Page 61 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
But if I was going to be worthy of that, I’d have to handle my own shit. Whether Colin liked it or not.
“I have to do this. For Bailey and for myself.” I pulled out my trump card. “Would you let Philip handle it if someone hurt you?”
His eyes flashed. That was all. Just a small visual sign, but I felt the jolt through his body. Maybe I’d hit a little too hard.
“Actually,” he said. “Laramie found a loophole.”
Heh, Laramie the lawyer found a loop—and then the meaning of the words registered. Relief was there, but I didn’t like his tone. “What is it?”
“If you get him on the rape, then he won’t have a legal claim on Bailey.”
I blinked. Nope, still didn’t get it. Didn’t want to understand.
“What does that mean—get him?”
He seemed to choose his words carefully. “If you press charges, prosecute him, and he’s convicted, then legally—”
“No fucking way.” I’d practically shit myself telling Colin. There was no fucking chance I was going to say it in public. And that’s assuming they even would prosecute. And that I’d win.
“Allie,” he said.
“Colin,” I said. “How would Laramie know?”
He didn’t meet my eyes.
“No,” I whispered. “Tell me you didn’t.”
His lips firmed.
It was a small comfort that he didn’t give me excuses. That it was for the best, or that he had a right to share my secrets. Rage would be great, but all I had left was a whisper. “Fuck you.”
I ran from the room, stumbled up the stairs, unseen through my tears, and huddled under the covers. The feeling of my heart being ripped out slipped on like an old shoe. God, the betrayal.
The pain echoed from past wounds, but not just from Andrew.
I remembered my shock at Shelly’s furor. I was grateful for her anger on my behalf, but she was more than that. She’d been spitting mad. She’d called Andrew every swear word I’d ever heard, and a few I hadn’t, and she never swore. Then she’d insisted I tell the authorities. He couldn’t get away with this, she said.
I was confused. Even through my own hurt and anger, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to Andrew. He’d been my friend for so much longer than he’d been my rapist. It wasn’t a switch I could turn off.
But Shelly’s arguments made sense. He deserved whatever punishment he got for what he’d done. And if I didn’t say anything, he might hurt someone else.
A woman on a mission, she kept at me until whatever sanity was left in me wore down.
When I finally wanted to shower, she blocked me. Evidence, she said.
My bruised, sticky body was evidence.
Shelly drove me to the hospital herself. We waited for hours—I wasn’t an emergency. She stayed with me until they took me into the exam room. They wouldn’t let her come with me.
In a room full of strangers, wearing a small, paper gown that gaped open in front, I was made to lie down on a hard table. There were stirrups there—I’d never seen anything like it before.
“Put your feet here,” the doctor said.
I wouldn’t do it. The doctor, the nurses, the police officer all coaxed me, but finally they just lifted my legs and put them in. They didn’t need my consent either.
They poked me and prodded, ferreted out all the bruises and a few cuts. Cold gloves caught on my flesh. A camera flashed, memorializing my shame. They put their fingers and instruments inside me, where nothing had ever been until a few hours before. They hurt me there too. Everything down there hurt.
The doctor stopped once, to take a phone call. I thought it was his wife, because of the way he kept saying he’d call back soon so many times before he could hang up.
