Inside I’m seething. Two men. Two nights and a day in between. At least thirty-six hours. I try not to imagine what depravities they put her through. I roll my shoulders and breath in a deep breath in an attempt to reduce the tension that been building up while Mia’s been recounting her ordeal, knowing the last thing she needs is for me to let my fury show. It’s nigh on impossible, but I force myself to stay composed. I’d floated the idea with Coulton, but when he checked, he found the police had no records of any rape case linked to Mia Fable. But still, I ask to check. “Did you report it?”
“No.”
I’ve seen rape victims before and understand the misguided guilt they carry. So I think I already know part of the answer, but continue to ask the question. “Why not?”
She takes a deep breath; it’s difficult for her to get out the words. “I got home. I was in a pretty bad way. My mother opened the door and called me a slut for going to the party. She said if I’d got hurt I’d brought it on myself. When I tried to tell her what happened, she said I deserved everything I got. All because I wanted to be a normal teenager for once.” She breaks off; I give her a reassuring look and tighten my arm around her, waiting for her to carry on. At my gesture of support, she picks up her heart-wrenching story.
“Mum was a religious fanatic and kept repeating it was my entire fault, that if I’d been a good girl it would never have happened. She wouldn’t let me go to school until the bruises faded. She’d made some excuse for my absence. No one ever knew, or even suspected. After two weeks of her ranting, I came to believe what she was telling me; that I brought it on myself.” She stops and looks straight at me, “At first, I wanted to go to the police, Jon; I didn’t want them to get away with it and do it to anyone else. I asked, begged her to let me contact them. But she locked me in my room and refused to let me out. She said no one would believe me, and she didn’t want everyone to know what kind of daughter she had. In the end, when I was eventually able to leave, I was too embarrassed and ashamed to talk to anyone.”
I breathe in sharply, and look away briefly, not wanting her to see the disgust on my face. Not directed at her, of course, but her fucking mother. How can someone treat their daughter like that? Rape is brutal and devastating at any age, and the person closest to her should have been there to give her support. And it’s worse as Mia was still a child yes; she was above the age of consent, but not yet an adult. And she certainly had not consented in any way to what had been done to her. The men had committed the crime, not Mia. That woman deserves to be shot! “I’m so sorry,” I tell her quietly, when I’ve got myself under control. Then I switch to my most dominant voice, “You were not to blame.” Again I turn her to face me, “It wasn’t your fault, you did nothing wrong.”
She shrugs, and I’m angry and worried she still seems to be taking the guilt on herself. So I tell her again, “You had no choice; you didn’t ask for them to abduct and rape you. You were a victim.” Her reaction surprises me.
Pulling up a little straighter in my arms, her gaze becomes intense. “I know that now,” she tells me emphatically, “But it took me two years to understand that I hadn’t ‘asked for it’. It was only after I hit rock bottom and came close to committing suicide that I began to realise whatever I was wearing, whatever I’d looked like, it wasn’t my fault. The only reason I didn’t take that bottle of tablets was I couldn’t have my flatmates coming in and finding me dead; I couldn’t do that to anyone. But I came close. I sat there, staring at that bottle, for a very long time. Once I’d washed the tablets down the drain, I cut down any contact with my mother to just a couple of phone calls a year to let her know I was still breathing. I never saw her again, it was the only thing I could do to remain strong. Every time I’d make contact, she’d remind me what a slut I was. She never forgave me.”
I don’t know which part of her story is worse, her abduction and rape, or her fucking mother’s reaction. Or the fact it’s only her inner strength, and that she didn’t want other people to have to live with the nightmare of finding a body that she’s still alive today. All thoughts of any seduction I might have had have fled. I pull her back to me and give her a brotherly hug. She notices the difference and pulls away.
“I’m still a woman, Jon. They haven’t taken that away from me.”
I have to admire the force in her voice, but the fact she’s not had a boyfriend since her ordeal belies her words. I think carefully about where to go next, and know I should avoid any discussion about her sexuality. Tonight is not the right time. “Do you have any idea who abducted you? Any clues at all, however slight, as to who they might be?” I probe gently.
She looks at me as if she was expecting me to say something different, but then realises I’m still fishing for information. “That’s the other reason I didn’t tell anyone, there wasn’t much point. I didn’t know who they were, absolutely no idea. They kept me blindfolded the whole time I was kept captive. There were so many people at the party; I didn’t even get a good look at the man who gave me the drink. I only know he was a bit older – well, that was my impression – and quite tall.” Her eyes are staring unfocused into the distance as her mind apparently drifts back. “It was two years later that I realised I was the victim, not the instigator. Sitting, debating whether to end your life somehow brings clarity that wasn’t there before. I thought about my friends, how they dressed when they went out – far more provocative than anything I wore to that party. I never thought of them as being sluts or going out looking as though they were advertising their availability for sex. A woman should be able to dress how she wants, without it being taken as a blatant invitation. I know that now.
“But I still felt – feel – dirty, that will never leave me. I wanted them punished, but if I’d reported it two years after the fact, what could I say? It was too long after for any proper investigation. And I could have given them nothing to go on. All the DNA evidence was long gone.” She comes back to the present, “Don’t think it doesn’t bother me that they might have done it again. That gives me nightmares. And that’s what I feel most guilty about. If I’d come forward at the time, had a proper examination, then they might have been caught. And stopped. That’s what I agonise about the most.”
“But your mother prevented you from going to the police. You were seventeen, Mia, not yet considered an adult.” I run my hands through my hair and bring them down to rub my chin. “It’s a fucked up situation. You could be right they went on to do it again. It’s impossible to know. But you shouldn’t beat yourself up about it. It was out of your control, sweetheart. Everything was out of your control.”
Reaching forwards, I pick up her wine glass and hand it to her. If there was ever a time, she needed a drink that time is now. I wonder whether she’s got something stronger in the house, but decide not to ask, just wait until she’s taken a few sips. Then, as Jon, the man, not the CPO, I question her, “What did they do to you, Mia?” I reconsider, realising the pain it might put her through. All that I require is any description of them or where she was taken. I know they raped her; I don’t need to know more, so shaking my head I state firmly, “No, you don’t have to tell me the details, not if it’s too much.”
But it seems now she’s started she wants to get it all off her chest. There’s a brief pause before she looks at me and shivers, then proceeds to give me the answer in a quiet monotone. “Everything.” She turns her head, and then swings back quickly and frowns in disgust, whether at herself, me or the rapists I’m not too sure. “Fuck, Jon, it’s so hard to put into words.” Again she looks away. I open my mouth to tell her it doesn’t matter when the details come spilling out. “They raped me, repeatedly. They took my virginity and then they kept taking turns. I don’t know how long it lasted, or how many times. Then they used me together as they forced me to give oral. They choked me and laughed as I gagged.” She pauses for a moment. “They must have improvised a spanking bench and a St Andrews Cross; at least that’s what it felt like. They handcuff
ed and tied me to different things. They spanked me, caned me and whipped me, Jon. I’ve got scars.”
For a second I wonder how she knows what the equipment is called, then I remember the book I’d read, she’d obviously done her research, and has become familiar with the apparatus in retrospect.
Suddenly she bursts into tears and throws herself into my arms. I hold her tight, giving her comfort through my touch, unable to find the words, I rub my hand up and down her back, trying with my actions to convince her I don’t think she’s dirty or deserving of the treatment she received. Remembering this is the first time she’s talked about her ordeal, I let her cry it out, hoping she’ll find some relief. Her hand grasps my shirt. I hold her close as she cries. Her sobs are killing me, my T-shirt getting soaked. I rock her gently as though she’s a child. Eventually, her tears start to dry, and when she’s only giving an occasional sniffle, I push her slightly away and look deep into her eyes. “Mia,” I start to tell her, purposefully lowering my voice and putting as much conviction as I can into it. “You’re one of the bravest people I know. I’ve so much admiration for your strength.” She looks at me strangely, as if she can’t understand what I’m trying to say, so I continue, “You came through, Mia. You’ve coped and rebuilt yourself. You’ve moved on where a lot of people would have fallen apart. A lot of people would have taken those tablets, Mia. You came back.”
She wipes her eyes on her sleeve and then looks around her. “I need a tissue,” she says, then gets up and goes into the kitchen. I hear her blowing her nose loudly before returning. When I hold out my arms in invitation, she settles beside me once more. Gratified she trusts me enough for that, I give her a moment to compose herself then, just as I go to say something, she asks me a question. “Do you believe one of those men think I’m writing about what happened to me?” She pauses, as if in thought. “I never write about rape. Everything I write is consensual.”
“It’s not what I think that’s important. The bastards that did that to you were warped and twisted. Who the fuck knows how they think?”
She seems to consider my words for a moment. “But it’s a moot point. I don’t have any clues as to who they are. One was the leader, the chief instigator of everything, the other one deferred to him and did what he was told to do. But I have no clues as to their names. And no description other than one was probably tall.”
I wonder how strong she truly is. “We could try to find out,” I suggest, not sure what her response will be. Identifying those motherfuckers would be hard for her, and might undo the healing she’s managed to do to become the woman she has.
But she surprises me by sitting up a little straighter, asking only, “How? How could we start to do that?” The eagerness in her voice shows me she needs this. The whole ordeal is still an open book in her past, and I suspect she needs it closed before she can properly move on.
I mull it over for a moment, “We can start with the person who held the party, and then track down other people who were there. They might have seen something. Can you do that, Mia? Are you up for it? I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
Pulling away from me, she stands and collects her empty glass. I’m taken aback to see a faint smile on her face as she indicates my empty bottle and I nod, realising she’s going to get us more to drink. But she speaks before she leaves the room. “Jon, if there’s anything positive I can do, let’s get on with it. I don’t want to be a victim any longer; I want to tackle this head on.”
I grin as she goes out. What a girl! Fuck, too right, what a girl. But not the fucking girl for me. She’s been through too much, and somehow she’s come out the other side. She needs a man in her life, one she can trust to help complete her healing, and that’s certainly not me. The things I’d want to do to her. Hell, I fuck, I don’t make love. I dream about having her over a spanking bench, beneath my whip. I’m a Dominant, and anything I’d want to do would only scare her and remind her of the most traumatic experience of her life, bring back memories of the worst thing that can happen to a woman. And I’d never be happy in a vanilla relationship, even with someone like her; I know myself too well. Even before I knew there was a name for it I couldn’t concede control in the bedroom, and I have an insatiable appetite for sex. No, I’m completely the wrong man for Mia Fable. I stare into space, not focusing on anything in particular. I’ll do my job here and protect her, but then I’ll have to let her go. She deserves, needs, so much more.
After she’s refreshed our drinks, she disappears for a short while, returning with her arms full of blankets and pillows. As she places the spare bedding by the two-seater couch I suppress a shudder. I’m going to be in for an uncomfortable night.
Chapter 8
Mia
Seven years ago
The party seemed to get even crazier, and I wanted to go home. But the sheer number of bodies I’d have to push through to get to the front door stopped me leaving. I was too hot, my skin damp and clammy and feeling claustrophobic and overwhelmed. Alcohol was flowing freely, and by then there was more staggering to the music than actual dancing. Voices were getting louder, and I was more than ready to go home. But I’d already been groped twice as I tried to make my way through the drunken throng, so, for the moment, I stayed put, out of the way, my back up against the wall waiting for the crowd to thin. Or pass out, which currently seemed the more likely.
“Here. Have this.” A gruff voice beside me told me, as something was pushed into my hand. Automatically, I took it, before looking to see what I’d been given.
It was a bottle, an alcopop. “Thanks, but I don’t drink.” I tried to pass it back. The man who’d given it to me had to lean down to hear me, and even then I had to shout into his ear. I kept my eyes lowered, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
“Go on. One won’t hurt.” he encouraged.
Looking at the bottle, I assessed the crowded room and realised I’d be trapped in my corner for a while. Suddenly I was aware just how dry and thirsty I was and was ready to drink anything to ease my parched throat, even if that meant I was about to try my first alcoholic drink. He’d already been kind enough to open it for me, so putting the bottle to my lips I took a small sip, surprised to find it just tasted like normal lemonade with only a slight aftertaste. I was thirsty, so I carried on drinking until the bottle was empty.
My new friend remained beside me, but he didn’t talk to me again, so I assumed that he was like me, keeping out of the fray which continued getting wilder by the minute. I glanced at my watch; it was gone midnight. Oh God, I really shouldn’t have left it this late before leaving. Suddenly I felt drained and knew I had to make a determined effort to get out, so pushed away from the wall with renewed resolve. No longer having a solid support behind me, I stumbled as I tried to stand up straight.
“Whoa, there,” his rough voice rumbled in my ear. “Steady.” His hand came out to hold me, and I was grateful for his help and leant on him to get my balance. “Where you off to?”
“Home,” I told him, “I’ve got to get home.” My head was spinning, and I was starting to feel sick.
“I’ll help you out.”
Grateful to him, I accepted both his offer and supporting hand to help me steer my way to the door.
Present day
Waking Friday morning, I’m surprised to find I’d slept the whole night through without interruption. Despite having to relive my ordeal as I recounted it to Jon, the resulting nightmares I’d been expecting hadn’t materialised. Maybe talking about what happened, getting it out into the open had been cathartic. There’d been no indication that Jon had judged me, as I told my sordid tale for the first time in my life. Perhaps I should have spoken to someone years ago, but I veered away from counselling, too worried I’d be found guilty and convicted, in the way my mother had. Then, two years later, when I realised it hadn’t been my fault, I’d become my own therapist.
But now, as the new day dawns, I’m feeling refreshed, as though some of the heavy
weight has been lifted off of me. I’ve still got a stalker, but I’ve also got Jon on my side and staying close. I don’t feel so afraid, he makes me feel safe, and today I’m going to start taking action, not just sitting back and letting things happen.
Having gone through the morning routine of showering, dressing, and breakfasting, I’m ready to go. Picking up my bag I follow Jon to the front door, but before leaving the house, make sure to set the new alarm behind me. He’s watching carefully, and gives a nod of approval, looking pleased I’ve remembered the instructions Howie gave me the day before.
Trailing after him across the drive, he opens the door to an amazing sports car that he tells me is a McClaren Spider in a beautiful royal blue. I smirk at him; the car screams sex and speed, I can’t remember even having seen that make before on the road. It seems a bit excessive for a bodyguard, and I’m shaking my head in disbelief as I find myself repeating his words, “A McClaren?”
He grins back. “A present from a wealthy sheikh,” he tells me.
I can’t resist; I walk around the gleaming car that seems entirely out of place on my driveway behind my old, but reliable, Ford Fiesta. The author in me is taking notes. “What’s the top speed?”
“It will do over two hundred miles per hour, and reach sixty in three seconds.” He smirks. My mouth falls open, and my concern must show on my face as he pre-empts my question, resting his hand on my arm for reassurance, “I’m a safe driver, Mia. Yes, I’ve pushed the car on a race track for fun, but I stick to the speed limits on the roads. Well, close to, anyway.”
The car doesn’t pretend to be anything other than a rich man’s toy; its sleek lines, huge exhausts, the styling, all built for speed and power. Just the two seats, definitely not a family car and I don’t miss the opportunity to learn something else about the man.
Close Protection (Blood Brothers #2) Page 9