Truly

by Carmel Rhodes

  “NO,” I protest.

  Lifting my knee, I aim for his balls. He’s stunned momentarily, and I use it to my advantage, running for the door as if my life depends on it. I’m fast, but he’s faster.

  He yanks my shirt, dragging me back to him. “You fighting only makes my dick harder.” My arms are pinned behind my back. He restrains me with such little effort, that I nearly give up. I nearly give in to my fate. That is, until he rips my skirt the rest of the way open. The breezy linen puddles around my feet. “That’s better,” he says, leading me back to the bed by my hair. Pain shoots through my scalp like I’m being pricked by a million tiny needles. I reach up, hoping to lessen some of the tension, but Noah is too strong, too determined.

  After what feels like an eternity, we reach the small bed. He drapes me over his lap and smacks me hard on the ass. His erection stabs into my belly. Fear seeps from every pore on my body. “Suck.” His middle and ring finger press against my lips.

  I shake my head. “Noah, please. If you let me go, I swear I won’t tell anyone.” I’m negotiating with him, as if I could make the madman see reason. He is electric, his erratic current fills the air with dark energy. “Please,” I try again, though I know it’s useless.

  Noah pulls my head back harder, my pleas falling on deaf ears. “I said, suck, Truly.”

  For whatever reason, maybe self-preservation, maybe stupidity, I do as I’m told, hollowing my cheeks out and swallowing his fingers as deep as they will go. My head bobs up and down, repeating the motion, while Noah controls my movements with his knuckles in my scalp. The tip of my tongue flits out and I lick another salty, chlorine flavored finger.

  He takes over, fucking my mouth with his fingers. I gag around them, saliva drips down my chin. “God, Little One,” he praises, pushing my panties aside. Without warning, he pulls his hand from my mouth and shoves the two wet fingers inside me.

  “Ahh,” I cry out. Pain and shame burn my throat. “Noah,” I gasp, wiggling from his hold. I thrash and fight. I cannot let this be the end of my night. This can’t be happening to me. How could I let this happen to me?

  He slides his fingers from my center and smacks my ass again, harder this time. His grip on my hair tightens and he leans forward at the same time he pulls my head back. His lips kiss my forehead. “Keep still. If I accidentally pop your cherry with my fingers, then I’ll have no reason not to fuck you.”

  I imagined how I’d lose my virginity at least a hundred times, and none of them were like this. “I’m—I’m sorry,” I apologize, though for what, I’m not sure. Tears stream down my face. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just please. I don’t want this to be the first time I have sex. N-n-not like this.”

  “On your back,” he grunts, releasing his hold on me. “If you try to run, I will fuck you. I will make you bleed.”

  I do as I’m told, flipping onto my back like a robot, mentally retreating inside myself. He can have my body, but he won’t break me. Breathe, Tru. I tell myself. My entire body shakes from fear as Noah climbs on top of me, yanking the cups of my bra down. His weight is a burden I never expected to bear. Hard and heavy. It feels like I’m suffocating. I swallow back a sob as his mouth latches onto my nipple. His warm wet tongue laves at the tiny brown bud. He licks and sucks and bites as tears leak from my eyes. His tongue is rough, but his mouth is somehow gentle. It confuses my body, waking it up from its cold, dreadful slumber. Heat runs zig-zag down my chest as his hand falls between my legs. The rough pads of his fingers press against my clit, causing me to cry out in surprise.

  “Are you wet for me, Little One?” He teases, dropping his head to the crook of my neck, kissing it. A fresh wave of tears spring to my eyes. I can smell myself, my body waking up for him. The junction between my legs, pulses, begging for more, while my head screams enough. I hate the way my body reacts. I try to tell myself, it isn’t my fault. I’m not asking for this. I don’t want this. It’s purely a physical reaction, but the guilt comes anyway. Slut. You’re a slut, Truly. There’s something wrong with me for being turned on by this.

  Noah continues his assault, finger fucking me, careful not to go too deep. “Jesus Christ, Truly. You’re soaking my fucking fingers,” Noah grunts into my ear. “You feel like heaven. I could devote hours to this pretty little pussy and it still wouldn’t be enough.” He presses his thumb to my clit again, and through my tears and shame and embarrassment, a funny feeling sparks low in my belly. I fight to push his hand away. “Please stop,” I pant. My muscles clench.

  “Not until you give it to me,” he growls. “Come on my fingers like a good little slut.”

  I bite down on my bottom lip. I can’t come for him. Not when he’s humiliated me and assaulted me. I can’t give him that too. But as much as my head wants to fight it, my body is weak. My legs shake, and Noah, the fucking bastard, does something I didn’t see coming. He ducks down, and his mouth latches onto my clit, as he pumps his fingers in and out.

  My eyes snap shut as an orgasm rockets through my body. Panting. Sputtering, I come long and hard on his fingers, on his mouth.

  A low, sadistic chuckle reverberates against my core as he climbs up my body, straddling my shoulders. Slipping his dick from his basketball shorts, he rubs the tip across my lips. Salty cream leaks from the tip. “Suck,” he commands again.

  I press my lips shut. I’ve never done this before and with all the emotions swirling around my brain from what just happened, I don’t think I can take any more trauma.

  “Open your fucking mouth or I’ll force it down your throat.”

  “Noah, please, you’ve taken this too far already.” Tears and snot drip down my face. I can’t handle another minute of this torture. A violent sob racks through me. I glance at Noah hoping to find a shred of compassion, but all I see is emptiness.

  “I won’t ask again,” he threatens, gripping my jaw so tightly my mouth pops open. I relent, letting him dip the tip into my mouth. I struggle in this position to take him in my mouth. I’m completely at his mercy as he fucks my face. He starts slow, his measured strokes pushing deeper and deeper.

  Just when I think I’m used to the way he stretches my throat; he pushes a little further. Before long, his strokes become less controlled and more erratic. The tip of his cock hits the back of my throat. Coughing, gasping, gagging, I struggle to free myself. My nails dig into his thighs before he lifts up. A thin string of spittle connects my lip to his dick. Then he pulls back, with his hand gripped around his shaft, he jerks his dick until white milky cream shoots from his tip and splashes on my face.

  I am hollow.

  I cough and sputter, desperate to fill my lungs. He smears his thumb in the mess, pressing the digit into my mouth. Forcing me to clean the brininess off him. “Fuck, you look so pretty with my cum all over your face.” He pushes to his feet, shoving his semi-erect cock back into his shorts. Leaning over, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and bops me on my nose. “Tell anyone about this, and I will fucking kill you.”

  I stumble from the treehouse in a daze. Tears blur my vision as I make my way through the now empty yard, tiptoeing past the house. The lights are on in the kitchen. I spot the back of Becca’s blonde head thrown back in laughter as Ethan chugs a red cup.

  I can’t go in there, not after he just…find my phone. All I need to do is find my phone. Thankfully, it’s still in the grass where I left it during truth or dare. The battery is only at six percent.

  I could get an Uber but jumping into a car with a stranger at two in the morning after…a shudder rakes through me. No Uber. I could call my dad, but he’s on earlies at the hospital, and waking him up to drive thirty-minutes outside of town to pick me up half drunk and traumatized will only do more harm than good. I’m left with only one viable option.

  I tap out a text with unsteady fingers.

  Me: Are you awake?

  He responds a minute later.

  Devin: Yeah…

  Me: I need a ride.

  Devin: What yo
ur new friends too wasted to drive you home?

  Me: These people are not my friends.

  Three gray dots dance on the screen. I feel what little composure I’ve managed slipping as the seconds tick by.

  Devin: I’m on my way.

  Thirty minutes later, Devin’s mom’s beat up RAV-4 rolls to a stop in front of Becca’s car. I jump out from where I was hiding in the backseat and jog around to the driver’s side. The wait in the darkness gave me time to settle my raw nerves, locking the trauma of what happened in that treehouse in a tiny box in my brain until I make it to the safety of my bedroom.

  I reached into the metaphorical sink and got cut. It could have been worse, I rationalize. At least he didn’t rape me.

  I know I sound like one of those women who makes excuses for their abusers, but right now, I just want to get out of here, and though he broke my heart, I know I can trust Devin to get me home.

  “Thank you,” I say, pulling the door shut. I sent Becca a text after Devin agreed to come get me and told her I was going home. I didn’t want her to come looking for me, or worse, Noah to come back.

  Devin shrugs, appraising me a little more closely than normal. “Are you okay?”

  I glance at my reflection in the side view mirror. I used Becca’s emergency kit to clean up as best I could, but I still look and feel like shit. My hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, my brown eyes are swollen from spending the majority of the day in tears, both of which can be explained away with the break-up. I doubt he’ll be able to spot the torn buttons on my skirt in the darkness, so I lie. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  Devin puts the car into gear and I lean back, allowing myself to relax more and more with each passing second. The further I am from Noah Tedesco, the better.

  The drive to my house is quiet, save for the radio playing in the background. I try to sleep, but every time I close my eyes, I see him above me. I feel the weight of his body on mine. The salty taste of his cock on my tongue.

  My bottom lip quivers as Devin kills the engine. I’ve never been happier to see our boring two-story home in my entire life. I push through the door, but Devin’s voice stops me. “Wait.”

  “I’m really tired,” I say without bothering to look back at him. I can’t. If I do, I’ll breakdown. I’d held it together for as long as I could, but it’s like my body knows I’m home, like it knows we’re safe.

  “I’m…I’m sorry. I don’t want you to hate me.”

  That’s right, my heart’s broken. Trauma has a funny way of putting things into perspective. Before the treehouse, his humiliating me at graduation was the worst thing I could have imagined would happen today. “It’s okay.” My voice cracks. “Of the Tedesco boys, it isn’t you I hate.”

  Devin’s tone takes a hard edge. “What does that mean? Did he say something to you?”

  I shake my head, my back still to Devin. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me,” he says with so much conviction I almost believe him. But it’s late. My soul is tired, and I just want to crawl into my bed and never come out again.

  “Thanks for the ride, Dev.” I turn to him for the first time. Tears spill from my eyes. “Have a nice life.” I shut the door and run up the stairs to the porch. My hands shake so badly it takes me three tries to unlock the door.

  The house is quiet. Dad’s alarm will probably be going off in just a couple hours, so I make it to my room as quickly and quietly as possible and lock the door behind me. My knees buckle, my back hits the wall and I slide to the ground, dissolving in a puddle of pain and misery. “Mom,” I croaked to nothing, “I wish you were here.”

  Melody

  July 1994

  Dear Diary,

  Momma took me and Sis to a drive-in the other day. Said we needed to bond before I left for school. I wanted to tell her, if she let me stay home, we could have a lot more time to bond, but it’d be pointless. I’m the first in my family to go to college and Momma busted her ass to afford the bit of tuition that wasn’t covered by scholarships and grants.

  The bill is paid.

  The deed is done.

  I only have a few weeks left before Sis and I load up the old Buick and head west. Off to California I go.

  Anyway, this entry isn’t supposed to be about how I’d rather let Tonya Harding strap me to a table and beat me in the knee with a police baton before moving across the country for college. I’ve written enough of those.

  No, this is about the movie we saw. Forrest Gump. The man from A League of Their Own plays a special man who can run like the wind. It’s an okay movie, even though the black guy dies, and Forrest takes his idea and makes a fortune off of it. Sis says I’m missing the point. I asked her what was the point and she responded with a quote from the film. “Life is like a box of chocolates, Mel. Get with it.”

  I rolled my eyes at her because, what a stupid message. A box of chocolates? What’s the worst that can happen in this chocolate as life scenario? You get a nasty one? It’s still chocolate. I call bullshit. Life is like a sink full of dirty dishes—you stick your hand in, and hope there isn’t a knife at the bottom.

  The ironic part about being dumped on the same day you’re sexually assaulted is that no one bats an eye at you staying in bed for three days crying. Three days to relive every second of my night in Noah’s treehouse of horror. I thought after the first day, I was able to compartmentalize. Lock the trauma away and go on with my life. I set my alarm for eight. I made plans to spend the day with my nana since I blew off post-grad dinner. The alarm went off, I woke up. I scrubbed every inch of skin on my body until I was raw and red, then I sat in the white hammock chair hanging in the corner of my bedroom and stared at the wall for the next six hours. By the time I’d convinced myself to move, it was to change into PJs and climb back under the covers.

  Dad assumed my depression was because of Devin, and I let him. I spent two years begging to go on this road trip. Two years planning every detail. If my dad knew what happened the night of graduation, he’d call it off without blinking. I will not let Noah ruin this for me too.

  I feel a little guilty for using Devin as the scapegoat, but a larger, more irrational part of me is mad as hell at him. Don’t get me wrong, what happened in that treehouse is one hundred percent on Noah. I know it as well as I know my name but buried deep in the darkest corners of my mind, I blame Devin for what happened, too. If he hadn’t left me, I wouldn’t have been at that party.

  God, I’m fucked in the head.

  My phone buzzes, and I roll to my side to check the notification, my legs tangling in the cream-colored down comforter.

  Becca: Look, I know you’re wallowing, but we are leaving Sunday, and I need to go shopping.

  Me: Shopping isn’t a team sport, Bec.

  I sigh and toss my phone on the nightstand next to a picture of me, Mom, and Dad at my one and only ballet recital. I’m scowling at the camera, and they are laughing hysterically. I was twelve and the only girl in the whole dance school that hadn’t been training since birth. I begged them to let me quit, but my mom said she didn’t pay all that money for me to give up before my first performance. I suffered through six weeks of classes before the recital came around. I was on the stage for all of two scenes, but my mom got her money’s worth.

  I asked her later why she made me stick with it for that long. She replied, in true Melody Parker fashion, “You can’t just quit something because it’s hard. If you make a commitment, you honor it.”

  My phone buzzes again:

  Becca: How am I supposed to tell if I look bloated or not? You know those mirrors lie.

  I roll my eyes and toss the phone back on the nightstand without bothering to reply. I need to drag my ass out of bed eventually, but today isn’t that day.

  Moments later my bedroom door swings open, and I jump when Becca storms in with her hands on her hips. “You left me on read, you bitch.”

  “Go away,” I groan, flinging the covers over my head.


  The bed dips under her weight and she peels the covers back. “No, Tru, it’s been three days since you bailed from the party with a cryptic text. I get it, you’re hurting. Maybe if we hadn’t planned a three-week, cross country road trip, I’d let you sulk for a few more days. But we did, and unless you want to cancel this big important thing that took years worth of begging our parents to approve, then get your skinny ass up and come to the mall with me.”

  “I—”

  She holds up a credit card that looks eerily like my dad’s platinum card. “Doc said to get you out of the house by any means necessary.”

  I gape at her. “My dad—the cheapest man in Newton—gave you his credit card?” He doesn’t even give me his credit card. Whenever I want to buy something online, he insists on coming to the computer and inputting the information himself.

  “Well, when your only daughter has fallen into fuckboy depression, you tend to get a little desperate. Come on, Tru, if not for me, do it for your dad. He’s worried about you and after everything, it isn’t fair for you to do that to him.”

  It’s my turn to glare. The scar on my wrist tingles at the painful memory. “That’s a low blow.”

  “It’s honest.”

  Damn her and her logic.

  With Becca there to light a fire under my ass, I throw on a pair of denim cutoffs with a t-shirt and an old pair of chucks. I somehow manage to wrangle my purple curls into a bun and we are out of the house in under twenty minutes. The mall is relatively busy since school is out, and aside from The Grove and Big Al’s twenty-four-hour diner, there isn’t much else for kids my age to do.

  We hit four stores. Becca gets a top, and three dresses—all of which she posts on Instagram for mass approval—while I grab shorts, t-shirts, and a pair of shell toe sneakers, that Becca says haven’t been in style since the nineties. She might be right, but I like them.