Calmly, Carefully, Completely

  “What?” he asks softly.

  “Help me,” I say. He looks at my face. He doesn’t look down at my exposed body. He just looks at my face, like I’m not sitting here with my skirt hiked up above my hips, like my shirt’s not torn open. Like I wasn’t just raped. Defiled. Used. I tug at my skirt, and he looks around the room, opens a cabinet, and lays an unfolded towel over me. I start to adjust my clothes beneath it. He looks down and picks up my shoes, which I must have kicked off when I was flailing. He sets them next to my feet. He sees my panties hanging over my ankle, and he reaches for them, lifting my leg gently so he can pull them off my foot. “I need those,” I say. I really, really need them.

  He shakes them out and holds them up, as if I was putting them on. “They’re torn,” he says.

  “I need them,” I say again. A tear rolls down my cheek, and his face softens. He finds the scraps of fabric where the man who hurt me ripped them at the hip, and he ties a knot in them. He holds them up, like I’m two and need his help getting dressed. I put my feet in them and stand up, unsteady on my legs. He reaches out to support me. My hands are shaking so badly that I can’t pull them up. He helps me. He hisses in a breath when he pulls them past the blood on my inner thighs. He lifts his gaze, looking into my face as he pulls them over my hips, and then he tugs my skirt down to cover them. I lower the towel, and he closes my shirt with gentle fingers. He bends over and picks up my phone where I dropped it.

  “Can I call someone for you?” he asks.

  I nod. But I can’t think of who. I can’t call my parents. I wasn’t supposed to be at this party. I was supposed to be in my dorm room studying.

  “Call Rachel,” I say. I lean against the counter, feeling like I can’t hold myself up anymore.

  He scrolls through my contacts until he finds her name. He calls, and I can hear the faint ring through the phone. “Hello, Rachel?” he asks.

  “Who are you and why do you have that hussy’s phone?” I hear Rachel ask.

  He looks at me. “Do you want to talk to her?” he asks me over the phone.

  I shake my head.

  He closes his eyes and says, “My name is Peter Reed, and I’m here with your friend…” He stops and looks at me, his eyebrows scrunching together. “What’s your name?”

  “Reagan,” I whisper.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. And he really looks like he is. “I can’t hear you.” His tone is soft and much more sympathetic than I deserve.

  “Reagan,” I bark. I groan inwardly at the way I said that. It was a spurt. But he heard me. That’s what matters.

  “I’m here with your friend, Reagan. She needs you.”

  “Where?” I hear Rachel say.

  “J-just tell her the party. M-master bathroom, I think.” I look around.

  “Do you want me to just go find her?” he asks, looking at me over the phone.

  My gut clenches. “Don’t leave me,” I whisper. My jaw quivers, and I hate it. But this man makes me feel safe.

  He reaches out and very gently lays his hand on the side of my head. I jerk back, and he immediately realizes that touching me was a mistake. “I won’t leave. I promise,” he says. He turns back to the phone. “We’re in the back bedroom, in the bathroom. She’s hurt.” He looks at my face while he says it. Not at my abused body. His eyes stare into mine. “She’s strong,” he says. “But I think she needs you.” He looks down at the phone. “I think she hung up on me.”

  I nod. “Thank you,” I say.

  “I’m going to stay with you,” he says to assure me. “I’m not leaving. I promise.”

  I nod and lean against the counter, crossing my arms beneath my breasts.

  “I’m going with you so I can be sure you go to the hospital,” he says.

  I shake my head. “That’s not necessary.”

  He looks into my eyes. “A rape kit is necessary.”

  Oh, I’m going to the hospital. I need to be tested for STDs. And get a morning-after pill. And do all the things I never thought I’d have to think about, much less do. “I know. I’ll go.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  I shake my head. He’s already seen enough of my shame.

  “I can’t walk away and leave you like this.”

  There’s a quick knock on the door, and he calls out, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Rachel,” says a muffled voice. My soul cries out for her. I nod, and he opens the door. She rushes in and stops short. Her face contorts, but she bites it back quickly when she sees a tear roll down my face. “What happened?” she croons. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me in tight. I sob into her shoulder as she holds me. I look up at him through the curtain of her hair and see that he’s blinking furiously. He sniffles and straightens his spine when he sees me looking at him.

  “She needs to go to the hospital,” he says quietly.

  “I’ll take her.” She looks around. “How can we get her out of here without everyone seeing her?” she asks.

  He pulls his hoodie over his head and walks over to me. He bunches it up like he wants to put it over my head, but he asks for permission to do it with his eyes. I nod, and he drops it over me, and his scent wraps around me. It’s like citrus and woodsy outdoor smells combined. It wraps me up and holds me close, still warm from his body. I tug it down around my hips. Rachel wets a corner of the towel he gave me earlier and wipes beneath my eyes. “You have scratches on your face,” she says. Then she sees my neck. “Did he choke you?” she gasps. But she quickly recovers. I cover my neck with my hand. That’s not the worst he did.

  A growl starts low in Peter’s belly, but I can hear it. He’s angry for me. “Thank you,” I whisper to him as she leads me to the door, her hand holding tightly to mine.

  “Can I come with you?” he asks.

  Rachel looks at me for confirmation, but I shake my head.

  “Can I at least check on you later?” he asks. “How can I find you again?”

  “We need to go,” Rachel says.

  He follows us down the hallway and through the noisy kitchen and the even noisier living room. He shields my body with the width of his and opens the door for us so we can walk in front of him. Rachel’s hand is in mine, but I feel the need to reach for his, because he represents strength for me. “Thank you, Peter Reed,” I whisper.

  “You’re welcome,” he whispers back. He opens the car door for me, and I gingerly sit down. I’m sore so I hiss. He stiffens. “Are you sure I can’t go?”

  I nod. I lay my head back and close my eyes. And let Rachel drive me to the hospital.

  A shriek jerks me from my memories. I watch as a blond man walks out of the front of the jail, and the girl who was with the three men launches herself at Peter Reed. I know it’s him. I haven’t seen him since that night, but I am completely sure that my savior just walked out of the prison.

  A knock sounds on the passenger window, and I jump. I look over at my dad, who makes a face at me through the glass. I unlock the door, and he gets in. He looks at the scene in front of us. “Are you happy now?” he asks.

  My dad’s an attorney, and he took over Pete’s legal needs when I found out where he was. I went looking for him a few weeks after the attack. I asked around campus until I finally found someone who knew one of his brothers. Pete was in jail for a foolish mistake. So, I asked my dad to help him. He’s been working to have him freed ever since.

  My dad’s well known in this town for his work with the youth detention program, and he does a lot of pro bono work for people who can’t afford representation. Dad found out that Pete had legal counsel that someone else set up for him, so he asked to assist in the case. Pete still had to go to jail, but he got a much lighter sentence because of Dad’s help. Pete doesn’t deserve to be in jail. He deserves to be given a medal of honor.

  I look at Dad and smile. “Yes, I’m happy now. Did you get to ask him about coming to the farm?” I ask it very shyly because my dad reads me like I’m a book.

  He nods.


  “And?” My insides are flipping around, and my heart is racing.

  “He’s coming.”

  I lay a hand on my chest and force myself to take a deep breath.

  “What do you hope to get out of seeing this boy?” Dad asks.

  “I just want to thank him, Dad.”

  Dad grins and rolls his eyes. “I was thinking you might want to have his babies.”

  I snort. “Not yet.”

  I’ll see Pete tomorrow. I can’t wait.

  “Hey, kid,” he says softly. “He’s been in jail two years. He may be a little harder than that boy you met that night so long ago.”

  Dad talks about it like it happened years ago. But it happens again and again in my head, every single night.

  “He still saved me, Dad,” I say quietly.

  Pete

  I don’t want to be back here. I didn’t miss jail at all last night. Not for a minute. And I don’t plan to be on the wrong side the bars again. Ever. But here I am, back where I never wanted to be. I’m outside the prison but still… I’m wearing jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and a tracking bracelet on my ankle. The boys standing in line are still in prison garb. They haven’t been officially released from the youth program yet, but this volunteer program is their first step toward that.

  Doors open in front of me, and I step onto the bus, sliding into the front seat, pushing myself close to the window. I put my backpack with my meager belongings in it on the seat next to me, hoping the bus isn’t so crowded that someone has to sit with me.

  A young man behind me sits forward in his seat. “You going to the farm, too?” he asks. His breath smells like he’s been eating the ass end out of a mule.

  “Dude, sit back,” I grumble. I admit it. I’m a little hungover.

  He leans back, and I lay the back of my head against the window and stretch my legs along the length of the seat. But then his nose pops up near the crack between the seat and the window, right by my face. “You’re going to the farm, right?” He breathes heavily right by my ear. And it was two mules. Not just one ass that he ate. Good God, somebody better get him a Tic Tac. I reach into my backpack and pull out a roll of breath mints and pass him one. He pops it into his mouth and smiles.

  “Yeah, I’m going to the farm,” I say quietly.

  “Me, too. Cool, isn’t it?” He grins. He’s even younger than me. I’d guess he’s eighteen, compared to my twenty-one.

  “Yeah, cool,” I mutter.

  “What were you in for?”

  They know I was in prison? For some reason, I thought I was coming as a mentor of sorts. Not as an ex-con.

  “Lie back and get some sleep,” I say, closing my eyes.

  I really want to know what the kid was in for, but I would never ask. That would just be rude.

  “I killed somebody,” he says. I open my eyes and see that he’s smiling. His eyes are a little maniacal, and they bounce from one place to another.

  “Sure you did,” I mutter, but fuck it all… Now I’m intrigued.

  “No, really,” he says. He’s suddenly excited, and he rubs his hands together. “Deader than a doornail.” He holds up his finger like it’s a gun and points it, then makes a pfewww sound with his mouth.

  “Mmm hmm,” I hum, closing my eyes again.

  “Have you been there before?” he asks. He’s kind of like a puppy. A puppy that can kill people. Maybe a cocker spaniel. Those always were fucked-up little dogs. My neighbor, Mrs. Connelly, had one, and I used to walk it. That thing would bite you as quickly as it would look at you.

  “Where?” I ask.

  “The farm,” he says, getting all excited again. I hear him moving in his seat like he can’t sit still.

  It’s actually called Cast-A-Way Farms, based on the brochures I saw yesterday. I force my eyes open. “No. Never been.”

  “Me, neither. But I know someone who went last year. He said it was nice. Except for the sick kids and the ones who are retarded.”

  I fucking hate that word. “They’re not retarded,” I say. “They’re deaf. And some have MS. And some have autism. And lot of other things that make them special. But they’re not retarded.” I fucking hate labels. My brother, Logan, the one who is deaf, has been called more names than I can count.

  “Oh, okay,” he says. He nods. “Okay.” He repeats himself.

  “Don’t use that word again,” I warn.

  “Okay,” he says. He nods, his head bobbing like a dashboard dog.

  The bus driver gets on the bus, and my parole officer enters, carrying his clipboard. He sits down in the seat opposite me and flips through his paperwork. He’s big and beefy, and he’s packing. He’s dressed in a V-necked shirt that stretches tight across his shoulders and khaki pants. He looks over at me, and his eyebrows draw together. “You Reed?” he asks.

  I open my eyes. “Yes, sir,” I say. We actually met at the prison, but he must not remember.

  “How’d you score this program?” he asks.

  I shrug. “No idea.” I have a good idea it had something to do with Mr. Caster, but I don’t know what happened. He acts like this is an honor or something.

  My parole officer’s brows pucker again, and he reaches for his clipboard. “You’re the one whose brother is deaf.”

  I glare at him. “Yep.”

  He nods and sets his clipboard to the side. “There will be a few hearing-impaired kids at the camp. And there’s one boy who has MS and has a tracheostomy tube, so he can’t talk. You’ll be working with him as a translator.”

  I nod. “Sounds good.”

  “How long have you been signing?” he asks.

  My brother lost his hearing when he was thirteen, and that was ten years ago. “About ten years?” I say. I’m not completely sure. I’ve been signing so long that I don’t even realize I’m doing it most of the time.

  He turns so that his knees are facing me. “What were you in for?” he asks quietly.

  I nod toward his clipboard. “You already know,” I say. I close my eyes again.

  He grabs my foot and shakes it. I jerk my leg back. That’s something one of my brothers would do. “I’d rather you tell me.”

  “Possession with intent,” I say quietly. I really don’t want Tic Tac behind me to hear me.

  He extends a hand to me. “My name’s Phil,” he says.

  I grip his hand in mine. “Pete.”

  “You’re not going to be any trouble, are you, Pete?” he asks.

  “No, sir,” I reply. No trouble at all. I want to go home when this over.

  He nods. “Fair enough. I may need for you to help me with some of the younger kids.” He jerks a thumb toward the back of the bus.

  I nod. I’m the oldest one here, aside from Phil.

  Phil gets up and sits down across from Tic Tac and goes through the same drill. I see him do it with everyone. There are about ten young men on the bus, all under the age of eighteen, if I had to guess. There’s one younger boy who doesn’t look older than sixteen.

  I heave a sigh and close my eyes. I cross my arms over my chest and try to sleep. If I’m correct, we have a few hours to go until we get to Cast-A-Way Farms.

  Reagan

  The pool is wonderful. It’s too bad it’s surrounded by assholes. I squeal and cover my head when another one jumps into the water right beside me, drenching me with his splashing despite the fact that I specifically said I didn’t want to get wet. I have somewhere to be when I leave here.

  Chase pops his head up out of the water and rests on his elbows right beside my head, his nose almost touching mine. “Didn’t get you wet, did I?” he asks. He looks at me just long enough to make me uncomfortable. Or make me want to punch him in the nose. I shrug to myself. Whichever comes first. He has been dropping these sexy hints ever since I went out to dinner with him two weeks ago. If I could do it with anyone, it wouldn’t be Chase Gerald. Besides, he doesn’t know what happened to me my first semester at college. Nobody knows about it except for my family, P
eter Reed, Rachel, and the man who turned me off sex forever.

  I want to tell Chase to fuck off, to tell him that he can just stop trying because I’m never going to be the easy girl who will fall into bed with him. But I can’t tell him I was raped because then he’ll look at me with pity. That’s the last thing I want.

  I pretend like I didn’t hear his comment about getting wet. The type of wet he’s talking about isn’t even in my vocabulary. Chase grunts and pulls himself from the water. I don’t know why I invited him over. He brought his buddies, and I don’t know which one of them gives me the creeps more. Even worse, they brought their girlfriends. These are the same girls who look at my little brother like he’s some kind of carnival sideshow.

  Chase stands over me and shakes the water from his hair. His kneecap is directly beside my head. With a leg swipe, I could take him out…

  His eyes narrow, and I hear the rumble of a bus coming up the driveway. I stand up and grab my towel, dry off really quickly, and then I pull my clothes on over my bathing suit. “Sorry, Chase. I have to go.”

  “Are those the camp kids?” he asks.

  I twist my hair up into a messy ponytail.

  “Yep.” This is my favorite part of the summer. My dad has been holding his camps here since my brother was three, when we realized there wasn’t a safe place to send him to camp where he could be who he is— a normal little boy with autism.

  The first year we did it, we invited only kids with autism. Through the years, it’s grown. Now we have kids with challenges like Down syndrome, autism, processing disorders, and this year there’s even a group of young boys coming who are deaf. I’m excited. These boys need me. And they don’t threaten me. I don’t have nightmares about them hurting me… Not like the others.

  “Is that a prison van?” Chase asks.

  “Yep,” I say.

  Every year, my dad invites young men from the local youth detention center to come and volunteer at the camp. They’re not violent young men and are screened carefully, and they’ll come with their own director. But they all do have a criminal history. They get community service hours at the camp.