Priceless (Forbidden Men #8)(76)

No way was I falling now.

“Relax.” I patted his chest and grinned up at him. “It was just a couple steps. I’m good.” Though I’d probably be flat on my face right now if he wasn’t holding me up. I ignored that little fact. “Now.” After a refreshed sigh, I motioned toward the fence wall. “Let’s sit, shall we?”

“On the ground?” He sounded leery.

I almost started bawling then and there. But my precious boy was still trying to take care of me while he was probably going through the worst turmoil of his life. I bit the inside of my lip as the first tear developed. I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t cry, I couldn’t cry. Brandt didn’t respond well to tears, especially my tears. He always turned helpless, and mad, and vulnerable, all emotions I didn’t want him even going near right now.

I had to be the rainbow in his cloud.

Wit and sarcasm were always how I’d cheered him before, so I tilted up my chin and waved out a hand like some kind of regal queen.

“Of course, on the ground. Do you see any benches around? I hope you’re done crying. I forgot to bring any tissues.”

“I’m not crying.” Brandt sounded irritated as he helped us both lower ourselves to the ground until we were sitting side by side.

“Really?” I reached out and patted his face in the dark, in search of wet cheeks, but I only encountered dry skin before he grasped my wrist and pulled my hand away. “That’s incredible. I’d probably be a weeping pile of mush if I were you. So, seriously, if you want to cry—”

“I’m not going to cry,” he muttered.

“Okay, then.” I bit my lip. “Well...I just came out here to tell you, I’m not mad.”

“Mad?”

“Yeah, you know, because we’re best friends and all. We tell each other everything, the good and the bad, and you never once mentioned this to me. I’m not mad. It’s okay. I forgive you. I mean, seriously, I doubt I would’ve been able to tell you about it either if it had happened to me.”

There. I was proud of myself for the careless act. As long as I could keep this up, and didn’t weep as I ached to, I wouldn’t lose him. I was so sure my cheery mood was working too because he let out a laugh.

But then I realized it was an angry, bitter laugh. “It would’ve been entirely different if it had happened to you,” he sneered.

“What do you mean?” I squinted up at his face, frustrated I couldn’t make out his expression.

“I’m a guy,” he gritted out. “It’s different.”

“No,” I argued softly, shaking my head in absolute confusion. “It’s really not different at all. Rape is rape.” And he’d been raped.

With a snort, he shook his head, “Yes, it damn well is different. A girl can be forced into it completely against her will. She can be one hundred percent the victim. But a guy can’t. Because a woman rapist can’t get shit done unless he gets an erection to complete the act, which means...he actually has to want it.”

Gulping, I pressed my shaking fingers to my throat. A part of me could see how he’d come to that conclusion. He thought a female could feel justified in the fact that she fought against it until the bitter end, that no part of her participated willingly. He’d heaped an extra layer of guilt onto his shoulders because he felt as if he’d contributed to his mother’s molestation.

And he was so completely wrong.

Not about to let this dear precious man carry any of the blame, I gripped his arm. “That’s just bullshit.”

Brandt sucked in a surprised breath before rasping, “Excuse me?”

“You make it sound like merely saying no isn’t enough to constitute rape. What if the woman participates because a monster is holding a gun to her head or a knife to her throat and she goes along because she just wants to f*cking live?”

“My mother didn’t have a weapon.”

I ignored that. “Or...or what if a rapist forces a girl to climax when he assaults her?”

“What?” Brandt recoiled. “That’s just wrong.”

“It happens,” I hissed, then bit the inside of my cheek for the second time since coming out here. I was balancing on a fragile line and pushing the boundaries of our friendship by doing this to him, but from the depths of my bones, I felt like I had to. “Are you saying those women deserved it?”

“No!” he cried. “I would never say that. But this is different.”

“No, it isn’t. You are a victim. One hundred percent. You did not want it to happen to you.”

“Sarah,” he warned in a low voice, his breath heaving as he grew upset. “Don’t. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I was pretty sure I knew enough, so I shot back, “Yes, I do. That child-molesting bitch raped you. End of story. You were not willing.”

“Except I was,” he roared back. “I wasn’t exactly a small, puny thirteen-year-old. I could’ve fought her off, pushed her away, hit her. But I didn’t. And you know what else? I f*cking liked it!”

As soon as he roared those words, though, he sucked in a breath and hissed, “Oh, Jesus.” A sob caught in his throat, and he bowed his head before gripping his hair. “Oh, God. It actually felt good. By the end, I was pushing my hips against her, eager for more, so f*cking desperate to get off I didn’t care whose mouth was on me.”