Chapter Eleven
Rachel
The men drink, talk, and laugh. They’re really pleased with themselves for having gotten me away from C Crue. Periodically, Berto gives me an openmouthed kiss. I let him, numbly. I try several times to extract myself, but he drags me back to the couch, talking about the wedding, snapping selfies of us. I feel ill.
Eventually, my father grows tired and bored of it all. He gets up and intervenes. I know it’s not for my sake. He wants to talk to me alone. He’s said as much.
I don’t want to talk to him alone. I need to talk to Berto alone.
“I’m going to bed,” Frank finally says. “Come on, Rachel. I’ll walk you up.”
“No, no. There’s been a lot of drama. I want her right here with me.” Alberto’s grip is hard enough to bruise my arm.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing his wrist. “That’s too tight.”
“There’s no such thing. I’m sure the Hulk’s rougher than me. That’s his thing, right?”
A heavy silence settles over the room.
Frank looks at Alberto and then at me. Suddenly, I’m not ready for Frank to leave.
“It’s late,” I say.
“Not that late. Not even midnight,” Alberto says.
“Goodnight,” Frank says.
“Dad—” I say.
“No, I’m tired,” he says, cutting me off. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Wait,” I say, but he shakes his head and walks out.
“You and me, princess,” Berto hisses, placing a sloppy wet kiss on my cheek. The smell of stale alcohol is strong on his breath.
I jerk back. “That’s enough.” I get up, yanking my arm free. I get only two steps away before he knocks me down. Hard. I’m face down on the carpet, stunned from the force of the blow to my back. Dazedly, I realize he’s tearing at my clothes.
“Tell me,” he slurs. He turns me over and slaps me across the face.
I’m terrified and nauseous, but I don’t move or fight. A stillness settles over me. I’ve been in dangerous situations before. I think if I fight, it’ll fan the flames.
“Berto, babe, you’re drunk,” I say softly. “Let’s go upstairs.”
