by Annie Stone
She swallows. For a second, I wonder if it’s a good idea to talk down to her in front of my friends. But my tolerance for stupid people has reached a new low.
“Your dad said no parties,” she says, her voice nearly a whisper.
I raise an eyebrow and shout, “I can’t hear you!”
It gets quiet. Somebody turned off the music. Because everybody wants to hear what’s going on. I guess it must be entertaining that I, this woman’s lover’s son, am about to tell her who’s the boss. And who definitely isn’t.
Her eyes wander over to Liza, who is still standing next to me, tears running down her face. Mac’s eyes darken for a moment before she directs an accusatory look at me.
“I don’t believe it,” she says, her voice no longer small and submissive. “Your dad trusts you. Is this you showing him you’re worthy of his trust?” She looks at Liza. “And this is how you treat girls? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but I’m gravely disappointed!” She looks around the room. “This party is over.”
I don’t even respond, because her words got to me. I can’t deny it. I don’t want her to be disappointed in me… Which is completely ridiculous because I shouldn’t care what she thinks. Still, I don’t want her to think badly of me. My head is fucked up!
“You have nothing to say here, bitch!” Carey snaps from behind her. “Talk about respect! You’re spreading your legs for his money.”
Murmurs break out all around us. Mac looks shocked as she turns around. “I told you not to talk to me like that! I’ve let it slide until now, but it’s clear you’re nothing but two spoiled little kids!”
Carey mockingly raises an eyebrow. “Spoiled—”
“I’m talking right now, so you are going to shut your mouth!” she yells, and I swear little clouds of smoke are coming out her ears. “You may have no respect for me, and you may have no respect for women in general, but that has nothing to do with me or them. It’s all to do with you.” She looks back at me. “Is that the kind of man you want to be? A man who bullies the weak and helpless? A man who’s feared instead of admired? When are you going to stop? She’s crying, and you don’t even care! Is that the kind of person you want to be?”
The room has gone completely silent. Not even Carey opens his big mouth. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see something moving on the stairs. I look over, and so does she. Jensen is walking upstairs with a girl who looks almost unconscious.
“And what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mac yells angrily. She runs over to the stairs and puts her arms around the girl.
“Hey, bitch, there’s plenty for everybody!” Jensen snaps. “I’ll take you next if you want.”
“You are not going upstairs with a nearly unconscious girl. That is called rape!”
He laughs. “No way. She wants it.”
“She is not in a state to decide what she does or doesn’t want!” Mac yells. “Get your hands off her.”
Suddenly angry, Jensen pushes her. She stumbles but doesn’t fall. “Don’t tell me what to do, you fucking cunt!”
Mac looks around incredulously. “Were you all going to stand there and watch this girl get raped? Nobody was going to do anything about it? What is wrong with you people?” She looks at Jensen and gets her phone out of her pocket. She points it at him and starts taking pictures.
“What are you doing, bitch?” he screams at her. He lets go of the girl, who drops onto the stairs, to take a threatening step toward Mac.
But she doesn’t budge. “Gathering evidence,” she says coldly. “You have two choices. Either you leave the house right now and never show your face here again, or I’m going to call the police.”
He raises his hand—and I’ve seen the punch he packs. It wakes me from my shock-induced paralysis. I dart over there, pull Mac back, and take the punch.
Shaking it off, I look around. Mac is giving me a surprised look, while Jensen looks shocked.
Then Mac snaps out of it and hurries over to help the girl up. She turns only to give me a cold look. “I’m taking her home. When I get back, I want everyone gone, and you two”—she points at Carey and me—“start cleaning up!” She looks at Jensen. “And you: get out of here or I will seriously call the police.”
Jensen is watching her with wide eyes, and I step between them. Even though I loathe her, I can’t let her get hurt.
Mac glances around. “If someone else wants a ride, let’s go. Now.”
She puts her arm around the girl’s shoulders and walks her to the front door. Two other girls run after them. Friends, I guess. The door slams shut.
We’re all stand there in shock.
Awkwardly, I rub my neck. Sure, I don’t treat women all that well, but I would never force myself on them. Though I realize I’ve never given much thought to friends disappearing into back rooms with semi-conscious girls, either.
“Are you going to let that cunt control you like that?” Jensen asks with a sneer.
I look at Carey, who nods. I can tell that he’s shocked, too. That he, like me, had pushed it into the recesses of his mind that having sex with a girl who’s no longer able to say no constitutes as rape. I see the same look on Fisher’s face. And Devon and Ava seem disappointed.
Shit.
I look at Jensen. “You heard her. You’re not welcome here anymore. And the party’s over.”
“What, so I’m the bad guy now?” Jensen screams. “I haven’t done anything different from any of you guys! You’ve all done this before!”
“Get out.”
“Come on, Hunter…” But the look on my face makes him shut up. He shakes his head. “Fuck you.”
As he slams the front door behind him, I wonder how a normal party could turn into such a nightmare. Carey gives me a questioning look, and I shrug and walk over to the kitchen to grab a trash bag. Slowly, our guests trickle out of the house. Thank God.
As I walk around gathering up bottles and plastic cups, I think about Mac. She’s never really opened her mouth before tonight. And at first, it seemed like she wasn’t going to say anything. But when she saw Liza’s tears, she suddenly got brave. So she can’t stand up for herself, but she can for others?
And the other girl… Mac hadn’t even cared about Jensen threatening her, she still put herself in his way to do the right thing. No doubt about it, it was the right thing to do. I’m embarrassed I didn’t interfere myself. That’s not how my parents raised me. And more than that—it’s not the kind of man I want to be. Since when am I not measuring up to my own standards? I run my hand across my face, frustrated. I’m not measuring up at all. Not in my behavior toward women, or my choice of friends.
When I look up, I see Carey, Fisher, Devon, and Ava tidying up. In a corner, Liza is sweeping up shards. She’s giving me a sad look, and I return it with a faint smile. I have a lot to make up for. Starting with her.
5
Mackenzie
I’m glad the girl’s two friends came with us. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known where to take the one who’s so out of it. Her friends beg me not to take her home, but her parents need to know what happened. They have to decide whether they want to take steps against that little asshole. And they need to talk to their daughter.
I’m absolutely against blaming the victim, but we all have to be more conscious, help each other, and stop looking away. When we all look away, horrible things happen. Things that can break a person’s soul…
I ring the bell at her parents’ place, my arm around her shoulders. She’s leaning against me, not really present. Her dad opens the door, looking angry, before he sees his daughter and his face turns to shock. “What happened?” he demands, already reaching for his girl. He takes her in his arms and carries her into the house.
His wife comes down in a bathrobe. “What’s going on?” she asks me as I step inside.
After explaining to the shocked parents what happened, I e-mail them the pictures I took and tell them I’m available to make a statement if they decide to sue
the guy. I don’t mention that Carter’s sons threw the party. I know they’ll find out, but I’m afraid they’ll sue Carter then, so it’s best not to volunteer that information.
They thank me, and I take their daughter’s two friends home. As I drive back to the house, I take deep breaths. In and out. What do I do if the party is still in full swing? Do I call the police? Do I call Carter? What if they choose to ignore my instructions in front of all their friends? Well, I have to finish what I started now.
Back in the driveway, I get out of the car. Hoping to find the house empty, I open the door. The boys and a few of their friends are cleaning up, but everybody else is gone. I breathe a sigh of relief.
After getting a broom, I sweep up some crushed chips. Hunter gives me a surprised look, and I shrug. Silently, we work together until everything looks like it did before.
While the others say goodbye, one of the girls approaches me and says, “What you did was really cool.” I can only reply with a small nod. It’s been a long day. Work was draining, and the rest of the events of the day just wore me out. Suddenly, I feel exhausted.
I look at Hunter and Carey, who look a little angry but mostly embarrassed. Wordlessly, I go upstairs to my bedroom. Carter’s bedroom.
After taking a shower, I lie down, but I can’t fall asleep. I can’t stop thinking about what happened, and I don’t know what to do about it. Should I tell Carter? Should I not tell him? Should I talk to the boys? Then again, what would be the point of that? They’re not going to listen. They hate me, probably even more now. I don’t stand a chance with them. But would they listen to Carter? Or would that destroy any chance we may still have at living together peacefully?
After tossing and turning for hours, I get up to grab a drink. Wrapping my bathrobe around me, I tiptoe into the hallway. Just before I pass Hunter’s room, the door opens, and a girl comes out. Hunter stands, topless, in the doorway and kisses her. She doesn’t notice me as she turns and hurries down the stairs. Hunter turns toward me and gives me an arrogant smile.
He pushes one hand into his boxers and moves it up and down. I blush and hurry downstairs, haunted by his mocking smile. How could a nice man like Carter have such an asshole for a son?
“Hey, Mac!” Shane calls out as I come in.
I give him a faint smile and wave before heading to my office. Generally, I work with people by appointment, but when nobody’s scheduled, the door is always open. Today, there’s a timid knock on my door.
“Come in,” I say, and a young woman with a black eye and an arm in a cast hovers in the doorway. My heart feels heavy seeing the nervous look on her face. She should look proud. It’s damn brave of her to seek help, to free herself of being a victim, to start taking her life into her own hands again.
I’ve seen enough to know it’s always the same story. She loves her boyfriend, and he claims to love her, too. But his love hurts. First, it’s just a slap on the cheek, and he’s in tears apologizing, promising it will never happen again.
But it does. Again and again.
Every time, it gets worse. Every time, his love hurts just a little more. Until she ends up in the hospital for the first time—then for the fifth.
Until he doesn’t just hit her, he chokes and kicks her. Until he picks up a baseball bat to show her just how much he loves her, that she’s his girl—that she holds no power whatsoever in their relationship. Until he rapes her because she’s his—his property—and he can do whatever the fuck he wants with her. Until he threatens that, the next time, he is going to kill her.
But in between, he gives her flowers and chocolate and promises to get his anger issues under control, promises he’ll never hurt her again.
Until then he does it again. And again. And again.
Until she finally decides to leave him for good, and he gets so angry he beats her up harder than ever before—until she takes it back and promises to stay with him forever while his hands close around her throat and squeeze so hard she passes out.
And then it’s not just bruises anymore but broken bones. And it’s not just her body that’s broken but her soul, too. And there’s nothing left but a husk of the fun-loving girl she once was. And she forgets that life could be different…
It’s tough to listen to these women because they all tell me the same story about feeling completely helpless in this male-dominated world. But when they come to me, they’ve taken the first step. The first step toward regaining control of their lives. The first step toward reclaiming their pride and dignity. The first step toward healing.
When we’ve talked enough for one day, I take the new girl over to Jean. He’s in the middle of giving a class, and, as usual, my heart opens up as I watch these women taking their new lives by storm, when just a few weeks ago, they’d lost all zest for living.
Hold on, I silently encourage them, with a glance at the new girl. Don’t let go! These ladies know it’s up to them. We’re here to help them, but they have to go through it themselves and be their own driving force. We can only help if they want to help themselves.
Again and again, we meet women who return to situations of abuse. But most of those who come to us, taking that first step on their own, manage to build a new life for themselves, even if it takes two or three tries…or sometimes eight.
Giving an encouraging smile, I gently squeeze the new girl’s arm, because I know she’s afraid of reclaiming control.
That evening, I meet my best friend Brittany for dinner.
“Hey, hon,” she says as I join her at a table in one of our favorite restaurants.
“Hey,” I say, dramatically letting my head sink onto the table.
She laughs. “Tired?”
Lifting my head, I nod and squeeze her hand. “Life has been hell lately.”
“Why?”
“I met Carter’s sons.”
“Oh my god,” she says and waves the waiter over. After ordering a whole bottle of white wine, she asks, “That bad?”
I nod again. “They hate me.”
“They don’t hate you,” she says firmly. “They don’t even know you.”
I shake my head. “Brit, I know you’re trying to be nice, but they hate me! Plus, they’re spoiled, arrogant little fucks that could really use a good spanking.”
She laughs. “You’re swearing. It must be pretty bad.”
I moan. “It’s a disaster. They think I’m only with Carter for his money. They blame their dad for leaving their mom, because she started drinking after their divorce. And I’m the first woman their father has introduced to them since then. Which makes me something akin to the Antichrist. And you know what makes things even better? They’ve decided to move back to San Diego.”
Brit raises her eyebrows. “They’re going to live with Carter?”
“No, they’re going to live in juvie,” I snap. “Of course they’re going to live with Carter! They’re his kids.”
“But it’s your home, too,” she protests.
“Well, he asked me if it was okay, and I said yes.”
“Why?”
I look at her like she’s suddenly grown three heads. “Because they’re his sons, Brit. What part of this story didn’t you understand?”
“But if they’re assholes, why don’t you just send them home?”
I give her an irritated look. “I don’t know what planet you live on, but what do you think Carter would do if I slammed the door in his sons’ faces? He loves them!”
She nods thoughtfully. “You’re right. He probably wouldn’t like that. So then—I mean, what exactly’s wrong with them?”
“They cuss me out and say stuff you just shouldn’t say to anybody. Last night, they threw a house party after Carter told them no parties, and do what Mackenzie says. That just worked out great, didn’t it? One girl was about to get raped when I got there. God knows how many have been raped at their parties in the past!” Rubbing my forehead, I think about it for a moment. “God, maybe Hunter’s even done it, too.”
Brit looks at me in shock. “You think Carter’s kid… We’re talking about Carter, right? You actually think his son is a rapist?”
Embarrassment courses through my body. “No—I don’t know. God, I’m such a bitch.”
“Sweetie, I know you’re in a tough situation, but calling someone a rapist without any evidence… That’s going a bit far.”
I nod. “You’re right.”
“I know I’m right. I’m awesome.”
“Sure you are.” I roll my eyes and sigh. “Even if they haven’t exactly been nice to me, I have to be the grown up in this situation. And, to a certain degree, I understand. All that stuff with their mom can’t have been easy on them.”
“But that doesn’t give them the right to treat others like shit—especially you.”
I can’t help smiling, because it’s typical for our conversations to go like this—where we keep swapping roles, taking turns accusing and defending. Gotta love Brit. She knows how to look at things from every possible angle.
“Of course not,” I say, “but—”
“No buts, hon,” she interrupts. “You’re awesome. They should be kissing the ground you walk on.” She grins. “But let’s talk about the important stuff. Are they as hot as Carter?”
“You’re impossible,” I say, throwing my napkin at her.
“Well, are they?”
“I’ll tell you what they are: jailbait,” I say.
She laughs. “Chill. I was just wondering if I should come knocking a few years down the road.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Don’t you remember what I do for a living?”
She waves me off. “Oh, come on. I’d show them a good time, and it would all be consensual.”
“Jesus! You sound like all those old dudes fucking little girls!”
She looks at me in mock shock. “Seriously, Ms. Hall? Watch your language!”
“Be serious,” I say, annoyed.
“Chillax. I was just wondering if they’re good-looking. Which you still haven’t answered.”
“No,” I say firmly.