Page 89 of Resist

Just him telling me that even with a house full of people, he remembered and came up here to make everything all right.

Toot. Toooot.

But there is no “Hey, Vaughny, want to come dance to the music with me?” No “I have friends over tonight, but I’d rather come snuggle with you.” No “You know you’re my favorite girl?”

Toot. Toooot.

I open my eyes. It’s his face I see. His dark eyes warning me to stay quiet. His hand pressing harder against my mouth. His breath in my ears—harsh and rapid. Excited. The weight of his body as he lies partially on me. The scrape of his fingers as he begins to run them up my leg, my nightgown going with them.

The confusion.

Absinthe on his breath.

The churning in my tummy.

Cologne on his skin.

His murmured voice in my ear. “You’re beautiful, Vaughny.”

Cloves on his fingers.

Toot. Toooot.

A tug on my panties, and my muffled protest falling dead against his hand.

Fear. It owns me. Every part of me in a way so very different than the kind when Mommy died.

He’s the monster.

Uncle James is worse than the ones who live under my bed waiting to grab my ankles when I run to the bathroom.

“You leave her alone.”

His body jerks at the sound of Samantha’s voice. At the absolute defiance in it. His weight almost unbearable on top of me now. His hand letting up some over my mouth.

“Get out of here, Sammy.” His voice slurs. His body falling off the bed some as he turns to look at her where she stands on the opposite side of the bed.

Her hands are on the gun she holds out, and it scares me. We’re not supposed to touch guns. Ever. Where did she get that?

“Whoa, Sam!” Uncle James chuckles as he stumbles to stand upright, something weird pressing against the zipper of his jeans. He holds his hands up for the briefest of seconds before starting to round the bed toward her, his hand motioning for her to give him the gun. “C’mon now. Vaughn and I were just snuggling.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“But you’ll never tell anyone because no one will believe you. I’ll have no choice then but to kick the two of you out on the streets, homeless and hungry like that bum we saw the other day in the middle of the Village who died. Remember how his body just sat there and people walked around him all day before realizing he’d actually kicked the bucket? That would be a shame, wouldn’t it? To die alone and cold and hungry and—”

“Don’t you ever touch her again, or I swear to God I’ll kill you.” She jabs the gun at him like it’s a knife, and despite the hatred in her voice, tears I don’t understand slide down her cheeks.

But I remember the homeless man. I remember walking past him without knowing, and the image of his bare feet—dirty and blistered—sticks out in my mind. How lonely he must have been. How hungry. And I bite back the sob that I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to die like him.

“God?” He laughs. “Don’t you know God is the reason you were sent here to me?”

Her tears fall harder as he takes a step closer. “I mean it. Don’t you touch her.”

“Are you jealous, Sammy? You like what I gave you so much that you want more and don’t want to share?”

I don’t know what that means, but I know it makes Sam even more angry. Her bottom lip quivers, and she shakes her head like she did after we found out that Mommy died. Like she understands what he’s saying but doesn’t want to believe it. “Do whatever you want to me,” she says, every word a sob, “but don’t you ever touch her again.”

“Sam—”