Not Another Statistic Read online

  More often than not, I expected the abuse—affection and gentleness were foreign concepts. I accepted the flashes of pain rather than the warm softness of love. My too loud sigh pierced the near silence of the courtroom as the judge called a recess for the day. Opening arguments were complete, the formalities waning to make way for the actual trial. Everyone stood as the judge pushed to his feet. The judge’s chair creaked beneath his shifting weight, and then he exited.

  The bailiff stood tall at his post at the front of the room. The large man's shoulders were squared, right hand wrapped around his left wrist and his booted feet a shoulder-width apart. He stood beside the witness stand.

  The knowledge that one day soon I'd have to sit in the witness seat made bile burn bitter at the back of my throat. I'd told the story so many times, knew each detail by heart, but Vernon’s lawyers could and possibly would tear me apart.

  Would my past come into play? The few lovers the defense could find possibly paraded in front of the jury—the lovers who came close to doing exactly what Vernon had.

  I waited for the courtroom to clear and intently listened as I tried to ignore Vernon and his team of lawyers as they left. Jurors mumbled beneath their breaths in low drones. Words blended in an annoying humming. The door hinges in dire need of oiling creaked as they opened and closed. The click of heels or the heaviness of boots echoed off the walls, and sneakers squeaked on slick, tile floors.

  “Mr. Clarkson.”

  A hoarse, deep voice called my name. I turned my head to find Sorenson watching me with an odd look in his hazel eyes. If I didn’t know better, I'd almost believe it was concern. That emotion was too soft for the hard, taciturn man.

  “Yes?” I asked. Sorenson refused to use my first name. I assumed it was to keep some distance between himself and me. To him, I wasn’t anything other than a job. A way to earn a paycheck.

  “Mr. Cross has left. It’s time for us to head back to the hotel.”

  I only nodded. It’s not as if I could protest and tell Sorenson to take me home. Home for the last three years was Vernon’s penthouse. He hadn’t allowed me to keep a job either. I was stupid in my romantic notions of Vernon loving and wanting to take care of me. We'd even talked marriage a few times. I’d seen through the pretense for what it was. A proposal would be like any gift given as an apology for my treatment. Candy to shut the kid up.

  “Mr. Clarkson, we need to go.”

  The order was unmistakable in Sorenson’s voice. In our short acquaintance, I'd learned he didn’t like to repeat himself. He expected immediate compliance with his orders, and you never questioned said instructions. As was my nature, I never inquired merely followed.

  I straightened to my full height of barely an even six-foot. I learned during my post-attempted murder physical that I was thirty pounds underweight. A skeleton existed beneath the cheap suit I wore, protruding bony hips, ribs, and the knobby line of my spine.

  Sorenson walked a few steps behind me, far enough to remain inconspicuous, yet close enough to avert possible disaster.

  How the wall of angry looking muscle could pretend to be unobtrusive, I hadn’t a clue. Maybe it was the fact he wasn’t pretty or even conventionally handsome that made him unremarkable. To be honest, I thought most would find his face too weathered and grim to be even remotely attractive.

  All I knew was I wasn’t looking forward to another night of stony silence. He was a man of practically no words. If a conversation had the potential for friendliness, my watchdog would excuse himself for the night. Not to say I'm all that chatty, to begin with. If it was up to me, I'd go days without speaking, but the silence trapped me within my thoughts. The remembering—the flashbacks—was too much to handle.

  As I'd expected, the ride back to the hotel they’d put me up in was made in silence. He checked the rearview and the side mirrors. I thought about starting a round of idle chitchat. Turning on the radio was a no-no, he didn’t seem interested in TV, music or anything else that would potentially take his focus away from the job. Shortly I'd be asked what I wanted for dinner—I'd answer and receive a grunt in reply.

  I'd never made friends easily or at all really. I was the quintessential loner archetype. That old cliché if someone looked up antisocial in the dictionary there’d be a nice little picture of me. I darted a glance toward him and caught the jumping of his jaw muscle beneath his trimmed salt and pepper beard. He seemed irritated, but I figured that was normal for him. If he ever smiled, his face would probably shatter. I sighed before I could stop myself.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  The question surprised me. It took a few tries to get an answer out. “No,” I nearly stuttered.

  “Okay.”

  The word was spoken with finality as if his tone alone would end any conversation that may occur, and I couldn’t let it go at that.

  “Do you have a problem with me?” I asked as I turned my head to watch him. He never took his eyes off the busy street or the regular checks of the mirrors.

  “No.” The monosyllable answer annoyed me.

  Part of me wanted to cower as I'd always done, but another wanted to start an argument. I was in foreign territory, and as painful as my comfort zone was, it was the only one I knew. The pain of a punch or slap would bring me back to reality, and I would find my even footing again.

  “You’re lying,” I accused, and for the first time, hazel eyes flaring with anger turned my way. I held my breath, I steeled myself for it and waited—and waited.

  “Listen, kid, I don’t give a fuck if you think I’m lying or not.”

  “You did it again.”

  “Do you have some twisted need to be popped in the mouth? Would it make you feel better?”

  My face flamed as he called me on my motive.

  “Even if you were up to fighting weight, I still outweigh you by over a hundred pounds. You might like to fuck assholes who love to use you as a punching bag, but you’re not using me to get your rocks off. We clear?”

  I didn’t answer—just turned to stare out the passenger side window. Was that what it was? Did I need to be hurt to feel loved or normal? Looking back on my short life, I realized every whispered loving word was confessed after a beating or punishing sex. When did natural and loving become associated with physical and emotional pain? I lapsed into silence and drew my mind away from any more soul searching. I'd pushed my luck with him—a man I didn’t think had a forgiving nature.

  Three

  Yuri

  I returned to the room after doing a quick walkthrough and checking the exits. The kid barely made it into the room before he'd crashed. I'd watched him throughout the opening arguments, and he took it like a physical blow. There wasn't much I hadn't seen in my life, but the sheer amount of abuse he'd suffered made even me flinch. I was amazed the kid survived the beating he had, especially with the extent of his malnourishment.

  I crossed the room. “What do you want for dinner?” I asked. I avoided glancing at the delicate man on the couch with his slender hands folded on his lap.

  The conversation I'd avoided earlier still played in my mind.

  The provocation wasn’t expected, and nothing surprised me anymore. I'd worked protection detail most of my former career. It was an aspect of the job I loved and hated. I hated this particular assignment. The silence stretched, and I roughly sighed as I turned to look at Josh.

  Josh Clarkson was pretty in a fragile way. I felt sympathy, but something about the kid put me on edge. A broken feeling emanated in overwhelming waves from his emaciated body, and an uneasy prickle traveled beneath my skin. He was giving up, and there was no one who’d stop him from continuing to self-destruct.

  “Kid, did you hear me?” I wasn’t completely heartless, or at least I hoped.

  Round blue eyes met mine before glancing away, “A small salad.” It was the only answer I received, and it wasn’t satisfactory.

  “You’re eating more than that.” I picked up the phone, called a local place
to order burgers and fries, a chocolate milkshake for the kid. I wasn’t taking no for an answer. Yet, he didn't protest. He didn’t have any fight left in him, and maybe he never did.

  Hanging up, I moved across the room and took a seat in front of the picture window. The drawn curtains blocked out anyone who might get too nosy.

  I'd studied the kid’s file, and as much as I'd wanted to turn down the job, something stopped me. It wasn't that I couldn’t turn down a job protecting an abuse victim. I was an imposing scary man, I'd always been oversized, and it worked well for my career. My past also played a big part in why I'd taken the cases no one else wanted.

  I grew up with a single mother. My drunken father showed up only long enough to use my mother and leave her with bruises to remember him by. Normally, I had an easier touch with the victims of domestic violence, although, the kid’s demeanor put me on edge. Straight, white teeth worried the curve of his full bottom lip. I'd noticed he only did it when he was nervous, which meant most of the time. He focused mostly on the thick scar bisecting his lower lip.

  The urge to place my fingers under Josh’s pointed chin and force his eyes upward strengthened. I'd spent too many years observing my mother staring into space or down at her feet. I hadn’t been able to save her, and the guilt still ate at me. Conditioned over decades of abuse, she’d never broken away from my father. At the age of sixteen, I'd come home to find she’d taken her last beating.

  As always, a lump formed in my throat and threatened to choke me. I still remembered her blood-streaked face and wide eyes that had sightlessly watched me. She’d been positioned perfectly so that she’d been the first thing I saw when I’d opened the door. I’d spent years afterward plotting my revenge for when he was released from prison. Shifting my hulking frame in the uncomfortable chair, I pushed the memories away. It was in the past, and after serving just three years, my father died. That was twenty-six years ago, and the memories were just as clear as the day I'd walked into my childhood home for the last time to pack a single bag before going to the group home.

  My brow furrowed as I caught him peeking at me occasionally. “You have something on your mind?” I shouldn’t have asked. I was already walking a dangerous line when it came to the younger man. I wasn’t anywhere near the closet, yet I didn’t advertise. I couldn’t deny I found the kid attractive. Josh wasn’t my type though. And even if he was, it would be inappropriate. He hit all my trigger points, submissive being one of the biggest and that side of him wasn't fostered in a healthy way. He was a masochist, and I wasn't one to dole out pain or punishment only for the hell of it. Punishment was for correction of bad behavior only, anything other than that was abusive and abhorrent to me.

  “So you think I asked for it?” he asked.

  I didn’t have to ask what, I already knew. “No, I don’t think you asked for it.”

  “But you said…” he paused.

  A sigh slipped past his full lips, and I felt like an ass. I was always an asshole. It was a major personality flaw, but a Neanderthal bastard wasn’t fucked with a lot. It made people keep their distance from me.

  Any attachment wasn’t an option in my job. They were just files and numbers, sometimes aliases. I grabbed that day’s paper and settled in to read until dinner arrived. I opened the front section of the paper with a loud snap. The sharp sound caused him to flinch, and I hated the moment of remorse that urged me to soothe him.

  I was careful with sudden movements or the distance I kept. As a man my size and in this line of work, I was hyperaware of my overwhelming presence—especially when it came to abuse survivors.

  “You don’t like me, do you?”

  I folded the paper carefully and set it aside with deliberately slow motions.

  I compressed my back teeth. A growl threatened to rumble up and out of my chest. “I don’t have to like you. You’re a job—not my friend—kid.” Why couldn’t I be nice to the kid? Something about him made it impossible for me to show civility.

  “Oh, okay, is it just me?”

  “What’s the question you really want to ask? Quit fucking pussy-footing around it. I’m not known for my patience.”

  “If you don’t like me, how are you going to protect me?”

  “Liking isn’t a requirement, kid. I’ve protected criminals and victims alike. It’s just my job. I don’t have to like it or the people I keep an eye on.”

  Thankfully a knock came and cut off any more questions the kid would ask. I straightened to my full height and placed my hand on my sidearm—my thumb releasing the safety. Slightly lowering my head, I checked the peephole.

  I observed the male on the other side of the door. No darting gaze or nervous shifting, I didn't want to order room service until West sent me over the employee records. Still cautious, I kept my fingers wrapped around the familiar grip of my gun. It fit perfectly in the cup of my palm as I soundlessly pulled it from my holster. The familiar weight of my weapon against my thigh calmed me as I cracked the door open. I checked the hallway to make sure no one was hiding at either end. I holstered my weapon, reached into my pocket to take out enough to cover the food and tip. I took the bags along with to-go cups and then slammed and locked the door.

  I mentally cursed as he came off the couch. "Time to eat."

  He crossed the room, and I handed him his food and milkshake plus a bottle of water. He stood there staring at the container in his hands as if he didn't know what it was.

  "Go sit down," I ordered. Josh instantly obeyed, but if shit went nuclear, I couldn't yell out for him to move every time. Tomorrow after court, we'd have to go over procedures in the event that we had to vacate the room. Where to go and wait for me—a few self-defense moves. All I could hope was he didn't freeze and that his instincts for survival kicked in.

  Maybe I should've said no and let someone else take the assignment. No, that wouldn't have worked either. I understood the kid. I knew the damage abuse could do and how it skewed your perceptions, but that didn't mean I was any less frustrated with what I had to do.

  As was my usual M.O., I stood at the counter and ate my dinner but kept a close eye on him to make sure he ate everything I ordered for him. Fatty foods weren’t the healthiest way to put back on the pounds, but at least it was more than some tiny salad. The pictures I'd seen before the police ones showed a boy with rounded cheeks and not gaunt ones that sunk in until he was nearly skin on a skeleton. If I thought he was naturally thin, I wouldn’t be so worried. Fuck, I shouldn't care at all. I just needed to keep him alive until sentencing, and they'd probably put him in witness protection.

  I'd do my job. I didn't have to develop a soft spot for the kid. At twenty-five, he was old enough to take care of himself. With some counseling, he might even live a normal life one day. I just had to make sure he made it to that point.

  He was eating slow, pinching off tiny bites, even breaking his fries apart. Each bite carefully chewed and swallowed, followed by a small sip of his shake. He seemed to be struggling, and I kept my mouth shut. He'd stop when he was full, and he could eat the rest later.

  All I wanted to do was lay down. I was exhausted and irritated. My body was feeling every one of its years and then some. I had plans to make before I could sleep and wished I'd turned down this damn case.

  Four

  Josh

  Day three of the trial had ended, and I was emotionally and mentally exhausted. I was ready for it to be over; I didn't care if I died, at least that way I wouldn't have to worry about anyone trying to kill me. I stepped out of the shower and started to dry off.

  Knuckles loudly rapped on the door, and I jumped, barely keeping in a scream. My heart was beating so fast that my head felt light.

  "Kid, you have a visitor, hurry up."

  I held onto the counter and swiped a hand towel across the fogged surface. I tried not to look at myself too much. Every pink scar was a phantom pain as I remembered the slice of the knife or the strike of Vernon's fists. The tang of my own blood fille
d my mouth as he'd loosened teeth and split my lip.

  A part of me wanted it. Pain was all I knew. He'd used me brutally, and I'd never said no. The pain and degradation were familiar and comfortable. Maybe I did ask for it. Maybe I was too sick and broken to accept anything else. Abuse was better than no touch at all. Instead of causing harm to myself, I'd found others to do it—different men but all the same.

  I felt I was running out of time, and I didn't want him beating on the door again. I dried off and put on my t-shirt and sleep pants, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair. Before I left the bathroom, I cleaned everything up and folded the towels because he liked to take his shower at night. I didn't want to leave a mess for him.

  I drew air into my lungs through my nose and exhaled to the count of six, repeated it until I felt centered; as centered as I could ever get. I opened the door and stepped out to find Agent West and Yuri facing off. The tension was almost suffocating as if I walked into a force field. I'd sensed that first night West introduced me to Yuri that they weren't friends, but this felt like something else—a hatred maybe.

  "Josh, so glad to see Sorenson seems to be treating you well."

  "He's been very professional, Agent West." I cast a glance at him to find the big man glaring at me, and I couldn't help drawing physically inward in an attempt to make myself a smaller target.

  "Wouldn't expect anything else. He was always the best at his job. The prosecutor wanted to make sure you were ready for your testimony tomorrow."

  "As ready as I can be."

  "Well, come sit down, and we'll go over a few things to make sure you're ready."

  A tremor started at my toes and worked upward as I struggled to make it to the chair West motioned to. Yuri backed up until he pressed his shoulder to the wall beside where the floor to ceiling glass started. The curtains had stayed closed as he said it was dangerous. Someone could get a shot at me from another building. I wanted to question him about why a sniper would want to take me out. I was unimportant. Whatever testimony I gave would be refuted by the witnesses—the many men I was sure they'd call.