relationship. But I’m not a complete dumb fuck—I set up an appointment with Denni first, tapping out my message by stabbing the flat glass screen of my cell without even waiting for a reply.

  What I really want to do is find Temp and rail against her for not telling me.

  Rail against myself for not asking.

  Chapter 16

  Temp

  “I’m sorry, Temp, the child has to stay with”—Harvey glances at Tabitha Netter’s file—“Dale and BobbyJo.”

  He stands from behind his desk, his perfectly put-together outfit of casual coat, loose tie, and slacks unwrinkled.

  I don’t know how he does that. I couldn’t get away with unruffled if I tried.

  “And,” Harvey adds, narrowing his eyes at me, “they’ve agreed to an indefinite timeframe. It is difficult to match families who will foster with an open end.”

  I continue pacing, hands jammed inside my front jean pockets, which are, like all women’s pockets, not big enough. “You don’t understand, Harvey. This girl is with a mediocre foster family, at best. And she’s been through a real trauma at the hands of that psycho, Ritchie.”

  “Temp, I do understand.”

  Our eyes meet, and he dips his chin in a single nod.

  “I understand you,” he says slowly. “I understand that you want to save them all. And we simply can’t. This home provides the basics. Food, shelter, and a consistent environment.” Harvey leans his butt against the edge of the desk, following my restless prowl across his office with knowing eyes.

  “Not good enough,” I answer.

  “It’s all we can do sometimes, Temp. In fact, it’s mostly what we do. As you know...”

  “Good foster families are not typical,” I finish for him.

  “You know the mantra, Temp. You just don’t want to subscribe to that particular reality.”

  I shake my head, stopping my momentum. My hair swings forward, the hair stick having failed to secure it a half hour ago, and I rest my hands on my hips, feeling beaten and defeated.

  Probably because when I saw the doctor for a follow-up this morning, the doctor told me I would heal. The second jerk who clocked me didn’t do any more damage. I got lucky.

  A sudden surge to see Puck thrills through me, but I won’t be needy—even though I need him so bad, I ache. Puck provided a counter to the sameness of my life—a hope—that I’ve never had. I might have had it if that man hadn’t raped me.

  Maybe.

  But I’ll never know. Because it did happen, and I recovered. Not that Kendra would call my dry spell a recovery.

  Or my never spell.

  I should have probably been up front with Puck. Told him how truly inexperienced I really was. But everything happened so fast, and I didn’t want to insert that into the organic mix of emotions and desire that happened between us, not when I actually was unafraid and wanted him.

  And now I’ll have to let him know. I chose him. And Puck deserves to know what was behind that. Why I trusted him in a special way.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  I yank my eyes to Harvey. “Sorry,” I say, slightly sheepish. “I guess I got a little lost in my thoughts.”

  He folds his arms. “Temp, I can’t transfer the girl. The only thing I can offer you is the solace that Ritchie is removed from that household and can no longer harm her. Or Chenille Netter, for that matter.”

  “Yeah,” I suddenly remember. “Chenille was addicted to Rohypnol.”

  “You’re right, and the police have been alerted.”

  I frown. “What’s going on, beside the obvious fact that Ritchie was giving her roofies to make her oblivious to her choices in men.” I snort. What a loser that guy is.

  Harvey shakes his head. “No—and this is between you, me, and the fencepost—it goes much deeper than that, Temp. The police have made me aware that some of our young female clients might be vulnerable to Ritchie. Or men like him.”

  Well, of course they are. That’s why their children need fostering. “The point?”

  Harvey's lips twist. “So patient.”

  I scowl.

  “In any event,” he continues, amusement flickering across his features, “this is a deliberate system being put into place.”

  “Prostitution?”

  He nods. “But not just run-of-the-mill women deciding to become working girls. No. These women are hand-picked. Vulnerable because of lack of husband, income, single motherhood. Pick any one.”

  I think of how naturally beautiful Chenille is and that she does not have that stereotypical white-trash look.

  “Well, we’re not Nevada.”

  “Right. Prostitution is legal there. Those women have choice, health care—they pay their taxes. They’re, by and large, not being roofied into forced compliance.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that Ritchie, or him and someone else, is cherry plucking women from our system and drugging them as sex slaves.”

  “That’s the gist of it.”

  “Why the foster system?” I slap my thighs. “I noticed Ritchie because he was abusing Tabby. That’s not staying under the radar.”

  “No, but I believe he became complacent. Also, these women can be used hard and disposed of more easily. The traditional prostitute begins when she is a minor, and by the time she’s Chenille’s age, is already too damaged and aged to be used like what they’re doing.”

  “I had no idea.” Deflated, I lower myself into one of two chairs facing Harvey’s desk, and he straightens, walking around to the front of his desk and facing me.

  I crane my head to look at him. “Is this why I didn’t get a formal reprimand?”

  “It didn’t hurt. The police have their eye on Ritchie. They know this illicit prostitution ring has moved in, and they’re trying to put the players together and expose them.”

  “I’m so glad Tabby’s out of there.”

  Harvey nods. “So really, the house that she’s in right now is the best one she could be in right now.”

  “Or she’d just be shuffled to another house where a woman is possibly in this ring.”

  He points his index finger at
me. “Exactly. At the least, there is potential for that. And right now, the police are guessing.”

  I give him a sharp look. “You know what I think, Harvey?”

  His eyes crinkle at the corners. “I know you’ll tell me.”

  He’s got me there. “I think that it’s someone in our own group here. Someone who has access to our client list.”

  “Yes. I thought of that myself. I released our list to the police when they came after your altercation with Ritchie. Though we may never know.”

  Harvey’s face darkens. “You tell me right away if there’s another event like this. You must, Temp.”

  Shit. That other jackass in Kendra’s parking lot. I dismiss that, trying to convince myself he was a random goon.

  “Sure,” I say, eyes skating away, remembering that he said he had a message.

  “Because you might be vulnerable too.”

  Vehemently, I shake my head. “No way. I’m too high-profile. They’re hoping they can pluck the women in the system, without us being aware.”

  Harvey sighs, carding his fingers through his perfectly manicured hair.

  “Here’s the thing, Temp. That seems logical on the surface. But if this criminal group were to perceive you as a monkey wrench in the system, and it could work better without you in it, you could be in danger.”

  The drunken memory of that dirtbag rises to the surface of my brain like an oil slick. Could the parking lot incident be related to Ritchie? I gnaw at my bottom lip. But there hadn’t been anything else since then. If Ritchie was truly in retaliation mode, wouldn’t something else have happened by now?

  And how stupid would he be to go after me a second time on top of the first incident having put him in a holding cell for a couple of days?

  Nope. Not that concerned.

  But I appreciate Harvey’s train of thought—and his worry over me. “You’ve got a point. I’ll be watchful. Don’t worry.” And I would be.

  But right now, I wanted to see Puck.

  I didn’t want to make the first move, though, no matter how much I desperately want to.

  I have two more clients to see, then I can swing by Kendra’s and hang out.

  My apartment gathers dust, but a home is where you feel loved. And right now, Kendra’s the safest.

  I’m sort of hoping Puck will be up for the job.

  Puck

  “She didn’t fucking tell me, Denni,” I seethe. There’s no couch time for me. No relaxing while I spill my confidences like vomit.

  Nope. Instead, I pace her tight office.

  Though the floor-to-ceiling windows gather light and fling it around the space, it’s an illusion of spaciousness and not much more.

  Really, her office is a rathole within a maze of like-sized ratholes within the high-rise building.

  “Puck,” Denni says, seemingly unperturbed by the frenetic path I’m wearing on her sleek, patterned carpet.

  I whirl, glaring at my shrink.

  She smiles serenely. “Had you considered Temp might be uncomfortable telling you the details of her attack? How have you established enough intimacy for her to feel confident enough this quickly that she would be forthcoming with a trauma such as the one she suffered?” Her voice drops. “Like the one you suffered.”

  “I slept with her,” I say, defending myself stubbornly.

  Denni lifts a shoulder, her pale green eyes steady on my face. “And how is that action with Temp any different from the previous few dozen actions in your life?”

  My hands fist, and the compulsion to bellow into the room is overwhelming.

  Denni waits, and I hate her. Hate what she’s forcing me to admit.

  After three full minutes of silence, I say, “Because I think I love her.”

  Denni doesn’t tell me I’m a liar; she just waits.

  “Satisfied?” I ask like a juvenile.

  Unruffled by my bullshit, she replies, “Not yet, Puck. Because I think something needs to happen before you can be the support Temp needs. And the support you could be, to each other.”

  Denni’s that intuitive. That sure.

  She stands.

  “What needs to happen?” I ask, and suddenly, my voice sounds tinny, as though it’s been removed from my body.

  Denni walks to me, holding a position just outside of my personal space.

  “You must forgive yourself for the crime your father committed against you.”

  Clenching my teeth, I say the first honest thing in the nearly one hour I’ve been in her presence. “I don’t think I can.”

  Admitting that feeling is the worst thing I’ve ever done.

  I hate myself. That I allowed the abuse to happen to me.

  Denni studies my expression. “How old were you, Puck?”

  I know what she’s asking, and my stomach rolls as I reply, “Ten.”

  “Do you know any boys who are ten?”

  I think of Charlie, Noose’s stepson. He’s nine or so.

  Silently, I nod.

  “Would you forgive him if he were unable to fight off a grown man intent on defiling him? Or would you condemn him for the rest of his life because he wasn’t capable of doing it?”

  My heart begins to pound painfully. I think of Charlie and how small he is. How indefensible.

  Was I ever there? That small?

  All I know is now. And the hate I had for my inability to protect Candi and me.

  “Do you comprehend how unfair you are to your younger self? How unjust and critical of the things which occurred that were beyond your control.”

  I can’t breathe, and my head begins to feel hot.

  Denni grips my shoulders, and my eyes widen at the gesture, the surprising strength of the hold. “Puck, you are not responsible for the abuse committed against you.”

  Her fingers bite into me, but I know her touch is gentle.

  “Look at me.”

  I do, and the vision of her features tremble under the water of my eyes.

  “It is not your fault, William.”

  I finally gasp, sucking in a starved inhale.

  Suddenly, Denni’s face comes into focus again as the tears fall, clearing my vision.

  I hang my head in abject shame.

  Denni rises to her tiptoes, cradling my head against her much-smaller shoulder. “You were an unprotected, precious child in the hands of an insane parent. You are not responsible.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “And neither is Temp.”

  I wrap my arms around my counselor, and for the first time, I realize she’s not here for the paycheck.

  She’s here to fix me.

  If I’ll let her.

  Chapter 17

  Temp

  I’m sitting in the parking lot of my own apartment and wondering why I don’t just go inside.

  Probably because I haven’t darkened the doorstep since the attack.

  Attacks, I mean.

  I exit the Rabbit and slide my cell into my jeans pocket. Kendra’s out on a date I forgot about, and it’s a Friday night.

  Still no word from Puck.

  Taking my cell out again, I check out the dark screen. With a sigh, I replace it in my pocket again and lock my car before stuffing the fob inside my huge purse. At the door to my ground-floor apartment, I enter the numbered code.

  Opening the door wide, I walk inside. That stale I-haven’t-been-in-my-apartment-for-days emptiness hits me. Closing the door, I set my purse on the foyer table and kick off my flats.

  I visited two clients without incident. Both routine placements and check-ins.

  Nothing to worry about.

  But my mind drifts to Tabby. My blinds stand open, and I pull them all until they’re slanted. I want the late-day sun but not peering eyes.

  Like every other run-of-the-mill, eight-hundred-square-foot apartment, mine has only one bedroom and one bathroom. The kitchen is to the right of the small living room dead ahead and bedroom to the left. The only unique feature for a place this size is the en suite bath.


  Of course, it’s a newer complex, and that was one of the boxes I liked ticking when I was searching for my own place.

  I open the stainless-steel fridge and look inside.

  At nothing.

  Oh that’s not true; I have some moldy berries there on the middle shelf.

  Disgusted with the state of the barren fridge, I shut the door. Facing reality means I have to come to terms with how lazy I am about shopping. If I don’t shop for food, then clearly, there’s nothing in the fridge.

  Remembering I have beer, I open the fridge back up and grab one, giving supper the mental middle finger.

  I use my bottle opener to relieve the bottle of its cap and take a long swallow.

  Thinking some more about what Harvey said, I acknowledge I might have to be more observant at the moment. I resent the disturbing need and its cause.

  Walking out to my full-length mirror that hangs on the only free wall space I have, I inspect my healing face with my fingertips.

  Doesn’t look half bad for just over a week.

  My eye is fully open, and the swelling’s been gone for a couple of days.

  Cheek still bugs me though.

  A knock on the door has me jumping. Hand to heart, I turn, the door only two feet in front of me.

  “Who is it?” I ask, instant fear spiking, and even more pissed that I’m afraid instead of expectant.

  “Puck.”

  Oh shit.

  A flutter erupts deep within my belly, and I whirl back to the mirror, giving myself the onceover.

  Freshly showered because my day began late, I’ve taken a little more care with my appearance because today was my first day back after Ritchie with new clients.

  Of course, I wear no makeup because one of my eyes has a bruise circle in a lovely, fading lime green. That’s not entirely true. I did sweep some mascara on my good eye.

  “Temp?” Puck calls from the door.

  Oh my God. I left him standing there while I appraised my appearance like a schoolgirl.

  Unlocking the door, I open it so forcefully, wisps of hair rise from my temples. “Hey.” My greeting’s breathless.