by Nina Levine
16
Fury
* * *
Halfway to her place, Zara lurches forward in her seat and declares she feels sick. Not wanting a repeat of the first time I rescued her from a party, I make a quick decision to stop at my house on the way. It’s closer than hers and might give me half a chance of surviving this night without her vomiting on me again.
We make it just in time and I manage to get her inside to the bathroom before she throws up. She hurls violently, making me wonder just how much, and what, she drank. I stand behind her and help keep her hair out of the way because she’s in no shape to even care about whether or not she ends up with vomit coating it.
“Oh God…. I’m never drinking ag—” Her words are cut off when she throws up again.
“Fuck,” I mutter, turning away. The sounds and smell are pushing me close to joining her.
We stay like this for another five or so minutes when she reaches for toilet paper and wipes her face. Sitting back on her heels, she throws the paper in the toilet and pushes up off the floor.
Flushing the toilet, she turns to face me, wobbly on her feet. Her face pulls into regret as she says drunkenly, “I’m sorry you had to save me from a party again.”
I work my jaw, not wanting to lose my shit with her, but knowing I’m about to. I’m my father’s son after all; my temper gets in the way when I’m worked up over something. And I’m fucking worked up over Zara. “What the fuck made you think that was a good idea? And why the hell would you allow that asshole to put his fucking hands on you?”
Those beautiful eyes of hers water at the same time her face crumples. Shaking her head, she says, “I didn’t want to—” She falters and tears stream down her face while she simply stands there and lets them, not even attempting to finish what she started to say.
I’ve never bothered with relationships, so I don’t have experience with emotional women. Neurotic, demanding, and dramatic women coming after me for more than I want to give, yes, but not this. This is a whole other level of emotion and I’m out of my depth here. However, I’m a logical man and I’m seeing lines connecting between the things I know of her.
She’s been binge drinking a lot lately.
She’s had an abortion.
She’s seeing a shrink.
I reach for her, cupping the back of her head, and pull her to me.
Her hands go to my shirt and she grips it while burying her head in my neck.
We stay like this for a long time while she quietly sobs. When she finally lifts her head and looks up at me, every ounce of anger I’ve felt towards her has dissolved. She’s done some dumb shit, and I think she needs to stop with it, but I can’t blame her for being as human as the rest of us. We do some fucked-up shit when we’re hurting. I should know.
Wiping her tears, she says with a hesitant smile, “Do you often hang out in your bathroom helping screwed-up chicks or am I the lucky one?”
“Can’t say it’s something I’ve ever done.” She’s so damn beautiful, even when she’s a fucking mess.
“Thank you.”
I step away from her. “You need to call Holly. And then I’ll get you home.”
She nods. “Can I steal some toothpaste first?”
“Yeah.”
I leave her alone to clean up while I head out to the back deck to call Axe. When I’ve finished with him, I go back inside and find Zara sitting on the couch with her elbows resting on her knees, head down. She glances up at me when she hears my approach, and I suck in a breath at the torment I see on her face.
“I shouldn’t have been walking by myself so late that night. I shouldn’t have let him…. God…” she says, her voice filled with ragged anguish, her head dropping again.
I move closer, my brain racing to make sense of what she’s saying. The way she said “I shouldn’t have let him” has my full attention. Especially with the emotion that’s claimed her. “What?” It comes out low. Harsh. Demanding. Who the fuck is she talking about?
Her head jerks back up. She seems confused by my question or maybe by what she hears in my voice. “It might not have happened… if I hadn’t been by myself… if I hadn’t gone back....” She’s drunk and her words are coming out in a rambling, disjointed way.
I stop moving. “What might not have happened?”
She doesn’t answer me, and the silence between us veers into strained territory as my mind conjures up a bunch of scenarios of what might not have happened.
My need to know turns urgent, and this time my request is more than a demand; it’s a command. “Tell me what the fuck happened, Zara.”
She jumps at my tone. It seems to jolt her into a more coherent state. Tears well in her bloodshot eyes again, but they don’t fall this time. Instead, she takes a deep breath and says, “I didn’t have any money for a taxi, so I walked home from the hotel. I was too ashamed to call anyone and ask them to pick me up…. And that’s why I was mugged.” She stops talking for a beat before adding, “I should never have slept with that guy.” Her voice cracks when she mentions the guy.
“What guy?”
She swallows hard. “I met him at a club. I was just using him to make Tommy jealous…. So dumb. If I’d known he was into the shit he was into….” Her face twists with the same torment she’s been staring at me with and she shakes her head madly. “I told him no…. But I thought maybe it was just because I was inexperienced… that I’d start to like it….”
I don’t like a word coming out of her mouth. Crouching in front of her, I say, “He raped you?” I try really fucking hard not to take a harsh tone, but I fail. Motherfucking assholes that can’t keep their dick in their pants and their hands to themselves push me over the edge.
Her eyes go wide and her tears fall. She breaks down completely this time and I’m fairly certain that to pursue this conversation will only make shit worse for her, so I hold off on pushing her to open up. Instead, I move to the couch and pull her into my arms and let her cry for as long as she needs.
That turns out to be about half an hour. After that, she turns quiet and I feel her body relax against mine. I know I should get her home, but the way she’s clinging to me causes me to ignore that thought. I don’t want to interrupt the peace she’s found, because if I’m guessing right, she’s not finding much of it these days.
When her breathing evens out into a steady rhythm, I decide she’s sleeping here tonight. I refuse to wake her. Lifting her carefully, I carry her into my bedroom and settle her under the covers. She stirs a little, but doesn’t fully wake. I watch her for a few minutes to make sure she’s okay and then quietly leave the room, heading for the back deck again.
Resting my hands on the railing, I lean my head back and exhale some long breaths.
Fuck.
I pull out my phone and call Holly.
“Fury, where are you? I’m going a little crazy here with worry. When Zara called, I thought you wouldn’t be long.” I can hear the worry in her voice.
“We’re still at my place. She’s asleep, so I’m gonna let her sleep and then I’ll bring her home in the morning.”
“Just wake her up and bring her home now.”
“No.”
“I don’t think that’s the best i—”
“Do you trust me, Holly?”
She turns silent. “Yes, but—”
“No buts. She’s in no state to be woken. If you trust me, I’ll bring her home tomorrow.”
Silence again. “Okay.” Her agreement isn’t without hesitation; I hear that clear as day, but I pay no attention to it. She trusts me and that’s all that matters here.
“I’ll get her to call you when she wakes up.”
I don’t wait for her reply. I end the call and stare out into the inky night. Fuck knows what Zara’s been through, but my gut’s telling me it’s nothing good. And fuck knows why I’ve decided for her to sleep here tonight. The only thing I do know right now is that this girl is in my veins more than any girl has ever been.
And while I should be doing everything in my power to get her out, I’m choosing to do the complete opposite. Instead of running from danger, I’m opening my arms up wide and welcoming her in.
17
Zara
* * *
The previous night comes back to me slowly as I wake in a strange bedroom. Fury’s bedroom. Well, I’m guessing it’s his room since I’m in his house. I remember throwing up in his bathroom last night while he held my hair. This mortifies me. I mean, is there anything worse than the guy you like holding your hair while you vomit? Though, at this point, Fury has seen pretty much all my bad sides; our entire friendship—if it can even be called that—is one big spectacle of humiliating behaviour on my part. And now I have to go face him while feeling seedier than I’ve ever felt.
I gingerly place my feet on the floor, testing the waters of how I feel in an upright position.
Not too bad.
Not too good either, but okay enough to leave the bed.
Fury’s house is all high ceilings, dark wood floors, and masculine grey. It’s also quite bare with no hangings on the wall or decorating of any sort. Not that I would expect that from him, but still, it’s very stark.
I find him out on his back deck, mug in hand, wearing jeans and that black T-shirt of his I love. He doesn’t acknowledge that he hears my approach, but I know he does, because he’s always on alert.
“Hey,” I say, moving to stand next to him at the railing.
When he turns to look at me, I’m surprised at the warmth I find in his eyes. “How are you feeling?” Even his voice holds warmth. And concern.
His mood helps ease my apprehension. “Awful. But I deserve that.”
He looks back out across his yard for a few moments before finishing his drink. Then, glancing at me, he says, “I’m making more coffee. You want one?”
I shake my head. “No. Thanks. I think I just need to stick to water today.”
He takes that in, the same way he’s taking me in: with an intense look that’s throwing me off a little. It’s like he’s studying me, trying to get a handle on me or something.
“Yeah, not a bad idea.” He jerks his chin towards the screen door. “I’ll get you some.”
We head inside, and Fury makes himself a coffee and pours me a glass of water while I pull up a stool at the breakfast bar.
“Have you lived here long?” I ask.
“Two years.”
“So I guess you’re not going to hang anything on the walls, then.”
He frowns.
I motion at the bare walls. “If you haven’t decorated in two years, I’m guessing you’re not going to.”
He comes around the counter and takes the stool next to me. Still watching me like he’s trying to figure me out. “Do you remember last night?”
Okay.
Straight to the point.
I gulp some water down. Stalling. “Some of it.”
“Which bits?”
When I take another gulp of water and continue stalling, he says, “Zara, I found you in a bad fucking way last night. The kind of way I’m fairly fucking sure you’d hate to be found in. And then you told me some shit that happened to you. And let’s just say, either you and I are gonna talk about it or I’m gonna take you to your mother right now and make damn sure you and she talk about it, because I have it in my head that you haven’t talked to anyone about this when that’s exactly what you need to do.”
My breathing slows and my muscles tense while I stare at him in silence, swallowing down the feelings that refuse to go away.
He’s right, I was in a bad way, and I don’t even need to know how he found me to know that. The fact I took that drink from Tommy tells me that. I’d already decided not to rely on alcohol anymore, but then I went and used it instead of finding other coping strategies.
It’s time for me to make a change in the way I’m dealing with this. And because his eyes are filled with fierce compassion, I find myself saying, “I had a panic attack when I got to the cinema, and long story short, I ended up at that party because Marissa called me in the middle of my panic and helped me.”
“You have these attacks often?”
“I’ve had a few.” My voice drops when I say, “I think they’re getting worse. Maybe.”
“You drink to avoid them?”
My heart rate picks up knowing I’m about to say something that’s going to give him the perfect in to ask me the thing he really wants to know. “No, I drink to forget the things that caused them to start.”
He works his jaw. “What happened that night?”
He said I told him some stuff last night, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what. By the hard set of his face, I’m guessing I told him stuff I wish I hadn’t. Since I did, though, and since I don’t know what I said and what I didn’t, I figure at this point I may as well just tell him the full story.
I give him the rundown of how the night started. At the club. With friends. And how I stupidly ended up going back to a hotel for a one-night stand. It’s at this point, my shame starts to kick in and I want to stop talking. But I don’t. I need to get this out.
Stopping to take a long sip of water, I gather my courage. “I wanted to experience sex with a guy who knew what he was doing. You know, an older guy who didn’t fumble around when he tried to get me off.” I stop and take a deep breath to steady myself. I also remind myself that when Fury learned of my abortion, I felt no judgement from him. He already knows the worst thing I’ve done. “He was rough, but I let him do what he wanted. And then afterwards, when he kicked me out, I was too ashamed of what happened that I didn’t want to call Holly or anyone and ask them to come pick me up, so I walked home.” I stare at him as the horror of that night floods my mind. “It’s my own fault I was mugged. I shouldn’t have been at that hotel and I shouldn’t have been on the streets by myself.” My guilt is brutal as I whisper through tears, “It’s my fault I had to kill a baby.”
His blue eyes turn to steel. “He raped you.”
It’s not a question, but a statement. And it’s violent, the way it crashes down between us. “No.” I shake my head with determination as I wipe away my tears. “No, he didn’t.”
“You said last night that you told him no. Did I misunderstand that?”
“It wasn’t rape. I said no to begin with, but then I…. I went along with it.”
His jaw clenches, and it feels like he’s working really hard to keep his shit together. “If you said no and then just went along with it, that sounds a fuckuva lot like rape to me. You only say it once, Zara, and any man worth anything fucking knows what it means.”
“I get that, but it wasn’t like I was kicking and screaming for him to stop.”
“But you said no and he kept going. Did he use force of any kind?”
Shame fills me at the thought of what happened that night and my cheeks heat as tears fill my eyes again. “Yes, but I didn’t stop him.” It wasn’t rape. I wasn’t raped. I didn’t stop him.
He’s still not happy with what he’s hearing. His eyes are so hard I have to look away. “Zara,” he says, and I hear the restraint in his voice. He’s trying to keep that hard tone locked down. He’s failing though. “Look at me.”
Brushing my tears away, I do as he says and meet his gaze again. Some of the hardness is gone, replaced with that same compassion I saw earlier. “My father beat the fuck out of my mother for my entire childhood. He liked to force himself on her, too. She always said no. He always ignored her. I will never agree that it’s not rape if a woman says no and the man doesn’t listen. If you never uttered the word yes or something to that effect after you said no, it was rape.”
Flashes of the guy’s face while he fucked me, gripping my hands and holding me down with the kind of brute strength I never had any hope of escaping pass through my mind. He’d used a soothing tone throughout, convincing me to let him keep going. I said no to begin with, but I didn’t fight him off when I felt overpowered. And
he didn’t stop when I told him some of the stuff he did hurt. If I really think about it, with the way Fury has framed it, a good man wouldn’t have continued; not with the way I responded.
I sob as I relive everything. All the shame. All the guilt. All the self-blame. It all comes back and instead of trying to stop myself from feeling any of it, I allow every bit of it to consume me. And for the first time, I feel like I can breathe. Trying to stop myself from feeling has been exhausting. A constant battle in my mind and body. I feel like I have space in my lungs that was filled to the brim before, blocking air from getting in.
Fury’s hand curls around to the nape of my neck and he moves off the stool to stand next to me. Pulling me close, he comforts me, and I stay with him like this for a long time.
When I lift my head and wipe my face, I softly say, “I haven’t told anyone about what happened with that guy, but you were right; I needed to.”
He keeps his hand on the nape of my neck. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”
I stare at him, ashamed of my shame. It’s a vicious fucking cycle. “I’ve felt too ashamed. For having a one-night stand, for not stopping him when I wanted to, for falling pregnant”—my voice cracks—“for having the abortion.”
His eyes flash with steel again, but it’s quick and then it’s gone. “For one, there’s nothing to be ashamed of for choosing to have a one-night stand. The only kind of sex to be ashamed of is the kind you force someone into, so from where I’m standing, the only one who should feel fucking ashamed is the motherfucker who forced himself on you.” His voice softens. “As for having an abortion, I’ll never know what that feels like, but I’m betting you made what you thought was the best choice. When life gives us a shitty situation, we have to choose from shitty options. You need to find a way to give yourself grace, Zara.”