I jumped when she grabbed me again, which only made her laugh and press against me harder.
Gritting my teeth, I clenched my hands down at my side and tipped my head up toward the ceiling as I squeezed my eyes shut, trying not to feel what I was feeling. But no one had ever touched me there before. The contact made my boner grow harder as all the while, the sick unease in my stomach grew queasier. I swallowed repeatedly to keep from vomiting as an unnatural chill swept through my limbs, making me tremble uncontrollably.
I didn’t try pushing her away again; this fear that she’d call the cops and I’d get thrown in juvie for physical abuse rose in my head, freezing me from swinging.
I wanted Noel.
Or Caroline. She was right down the hall. I could yell for her, and she’d fly out of bed to rescue me. But then what? What if Caroline called someone for help, and Social Services split the three of us apart? I wasn’t about to lose Colton and Caroline. They were the only two people I had right now.
“How old are you now, Brandt?” Daisy asked as she used all five fingers to grip me tight.
Tears tracked down my cheeks. I shook my head, denying the reality of what she was doing. I hated how good it felt. Hated how scared I was. I just wanted to redo last night and wake next to a snot-nosed Colton instead of this.
“Well, you sure are big for however old you are,” she murmured, watching herself fondle me. “Your daddy was the biggest I ever had, did you know that?”
Why the hell would I know that? A kid should never know something like that. Besides, this had to be the first time Daisy had ever spoken to me.
She’d talked about me to either Noel or Caroline over the years, demanding they shut me up if I was crying or telling them to take me somewhere else if she wanted me out of sight. I honestly couldn’t remember a time when she’d directed a single word to me.
To me, Noel and Caroline were my parent figures, so Daisy didn’t feel like my mother at all. Too bad that didn’t make her touch any less creepy. I was so freaking skeeved out I was shaking erratically. Paralyzed with fear.
“I actually remember who your daddy was because he was hung so well,” she went on as if she had no idea I was freaking the fuck out. “I couldn’t tell you who fathered any of the other brats. But you. Yeah, you definitely have to be Derick’s boy. Hey...what’re you crying for?”
I opened my eyes and glanced down. She seemed honestly confused as she watched me with a slight worried pinch to her eyebrows.
“Please stop,” I whispered from dry lips.
But the bitch only laughed. “Oh, baby.” She ran her second hand up my leg until it disappeared under the hem of my shorts. “Trust me, you don’t want me to stop. Haven’t you ever had a blow job before?”
Just as she lowered the waistband of my shorts, I smashed my fisted hand against my mouth to muffle the sob that emerged. My eyes slashed to the half-closed door of her bedroom, praying Caroline would rush inside and save me, and yet wishing she never ever found out what kind of horror was going down.
Because what followed was definitely the worst, most mortifying thing to ever happen to me.
SARAH
AGE 13
One Month Later
Reese was mad.
I’d only ever seen my babysitter as bright and bubbly, always cheerful and energetic with what seemed to be a perpetual, ready grin. So when I turned my head on the mattress where I lay to send her an elated smile, I was stunned to find her lips thin and pinched with anger.
She folded her arms over her chest as she watched my legs bicycle kick in the air above my hips.
And here, I’d been so proud of myself. I could actually control some kind of movement. For a second, it’d been the best moment of my life. I’d just wanted to share my feat with my favorite person. But the rage emanating off her made my joy plummet.
What had I done wrong?
Worried, I stopped kicking, but the therapist on the opposite side of the mattress from Reese instructed in a calm, even voice, “No, don’t stop yet, Sarah. Just keep going. Think about how you feel as you move. And then try to slow the pace, putting the least amount of effort into it as possible.”
I blew out a breath and turned my attention up to the ceiling, away from Reese’s anger, so I could concentrate on moving my legs. Just as they wobbled rampantly, Dr. Besby murmured, “Don’t worry about that. It’s fine. Just keep going if you can. You’re doing great.”
After I completed a minute of slow reps, Dr. Besby told me to reverse the kicking and bicycle my legs in the other direction. “That’s great,” he congratulated. “Now picture your favorite kind of ice cream.”
Bringing up a mental image of two scoops of Neapolitan on a waffle cone, my eyebrows knit with worry when my mental fantasy slotted Reese into the chair at the table across from me as she licked her own cone full of orange sherbet.