Raw Page 2

  Michael’s face softens. “Yeah. I just need money first.”

  A small smile appears on my face. “Okay, then. We’ll find you a job.”

  He nods, then asks, “How’d it go with Tahlia?”

  The little shi-

  He knows I can’t answer that.

  Putting on my poker face, I say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He grins, “Yes, you do. Her court thingy was today. And you’re her case worker.”

  I shrug casually. “If you want to know anything about Tahlia, I suggest you ask Tahlia.”

  Michael’s face turns dreamy. “She’s a hottie. I see her around school, but I never get a chance to talk to her. And I’d like to.”

  That’s so sweet. My poker face starts to crumble, “Well, maybe you should make an effort. Ask her out. Go to a movie or something.”

  His face becomes stoic. “The only time I’ll ask a girl out is when I can take care of her. And right now, I can’t. So dating isn’t an option.”

  God help us. We’ve got a bossy little keeper in the making.

  My face softens with a smile. “You’re a good boy, Mikey. We’ll find you a job. And soon.”

  Standing suddenly, he picks up his school bag and heads for the door. “Later, Miss Ballentine.”

  Turning to the door, I call out, “Later, sweetie.”

  As soon as Michael exits, Charlie enters. Charlie is my boss and an awesome guy. He’s Maori, from New Zealand. So he’s this big, tall, thick, olive-skinned man, but his voice is so sweet and high-pitched, it’s like talking to a lamb in a lion suit.

  “Got time for a word, Lex?”

  I motion him forward. “Sure thing. What can I do for you?”

  Moving to sit behind my desk, he moves to the chair opposite me and hands me a flyer, along with paperwork. Already nodding, I know what this is.

  Yearly drug tests.

  It’s mandatory in my field. Social work in Australia has a zero-tolerance view on drugs. Which is fine. I don’t do drugs anyways.

  Charlie leans forward and says softly, “These are coming early this year. We’ve got a tip that someone in the office has been using.”

  At the idea of someone I work with getting caught doing drugs, my scalp tingles, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand. Wide-eyed, I whisper, “Oh.”

  Charlie nods at my reaction. “Exactly. We’re thinking of making them biannual, rather than annual. Make sure we keep people on their toes.”

  I nod in full agreement. “If people are starting to be lax, that might be a good idea. Especially if one of ours is using.”

  The idea of one of my kids being led by a person taking drugs makes me mad.

  A lot of these kids have seen too much wrong in the world, and most of it has been caused by drugs. I want to protect them. I want them to have the childhood that I didn’t get. I want to be there to pick them up when they’re down.

  But I need to be careful.

  And I will be careful.

  As much as a person with a stalker can be.

  Driving home, I listen and sing along to the radio.

  Knowing I have nothing, and I mean nothing, in the refrigerator to cook, I stop by a drive-thru restaurant and get a burger meal.

  Pulling up to my unit building to park in my normal spot, I frown. The spotlights above the parking bay are both out. Normally, one works while the other is waiting to be fixed. I sit in my car a moment.

  They were both fine last night.

  Discreetly locking my car door, I look around the lot. Nothing seems out of place.

  So why is my heart racing?

  You’re scaring yourself.

  Huffing out a humorless laugh, I run my hands down my face. I really am scaring myself. The lights are out and I’m really wound up. Shaking my head at myself, I sigh and unlock the car door. On my way out, I reach over the seat to pick up my meal.

  “Shit!”

  I drop my drink and it spills all over my car seat.

  Growling, I reach across the middle of the seats to the back where I always keep a gym towel. Finding it, I throw the sweaty towel on the seat and try to soak up as much as I can. Backing out of the car, a hand comes around my mouth while another cinches around my waist. Tightly.

  Heavy breathing in my ear. “You scream and I’ll fuck you bare. I’ve got AIDS, bitch. You want AIDS?”

  Trying my best to keep calm, I shake my head quickly, and he laughs at the side of my face.

  He smells bad. Really bad. Putrid.

  He says, “You’re going to come with me. You’re not going to fight. You’re going to be a good girl, aren’t ya?”

  Closing my eyes, I nod. But as he pulls me down the side of the building, I begin to cry. The tears fall down my face while my body shakes, trembling in fear. I can’t help it. I know I said I wouldn’t fight but I dig my heels in and claw at his arms. I don’t want him to get me somewhere dark and out of sight.

  This is a big man. A man I could never take on by myself. Knowing this, I cry harder.

  I cringe in disgust when his warm wet tongue licks the side of my face, very slowly. “Oh, shush. You’ll like it. I promise.”

  I won’t like shit, you twisted fuck!

  He demands, “Close your eyes.”

  I don’t listen. I’m being defiant. My eyes remain open.

  Then he pushes a blade into my side. Deep. I feel the tip pierce my skin, and I whimper into his dirty hand. “Close your fucking eyes, bitch.”

  My body quaking, I shut my eyes and feel his free hand try to tug my pants down. The belt stops that from happening and he barks, “Undo the belt and the pants. Now.”

  My shaking hands work slowly, buying time, but I can only do it so long before my hair is tugged, hard. I cry out in pain. The blade disappears a moment before he wraps his forearm around my neck, hand clutching the knife tight, and he moves the blade to rest under my ear. Somehow, in my trembling state, I manage to undo the belt and buttons. He turns me around to press my cheek into the cold bricks on the side of the building, the blade now resting by the side of my throat. Yanking my pants down, he reaches forward then down, and instinctively, I snap my legs shut. His fingers work their way into the juncture between my thighs and he rubs my mound through my panties, making me cry out loudly. His erection presses into my ass cheek, and I cringe so hard my body shudders.

  I’m disgusted. This is disgusting.

  Tightening his arm around my neck, he hisses, “Shut your mouth and don’t make a fucking sound.” His smell all around me, crying as hard as I am, I gag.

  His hand leaves my most intimate place, comes up under my shirt, and squeezes my breast.

  My heart weeps with every revolting touch. He fondles my body as he likes, as if I were a toy and not human at all. Sliding his hand down my ribs, he rests it on my hip a moment before he utters, “Oh, man. You’re a pretty one.” He then slips his hand down the back of my panties, squeezes my ass cheeks hard, and my body jerks with every loud, muffled sob.

  I’ve never been violated. But I work with people who have. And now I know that every single time I said the words I understand to one of my kids, I didn’t.

  Not even close.

  I can almost feel my heart shatter.

  Suddenly, I’m pulled back harshly. I land on the hard concrete with a dull thud and watch the scene before me in alarm.

  My large attacker gets his face slammed into the bricks at the side of the building by an equally tall man.

  The black hoodie.

  It’s him.

  He holds onto my attacker’s neck and throws his head down while he brings up his knee.

  Thunk, thump.

  He does this again and again. My gut revolts at the level of ferocity before me. Eventually, I hear soft pings hit the ground and realize my attacker has lost some teeth.

  Oh God.

  The man in the hoodie continues his wordless assault. He throws my attacker on the ground and kicks him in the ribs as i
f he were kicking a football. He does this a few more times before his eyes catch me.

  Breathing heavily, he stops and comes towards me.

  Petrified, I watch him come towards me through blurry eyes. He’s almost at my feet when I whisper shakily, “Please, stop. Don’t come any closer.”

  My elbows throb; the skin on them surely gone. I try to scramble backwards and cry out in pain.

  That’s when he does something I’ve been wishing for forever.

  He lowers the hood.

  “Not gonna hurt you.”

  Oh God. That voice. It’s just how it sounds in my dreams.

  Smooth with a little huskiness. Then, something registers with me. “You’re American.”

  Not missing a beat, he says, “So are you.” The tone of his voice conveys boredom.

  Looking up at him, I still can’t see his face in the dark, but I hear a zipper come down and I whimper out loud.

  Choking through tears, I beg, “Please, don’t hurt me. Please.”

  Not saying a word, he comes towards me. Trembling, I shut my eyes tight and plead on a whisper, “Please. Please. Don’t.”

  His strong arms come under mine and he lifts me to a standing position. He pulls something warm over my shoulders, and its then that I realize the zipper I heard was actually his jacket, not his pants.

  I’m so relieved that I slump forward into him.

  Burying my face into his chest, he wraps his arm around me while I sob noisily. His body bends and he reaches down. My pants come up my legs and he holds them in place, clearly too torn to zip up.

  Leaving my attacker where he is, I secretly hope he’s dead. From the shuddering gasping noises he makes, I’m not so lucky.

  The man holds me to him, walking me up to my unit. He takes his time with me, being extremely patient as I try to get my shaking legs up the steps to the second floor.

  Once we reach my unit and he opens the door, it doesn’t hit me until we’re inside that he knows where I live.

  So why don’t you feel like you’re in danger?

  Because I’m not. I just know it.

  I’m sure of it.

  He closes the door behind us, flips on the light switch, and walks me down the short hall to my room. That’s when I see his skin.

  Decorated. Like one massive piece of art.

  No longer crying, I ask through shuddering breaths, “Have you been here before?”

  But he doesn’t answer me.

  Walking me to my bed, he sits me down, then walks out my bedroom door. Not thirty seconds pass when I hear the shower start, then he’s back in my room.

  He doesn’t even look at me, just goes through my drawers, pulling out items of clothing for me.

  So while I have a moment, I take him in.

  If I saw this man on the street, the way he’s dressed right now, I would put my head down and walk the other way. And pray to God that he doesn’t see me do that, because a man looking like this while being pissed off is surely not a good thing.

  He is gorgeous, though. Just not in a conventional way.

  He’s tall, a little over six feet, with a muscular body and olive skin. His dark brown hair is shaved close to the scalp at the sides, but long on the top. He wears dark blue jeans that encase his long and powerful legs, a white tee that covers his broad chest and shoulders, and he’s rocking white sneakers and a thick black leather belt. But it’s what’s under the tee that draws me in.

  Tattoos line his arms and neck. He has a small 13 tattooed on his right cheekbone.

  The backs of his hands are beautiful. There’s no other word for it. On the back of the left hand is an intricate, black-shaded rose with a smoky grey outline; the right hand has a grey-shaded skull with smoke lacing through it. It looks so lifelike, I shiver.

  Oh God.

  “You’re hurt.”

  His knuckles are bleeding and swollen.

  Stopping in his tracks, he turns his hooded eyes to me. They aren’t hooded in a sexy way, just a bored, broody kind of way. Permanently.

  It looks good on him.

  He’s handsome and would look something like a clothing model without the tattoos. He has a strong chin, full bottom lip, and high cheekbones. His eyes are a soft brown. He mumbles, “Don’t worry about it. Go shower.”

  Not sure why I’m taking orders from a man who likes to watch me from under a hood, but I am. As soon as I stand, the hair on the back of my neck prickles, and I ask his retreating back, “Will you still be here when I get out?”

  Turning slowly, he watches me curiously from those hooded eyes. We watch each other for a good thirty seconds before he asks in that husky voice, “You want me to be?”

  Not trusting myself to speak, I avoid his eyes and nod.

  I feel immediate relief when he nods in return, turns, and orders, “Shower.”

  Taking my robe off the back of my bedroom door, I shuffle my way into my small bathroom and undress without looking in the mirror. If I look in the mirror at the state of myself right now, I know I’ll be past freaked-out. In fact, I’m sort of questioning why I’m not freaking out more than I am.

  Stupidly, I peek at my reflection and bark out a laugh.

  The mirror is so fogged that I can’t see a thing. It just wasn’t meant to be.

  Undressing quickly, I step into the scalding hot spray, and hold myself there for as long as possible without actually getting burned. Reaching out blindly, I turn the knobs until the spray turns cooler and think about what just happened to me.

  Did I really just get assaulted by a big scary man, then get saved by my stalker?

  …Yeah. That about sums it up.

  The first tear comes hard.

  The next comes easier.

  The rest fall freely, as if they were summoned by the first.

  Holding a palm up to the wall of the shower to steady myself, my body shakes in silent sobs.

  I don’t want him to hear me.

  Breathing deeply, I pull myself together and use the last of my energy to wash my hair. I soap up, rinse off, and head out.

  Wrapping myself in my robe, I brush out my hair, then exit the bathroom to hear movement in the kitchen. Stepping into my room, I drop the robe and dress in the clothes he’s laid out for me.

  It’s only once I’m dressed that I realize he’s chosen my favorite pajama combo.

  Coincidence?

  Somehow, I think not.

  Making my way down the hall in my Elmo pajama pants, white tank, and wet hair, I slowly walk into my TV room, glancing around cautiously. From where I stand, I see him standing in the doorway of the refrigerator with his back to me.

  Knowing there’s nothing in there for him to eat, I cringe. From what little I know about him, I know that I always see him on the street, wearing the same clothes. My caseworker brain automatically assumes he’s homeless.

  My chest squeezes. He must be hungry.

  I clear my throat and he turns to me, “Hungry?”

  My brows furrow in confusion. Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?

  “Uh, no. I don’t think I could eat, even if I wanted to.”

  He nods thoughtfully, then asks, “You good?” while eyeing my body.

  Dipping my chin, I answer back softly, “Yes. And I would’ve been a hundred times worse if you weren’t there, so...”

  My heart races. I’m suddenly nervous and antsy.

  “Th-thank you. F-for what you did back there,” I stutter.

  His glacial eyes bore into mine. He mocks, “Don’t kid yourself.”

  Taking a step towards me, his hooded brown eyes almost see right through me. “Monsters don’t always lurk in the shadows.”

  Reaching up, he runs a fingertip slowly down the length of my jaw. Leaning forward, his breath warms me as he mutters a hairs-breadth away from my lips, “Sometimes they hide in plain sight.”

  Eyes still closed, I break into goosebumps, and the hair on the back of my neck stands. My nipples tighten when he runs his thumb down
my cheek, so so gently. He mutters, “Got some scrapes.”

  I swallow hard and step back from him.

  He’s like a magnet, drawing my positive to his negative. It’s too much right now.

  Opening my eyes to find his still on my face, I ask a hushed, “What’s your name?”

  The corner of his lip tips up. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll forget it once I’m gone.”

  Taking a small step towards him, I promise, “No, I won’t.”

  It’s his turn to take a step back.

  He watches me some more. Those eyes. It feels as if they see everything.

  Breathing in, he replies on an exhale, “I’m Twitch.”

  Twitch?

  Twitch? …Really?

  Feeling a little braver, I explain, “I meant your real name.”

  “That is my real name.”

  Shaking my head, I say quietly, “No, your given name.”

  He looks annoyed. “That name was given to me.”

  Now, I’m annoyed. “By your parents?”

  He returns, “No. Does that make it any less my name? It’s the only one you’re getting, so take it or leave it.”

  Hmmm. Interesting.

  I look around the room, anywhere to avoid his eyes and ask, “Why do you…” stalk “…watch me?”

  When I get no answer, I look up to find him inspecting me again.

  It’s strange. He doesn’t look like a predator. Certainly doesn’t act like one. So what’s the deal?

  Irritation surges through me quick as lightning. Placing a hand on my hip, I ask, “What is your deal?”

  To that, I get a reaction. He smirks, knowing he’s getting to me, “It’s called people-watching.”

  Frustrated, I scoff, “People-watching is watching multiple people. Different people in different situations. You are not people watching. You’re sta—”

  All of a sudden, he’s up in my face. He’s so close, I can smell him.

  “I’m what?” he says, daring me to say the ugly word.

  Taking a deep breath, I wish I hadn’t. He smells really good. Like aftershave and musk…and all man.

  I whisper, “I just want to know why you watch me?”

  Not answering, he states acidly, “It was a fucking good thing I was, don’t you think?”