Retribution (The Protectors 3)

“It’s beautiful,” I said as I glanced at Tate who was standing next to me, his shrouded gaze on the picture.

“I still remember that day. It was the summer I turned fifteen. Buck had just beaten the shit out of me for something – I don’t even know what – and I snuck out after I heard him drive off in his truck. There was this old barn about a mile away that I liked to take pictures of…I kept waiting for the light to be just right. It was a perfect night. I could smell the rain in the air and the thunder was so loud you could feel it under your feet. I felt so free…and then I saw these birds and I just started snapping away until they were gone. And I knew that would be me someday.”

Tate let out a harsh laugh. “Seven years,” he whispered. “Seven years of pinning all my hopes and dreams on that picture; of thinking I’d someday be strong enough to face the storm instead of run from it.” He shook his head and turned away. I watched him give the room one final look before he left. I reached down to pick up the two largest pieces of the picture and held the torn edges together. I saw the things Tate saw.

But I saw something else too and that had me reaching down to collect the smaller pieces and putting them all carefully into my pocket before I followed Tate from the room.

Chapter Fourteen

Tate

I could already feel Hawke’s devastating kiss fading to the back of my mind as I moved around the dilapidated trailer. I would have liked to have kept the taste and feel of him with me as the memories started to come back to me one by one, but the past was just too strong. Because everywhere I looked, I saw and heard everything that had had me dreaming of the day I could escape the endless nightmare.

“You okay?” I heard Hawke ask from behind me where I stood at the entrance to Buck’s bedroom.

“He never closed his door when he was with his women,” I murmured. “I made the mistake of watching him and Denny with one of them once when I was younger. Buck ordered me to join them.”

“What did you do?”

I could feel the bile rising in my throat. “I said no and tried to leave, but Buck came after me. He kept asking me if I wouldn’t fuck her because I was a faggot. I knew what he’d do to me if I admitted I was gay so I told him I was scared.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

I closed my eyes when Hawke’s big hand settled on the back of my neck.

“What happened?”

“By the time Buck dragged me back in here, Denny had the woman on her knees on the floor. She looked high, but when Buck told her to suck me, she reached for my pants. I started crying when she put her mouth on me. Buck started fucking her from behind and Denny was giving her instructions on how to suck me. When I couldn’t get it up, he shoved me aside and asked the woman if she wouldn’t rather suck a real man.”

I turned away from Buck’s room and faced Hawke. “Buck started calling me Cryin Chris after that. Denny’s favorite was Sissy Chrissy. Chris…that’s my real name…Christopher.”

Humiliation was coursing through me as I tried to move past Hawke, but he used his body to crowd me back against the door frame. “Tate,” he whispered and then he kissed me softly.

“Tate,” he repeated along with another kiss.

Every time he said my name, he deepened the kiss that followed. I’d thought the kiss in my room was just another chance occurrence because Hawke had been in a vulnerable state, but as his tongue met mine, I couldn’t help but hope it meant he was feeling even a little bit of what I was feeling. When he finally released me, my knees felt like jelly.

“We should look around to see if we can find some evidence of where they went,” Hawke said, his voice husky with desire.

I nodded and locked my knees. I followed him to the kitchen and began looking through the drawers while Hawke searched through the debris on the floor. Unfortunately, the work didn’t help me tune out the memories of all the times I’d been tormented and tortured by both Buck and Denny.

I had no memory of a time when Buck had been kind to me, but that wasn’t the case with Denny. I’d often wondered if the few times I remembered Denny protecting me when we were kids were really memories or just fanciful dreams like the one I’d had about the red-haired woman who’d called me Tate.

Denny had been older than me by eight years, so by the time I was Matty’s age, Denny had been a teenager and we’d had little in common. But I had distinct images of him sitting on the floor with me playing with my little green army men or reading to me from one of his many comic books. And there was even one recurring image where Denny had shoved Buck away from me after Buck had grabbed me by the arm and twisted it until the bone had snapped. I’d collapsed on the floor, screaming in agony as my big brother had taken the rest of the beating that had been meant for me.