Drifter

by Janine Infante Bosco

  Heart.

  My brothers are always preaching it, they’ve all got it.

  Now I’ve got it too.

  It’s Gina.

  I almost lost her for good tonight.

  One scare is enough.

  I’m never letting go.

  She stops twisting and turning, finally finding a shred of peace as she sleeps. I glance over my shoulder at the two men in the room. Rocco looks lost as he leans back against the wall holding his gun against his chest like a child holds their favorite toy. Jack’s eyes are trained on me but his facial expression is unreadable. He’s probably plotting my death considering I’ve been lying to him and the club for months.

  A knock sounds at the door and I watch as Jack glances over his shoulder before bringing his eyes back to me.

  “We expecting anyone else?”

  “Cobra went to get a doctor. That should be him,” I tell him, nodding for him to open the door.

  “A doctor? You don’t think we should take her to the hospital?” Rocco questions from behind me.

  “You take that girl to the hospital and the cops will be all over this, all over her. They will violate what’s left of her,” Jack comments, before he struts toward the door. He pauses and glances back at both of us, “And do you really want a bunch of city paid officials with no attachment to your sister to be the people who give her justice?”

  He pulls open the door and as I expect it’s Cobra. However, I didn’t expect Gina’s cousin to be the medical personnel he brought here. Celeste steps into the room and her eyes immediately find Rocco’s.

  The mobster stares back at her for a moment before covering his face with his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers, pulling his hands away as Celeste continues to stare at his red-rimmed eyes.

  Cobra presses his hand against Celeste’s back and ushers her into the room, closing the door behind him. Slowly, her eyes dart from Rocco to the bed and she gasps, bringing her hand to cover her mouth as she cries.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jack mutters.

  She turns back to Cobra and shrugs out of his reach.

  “You didn’t tell me it was my cousin,” she accuses, furiously wiping away her tears. “Go get my bag,” she instructs, before glancing around the room at all of us. “Get out. All of you get out.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her. “I promised her I wouldn’t leave her.”

  “Little late for that, right?” Celeste clips.

  Gina squeezes my hand, tearing my attention away from her protective cousin who not only handed me the truth, but my ass as well.

  “It’s okay,” I murmur as a sob rips through her throat. Slowly, she forces one eye, the less swollen one, open and that green color I’ve been craving greets me.

  “Stryker,” she whispers faintly.

  Hearing my name never affected me as much as it did that moment.

  “I’m here, pretty girl,” I whisper, dropping on the edge of the bed beside her. She crushes my hand as I lift hers to my lips and I watch as a tear trickles from the corner of her eye.

  “You’re really here,” she whispers.

  “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. Your cousin is here and she’s going to help get you cleaned up, okay?”

  “Celeste?”

  “Right here,” she says, coming up behind me. I don’t have to look at her to know she’s rigid and fighting back her own slew of emotions as she stares back at her cousin. “How about we start with a shower?”

  Gina glances between us and nods as more tears fall from her eyes. She doesn’t let go of my hand, she squeezes it even tighter. I lean over her, bring my free hand up to her face and watch as she fights not to flinch as my fingers touch her bruised cheek.

  “I’ll be right outside and when you’re done Celeste will come and get me. I won’t leave your side, pretty girl. I won’t.”

  “Okay,” she whispers hoarsely.

  “Okay,” I repeat, dropping my hand from her cheek and lifting our joined ones to my lips, brushing my lips across her knuckles before releasing my hold on her.

  I turn my gaze back to her cousin.

  “I’ll be right outside,” I say, demanding her attention. “You call me when you’re done.”

  She doesn’t answer but I stand anyway, allowing her room to get to the girl we both care about. Cobra places the black duffel bag on the foot of the bed as Jack pulls open the door. Rocco is the first to step out of the room, followed by Cobra and finally I meet Jack’s gaze as he holds the door for me. Turning around, I watch Gina cling to her cousin as they both cry before I shove my hands into my pockets and leave the girl I love to face her demons in the mirror.

  The moment Jack closes the door, I charge at Rocco, grabbing him by the lapels of his suit jacket and throw him up against the brick wall of the hotel.

  “You son of a bitch,” I growl.

  “Jesus,” Jack hisses. “Get him off him, Cobra.”

  Cobra does as he’s told and tears me off Rocco before Jack steps between us.

  “One of you better start fucking talking or so help me Jesus Christ,” he snarls. “Let’s start by telling me how the fuck you knew Rocco had a sister.”

  “I met her the night I came home,” I reveal, stepping away from Rocco. “I didn’t know she was his sister at first.”

  “Gee, that makes this fucking mess so much better,” Jack bites back sarcastically, scowling at Rocco.

  “You knew your sister was hanging around one of my brothers.”

  “I did, and he offered to help me protect her when you wouldn’t fucking give me the time of day,” Rocco sneers.

  “Well, a fine job of protecting you all did,” Jack seethes, pointing to the door.

  “It’s over,” I declare, lifting my gaze to Jack. “From this point forward Gina isn’t Rocco’s sister. She’s my girl, and my girl has been attacked which makes this a club issue and no longer any of this prick’s business. However…” I point a finger toward Rocco, “…you will tell him everything you fucking know about Yankovich—”

  “Wait a minute,” Cobra interrupts. “Are we sure this was Yankovich? I mean anyone could’ve done this, a complete stranger with no ties to either organization could’ve attacked Gina.”

  “I’ve been trying to intercept a leasing agreement Yankovich made with Triton Containers,” Rocco admits. “If everything went through he no longer would have the capabilities to transport his shipment to Russia, which he’s planning on doing soon. He’s a smart man, with an army of soldiers behind him, someone in his organization must’ve got wind of my plans and before I could sabotage his trade operation he decided to teach me a lesson and he used my sister to do so.”

  “What’s the Russian looking to transport?”

  “Women and drugs. Something you would know if you fucking listened to me,” he snarls.

  Jack’s jaw ticks as he turns his attention back to me.

  “Find out who did your girl dirty,” he orders. “Be sure before we throw our balls to the wind and go to war.”

  “The club will back me?”

  “She your woman, then she’s property of the Satan’s Knights and no one fucks with what is ours.” He turns to Rocco. “Looks like you got your wish, boy. You ready to work with me?”

  “If it brings justice to the people who hurt my sister then I’ll do whatever the fuck you tell me to do.”

  Jack glances back and forth between us silently assessing the two men who vowed to protect one woman and both failed.

  There’s something in his eyes.

  The same thing I saw in Blackie’s when he led us to the Corrupt Bastards' clubhouse.

  It’s a promise.

  A vow of retribution.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The light of the bathroom temporarily blinds me as Celeste closes the door behind us and sets the duffel bag on the counter. With my swollen eyes, I try to stare at the floor, at the
grout outlining the tiles, unable to lift my head and look my cousin in the eye. Subconsciously I’m also aware of the mirror behind her and I’m not ready for that truth. I’m not ready to look at myself and accept that this isn’t a nightmare.

  I won’t wake up from this.

  “Gina,” she begins hoarsely. “Let’s get you out of these clothes, okay?”

  Nodding, I reach for the waistband of my skirt but Celeste takes my hands and places them at my sides. Gently, she unzips my skirt and eases it down my legs, helping me step out of the material once it’s pooled around my ankles. I glance down, waiting for her to remove my panties and realize I’m not wearing any.

  Tears fall from my eyes, stinging my cheeks as they slide down my face.

  She squeezes my hand before undoing the two buttons left on my shirt and lets the torn silk fall from my shoulders. My breasts are exposed; the cups of my bra were pulled down and never put back in place. She unclasps the bra and I’m completely naked.

  Instinctively I try to cover myself with my hands and then I realize there is no point, I drop my hands back to my sides as I lift my head and meet my cousins worried gaze.

  Worried and full of sorrow.

  Maybe pity.

  I’d pity the girl standing in front of her too.

  The girl too afraid to look at herself in the mirror.

  Celeste clears her throat and reaches inside her bag, pulling out a bunch of medical supplies. Some I recognize from television shows and some others I have no idea what they’re for. She lifts a syringe, filling it with something before she turns back to me.

  “I took this kit from the hospital,” she explains.

  Shrugging my shoulders, I turn my damaged body over to her and let her do her job. I close my eyes and pretend I’m far away, that my feet aren’t planted firmly on the floor and my cousin isn’t prying my legs open. I pretend like she doesn’t inject me with needles filled with antibiotics or a tetanus shot. I’m on a beach in Saint Thomas not in a tiny bathroom having multiple swabs inserted into my mouth and vagina. I’m sipping on a margarita, not downing a glass of water and the morning-after pill.

  I’m not sure how long it goes on for, if it’s minutes or hours because I’m completely detached from reality until I feel the water wash over me.

  “Is the temperature okay?” Celeste asks as I stand under the showerhead and let the water stream hit my battered body. I nod my head in response and she steps out of the shower, drawing the curtain closed.

  “I’m right here, Gina,” she assures.

  Forcing open my eyes, I stare at the white floor of the shower, watching as the blood and dirt wash off my body and spiral down the drain. Deciding I don’t want my body anymore, that I’m absolutely terrified of it, I wish I could fade down the drain like the blood and dirt do, but I know it’s not possible. I’m stuck here and forced to live through this nightmare. I’m forced to face the world as a victim, something I swore I’d never be.

  For a moment I wonder if I pretend I’m okay, if I pretend my whole world didn’t just crumble; if the people around me will buy it. They bought the happy act I gave the world for so long. No one knew I was lonely and miserable. It worked so well that at times I forgot the truth. Maybe this could be similar. Maybe if I step out of the shower and assure everyone I’m okay, that I will survive this, well, maybe I’ll believe it too.

  Maybe I’ll believe the lie.

  Long after the blood and dirt are washed from my body and the scent of cologne no longer lingers on my skin, I stay under the water and wait for it to turn cold. Celeste peels back the curtain and helps me wash my hair. At first I cringe at her touch but then I force myself back to the beach, back to my happy place and allow her to condition the knots from my hair.

  The water turns off and my time is up.

  I can no longer hold off the inevitable.

  Stepping out of the shower, I take my first steps as a victim of violence and stand before the mirror.

  This is my moment of truth.

  I lift my gaze to the mirror and gasp at the woman staring back at me, knowing she belongs to me. That we are now one.

  The strength and independence I prided myself on is now masked by rape.

  This is the face and body of a woman who said no.

  A woman you didn’t hear cry out.

  A woman you won’t see on the news.

  A woman you wouldn’t remember if you had.

  I am a woman who has been raped.

  And these abrasions and lacerations are now mine for the rest of my life.

  They will fade, the world won’t see them again, but every time I look into the mirror they will still be there.

  Celeste stands behind me, wrapping a towel around my battered body sheltering it from both her eyes and mine. I struggle to watch in the mirror as she looks away and tries to compose herself.

  She’s had enough.

  Seen too much.

  I tuck the towel around me and turn to her.

  “I’m okay,” I assure her, because that’s what she needs to hear, and the lie feels good on my lips. I remind myself of my plan and continue to lie. I’ll lie to everyone as long as in the end I believe the lies as much as they do.

  “Did you bring me clothes?”

  “Yes,” she cries, wiping away her tears as she digs into her bag and pulls out a pair of sweats. “Do you want me to help you?”

  “I can do it,” I tell her, taking the clothes from her hands. I pull the underwear out first and realize they are the kind the hospital probably gives all the women who are raped. Robotically, I dress in the clothes she’s brought for me and once I’m covered, I brave another glance at myself in the mirror.

  They beat me badly.

  My face resembles a prized fighter, but the clothes serve their purpose and cover the shame that colors my body. One glance at me and you wouldn’t know I was violated by three men. No, you’d think my boyfriend threw me down a flight of stairs. For a moment I wonder which role is easier to accept, the battered woman or the rape victim.

  Why can’t I just be Gina?

  How did I lose her?

  Celeste opens the bathroom door, collecting the evidence of my rape and steps out of the room before me.

  “Celeste?”

  “Yes,” she rasps.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “Please, don’t thank me for this,” she pleads, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Do you want me to send them back in here or would you like to be by yourself?”

  “Them?” I ask confused.

  “Stryker and your brother are here,” she tells me.

  How could I forget that? How could I forget Stryker had been the one to take me away from that alleyway?

  I’ve got you.

  “Gina?”

  “Sorry. Yes, they can come in,” I say as I lift my gaze to her and take a seat on the foot of the bed. She stares at me for a moment before nodding and walking toward the door. I toy with the hem of the sweatshirt and look around the hotel room when I hear the door open.

  Turning my head, I lock eyes with Stryker’s.

  “There’s my pretty girl,” he says huskily from the doorway.

  Pretend you're fine.

  He’ll believe you.

  You’ll believe it too.

  “Hi, soldier,” I rasp.

  His face remains neutral and I can’t tell if he’s buying my act, but he steps further into the room and keeps his feet moving until he’s standing in front of me. He drops to his knees, lifts his hands to my face and I fight with everything left in me not to cringe as he gently caresses my cheeks.

  “You’re going to be okay,” he promises.

  His words hit me—another truth is born.

  He’s pretending too.

  If he says the words and makes me believe them; then he will believe them too.

  “Yeah, I am,” I lie.

  Lies become our reality t
he same as rape has.

  “Gina,” my brother whispers. I glance over Stryker’s shoulder and look at Rocco standing off to the side. Beside him is the man I once wished for Stryker to introduce me to, Jack Parrish. He tips his chin toward me before taking a step back.

  Turning back to my brother I see the remorse in his eyes and I contemplate telling him the words that stick out from my attack. The accent thick in the voices of the men who attacked me and promised to kill my brother if I didn’t cooperate.

  The words that ring in my ears louder than the sound of my own voice saying no.

  “They told me they were going to kill you,” I whisper.

  His shoulders slump in defeat the same way they did when the doctor told us our mother had passed.

  Have you ever wondered how the people closest to you would react to your death? I think at one point we all have, and right now I have a ring side seat to my brother as he mourns the life I knew. The life an enemy of his took viciously without regard.

  “I want to go home,” I say, turning back to Stryker. “Will you take me home?”

  “I’ll take you wherever you want to go, pretty girl.”

  “Will you stay?”

  “I’ll never leave,” he swears.

  And he doesn’t. From the moment we step foot into my apartment Stryker stays with me. He shadows me from room to room until it’s time for me to sleep. Then he takes his respective position in the chair of my bedroom and watches me as I sleep.

  But I don’t sleep.

  I close my eyes and I relive my attack over and over again. Every single time I close my eyes I see their faces, hear their voices, feel their bodies on top of mine. My voice cries out both in pain and in defeat as I fight and lose.

  I wake up screaming, thrashing in my own bed but my mind doesn’t know I’m safe and at home. In my mind I’m still that helpless woman who has been dragged behind a dumpster. I’m still that woman crying no to men who don’t give a damn. I’m the woman they used to send a message to her brother. I’m the woman left to die in an alleyway, the woman a homeless man stumbled upon as he filtered through the trash looking for his next meal.