Taking Connor(71)

I look up and see Connor’s eyes are clenched closed as he replays what happened that day. “I walked in and heard Blake crying, but it was so soft. He was so tired and drugged he couldn’t even cry out or scream. He was too weak to fight . . .” Connor chokes out the last word, his voice thick with emotion. “I walked in,” his voice cracks again as he continues, “and that motherf*cker was . . . goddamn,” he groans as he pulls his arm from under me and sits up resting his arms on his knees and hanging his head.

“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper. “I’m here.”

“I pulled him off Blake and got a few good punches in before he managed to grab Gram’s cast iron lamp and hit me over the head. He didn’t knock me out, but he did knock me on my ass and that gave him enough time to pull his f*cking pants up and run.”

My chest feels hollow. My poor Blake. The horror he endured. My stomach knots at the thought he never confided this in me, as if he thought I would think less of him or something.

“By the time I was able to see again and move, Blake had slipped in his own vomit trying to get to me. I had to carry him in the shower and clean him off. He couldn’t get everything on his body wet at that time. He was sobbing so quietly, and I could tell crying hurt. I mean, what had just happened to him hurt, but the actual act of crying pained him, but he couldn’t stop. My head was bleeding, blood was running in my eyes, but I managed to get him clean and dressed and back in bed.” He holds a fist to his mouth as he stifles his sob.

“He grabbed my hand and begged me not to tell anyone, wouldn’t let me go until I promised not to tell. He said everyone would think he was a freak or look at him funny. I was a stupid f*cking kid. I should’ve told. But I was a stupid kid, and I promised him I would never tell.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Connor,” I try to comfort him, but he pulls away and whips his head around.

“It was every bit my fault,” he argues.

“How so?” I ask as if it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

“Because that piece of shit tried to do it to me two weeks before,” he admits, dropping his head again. My heart squeezes. “Came over offering to take me out for a burger. Halfway there, he grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch. I almost killed myself jumping out of the car. If I had told Grams, someone, anyone, it wouldn’t have happened to Blake. He couldn’t even cry for f*cking help, Demi.” He lets out a laugh, but it’s humorless. He’s laughing in anger, how upset he is with himself, how he can’t believe he let it happen. “But I was so wigged out, f*cking grossed out . . . I was too embarrassed to tell anyone.”

“I can’t talk about it anymore, Demi.”

“Okay,” I whisper as I kiss his back. “Can you tell me what happened when you saw him again?”

Connor raises his head and stares straight ahead. “I was passing through Arizona, heading to Cali. I stopped at a Walmart to buy some deodorant, of all things,” he snorts. “I was standing in line, checking out, when I saw him. I didn’t even think about what I was going to do, I just went after him. I caught up with him in the auto parts section, he was looking at floor mats.” He runs a hand down his face and continues.

I asked him if he remembered me and I could tell he did; he had fear in his eyes like I’ve never seen. I wasn’t some little punk-ass kid anymore, ya know. I was a man—big f*cking man and it scared the shit out of him.”

I kiss his forehead, reminding him I’m here. That I’ll always be here.

“If he had just run, I think I wouldn’t have followed him. But he didn’t do that. He goaded me.”

“How so?” I whisper.

Connor lets his head drop again. “He asked me if Blake’s ticker was still ticking or if he’d finally kicked the bucket.” His hand finds my leg and squeezes, the memory causing a physical reaction in him. I hug him tighter, my heart shredded with how cruel the world can be.

“What happened next?”

Connor raises his head, his dark gaze flickering. “I killed that motherf*cker. I beat him with my bare hands until he was dead, and then, I beat him some more. That’s what happened.” There’s not even a semblance of remorse in his tone. He’s not sorry. Not one iota. “And I hope he’s rotting in hell.”

I close my eyes, letting Connor’s hurt and anger wash over me, absorbing it as my own. Sitting up on my knees, I crawl in his lap and meet his gaze, rubbing my hand across his stubble-covered cheek. His eyes are red from the tears he’s fought as he swallows hard. His hurt is prevalent. He’s weighted down with it. “Let me share this with you. Let me carry some of it, Connor. You’ve carried it too long, baby.”

He lies back, pulling me with him. My back is against his front, my body curved and fitted perfectly to his. He rocks into me, and I find myself pushing back, meeting his body. His hand finds my breast, rubbing it as he nuzzles my neck with his nose.

“I love you, Connor,” I whisper.

Gently, he pulls me to my back and climbs on top of me, slipping inside of me. He doesn’t speak, not with words anyway, but every touch tells me exactly what he wants me to hear.

He loves me too.





When I wake the next morning, Connor is beside me, lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. “What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice hoarse.