AN: I'm not into trigger tagging but since this chapter involves nonconsensual sex with a minor, I'd feel crappy not saying something in advance. Read at your own discretion. -Rooster
_

One new message from: Dylan Massett

[8:10 AM] Hey, I'm thinking you should try to steer clear of Norman for a while. He's pretty pissed that I'm still hanging out with you and I just wanna make sure he doesn't take it out on you or anything.

[11:01 AM] np. thanks for the heads up

[11:15 AM] Don't mention it.

From where she sat at the bottom of the hill, she could see him tinkering with his motorcycle; head low, eyes squinting in silent contemplation as his fingers worked the nuts and bolts loose before dropping them onto the cement beside him.

How long had she been sitting there?

Her gaze flashed to the digital clock on her dashboard. One hour and eleven minutes.

Just go up there and talk to him.

The cigarette had been pressed between her fingers for so long that the cherry had burnt it down to a stub with the ash still clinging to the filter for dear life; she didn't notice until it fell onto her dress. "Shit." She blew the ashes off, though they still managed to leave gray streaks on the pale blue chiffon, regardless of how much she tried to smudge them away.

As she lit up another, she returned to her phone;

[12:32 PM] do u think gil would know something abt my dad?

[12:37 PM] Is this a hypothetical or are you actually considering talking to him?

[12:59 PM] hypothetical

[1:02 PM] If he knows anything about your dad, I doubt he's going to tell you.

[1:17 PM] ...why?

[1:52 PM] Just let it go, okay? Digging too deep...you won't like what you find.

Bradley gritted her teeth, dropping her phone onto the seat beside her.

What did he know, anyway?

She wasn't naïve; she knew what sort of business her father was in, and she knew that somewhere along the line, her father had done something that really pissed someone off.

Was that someone Gil?

The question had festered at the back of her mind for weeks now. The fact that Dylan was so adamant about putting those thoughts to rest told her one thing: Gil Turner had something to hide.

She let out an exasperated sigh, dropping her head onto the steering wheel – then immediately wished she hadn't when her car horn blared to life.

Shit.

Gil's hand went for the Desert Eagle tucked into his waistband and he quickly scrambled to his feet. He didn't recognize the car parked at the end of his driveway—hell, he hadn't even noticed it—but a few steps out of his garage and he got a clear view of the pretty little thing in the driver's seat.

He pursed his lips, letting out a measured breath before gesturing for her to come over. She seemed a little hesitant at first, lingering with her door open before finally climbing out and making the trek up to his house.

"You're Jerry's kid."

"Mmhmm." Bradley nodded with a sweet smile, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She stopped short, keeping some distance between them. "Can I ask you some questions about him?"

Gil scoffed. "Forget it, Bridget."

"—Bradley," she corrected.

"Bradley. Look, your father was a real shitheel...scum of the earth. For all I care, your daddy can rot in hell."

Her eyes narrowed on him. "That's why he had to get burned alive?"

"I won't make any apologies – I wasn't exactly fond of him. Bastard made a habit of pissing people off. Didn't think it was possible, but I figure someone hated him more than I did." Gil glanced back at his motorcycle; he could feel her unrelenting gaze burn a hole straight through him. He let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm not gonna stand around and chat with you; this isn't worth my time. I got things to do. We through, here?"

Bradley took a quick step forward and caught his shoulder before he could walk away. "I can make it worth your time."

He hesitated.

Got him.

"C'mon—you can take ten minutes out of your day to answer some questions for a lost girl missing her daddy, can't you?" With an arch of her eyebrow and a less-than-innocent pout, she smoothed the invisible wrinkles of her dress; tugged the bodice down a little to reveal just enough cleavage to spark his interest.

Gil's face flushed and after a moment's contemplation, he returned her smile.

"Come on in."

"Do you drink?"

"Please." Bradley rolled her eyes.

With his back turned, a smirk played across his lips; he pulled down a second tumbler, adding three fingers of bourbon to the glass before replacing the stopper on his antique decanter. "Hope you like it neat."

She remained near the door a moment, swishing the amber liquid around before tossing it back in one fell swoop—an attempt to settle her nerves. The alcohol hit her gut hard, but the burn that remained was enough to numb the voice at the back of her head...the one that urged her to leave. Bradley helped herself to another draw of bourbon, this time filling it to the brim while Gil made himself comfortable on the couch.

"So what can you tell me about my dad? Did he have enemies?"

"Damn. You get right down to business, don't you?" His brow quirked upward; the corners of his mouth twitched behind the rim of his glass as he patted the cushion beside him. "Why don't you join me?"

Bradley was acutely aware that his eyes were on her, following her movements as she made a bee line towards him. The smile she gave him was meant to be tempting, even going as far as resting her hand against his knee once she settled in beside him. "So did he?"

"Have enemies? Yeah, I guess so. Kinda hard not to make 'em in this line of work."

She dropped her shoulder slightly, allowing her knitted shrug to fall to her elbow while she folded one leg over the other—the position gave her the opportunity to run the edge of her foot along the side of his calf. "You said before that he had a habit of pissing people off. So what made this time any different?"

"Stepped on the wrong guy's toes on the wrong day, I guess." He swallowed hard, sinking down onto the cushion a little further as her hand grazed the inside of his thigh. Fuck.

Bradley tilted her head, her eyes searching his. "There's something you're not telling me."

"And if there is?"

Time to play it up a little more.

She took a swig of her bourbon before leaning across him to set her drink down on the end table, making sure to linger a little longer than was absolutely necessary. "Since my dad died, I've just felt so depressed. I've been trying to piece things together, you know? You two used to be so close...I figured if anyone knew what went wrong, you might." As she spoke, her hand trailed up his arm to his shoulder, teasing the short hairs at the back of his neck.

"You know what happened."

"Not the whole story." She turned to better face him, biting her lip as their gazes met. "Why don't you tell it to me?"

Without a second thought, she moved to straddle his lap, bracing herself with her hands against his chest. Arching her eyebrow, she dared him to make his move.

"Well why don't youlose this?" He lowered the little black shrug off her shoulders, letting his hands linger at the ridge of her collarbone to gauge her reaction.

Despite herself, her heart began to throb in her throat. She never took into consideration the scars that littered her arms. Would he notice? Would he try to say something? Fighting the instinct to pull away, to grab his wrists and stop him, she managed to keep her cool.

His eyes lingered on her supple breasts with unchecked desire. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, to the point where she could barely hear his heavy breathing for the pounding behind her eardrums; her thoughts raced, screamed for her to stop, to leave. And yet she remained, frozen on the spot

Calloused fingers skirted her ribs, trailed up as his hands encircled her small frame to unhook her bra. Her lips parted to speak but the words got tangled on her tongue, fighting to break free; a single tear welled up in the corner of her eye.

This was wrong.

Deep breaths. She blinked it away and forced a smile, resumed her act, clinging to the mantra: this is the only way he'll talk.

"Wait—" She grasped his wrist, holding it an arm's length away. "First you gotta tell me something about my dad." Gil's breathy chuckle caught her off guard.

"You just don't give up, do you?"

"I came here for answers and that's what I'm gonna get."

"I can see the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." The look in his eyes made her uneasy, muscles poised to recoil. "You're stubborn. Just like your father."

He twisted her hand off his arm and grabbed her sides in one forceful motion. "But I bet that won't last long."

In an instant, the gravity of what she was doing crashed down on her; strangled by panic, she tried to squirm away but he held fast, his nails digging into her flesh.

Before she could fully process what was happening, she was looking up at him from the flat of her back, his hips pinning her down to the couch; she could feel his bulge against her stomach, tried her best to rear up and knee him in the groin but it only served to make things worse. The weight of his hand crushing her throat made her squeal as she thrashed, grabbing at his arms; clawing at his fingers; trying to push him off but it was like hitting a solid brick wall.

As his free hand explored her breasts, she squeezed her eyes shut, as if the situation was a nightmare that she could just will away. Maybe when she opened them again, he'd be gone and she'd find herself back in her bed. Somewhere. Anywhere but here.

Her thoughts raced. Her phone. It was still in her car. Goddamn it. Why hadn't she listened?

She tried to swallow and couldn't; with her windpipe compressed, the edges of her vision were starting to blur.

Bradley could barely make out the sounds happening around her. The lowering of a zipper; the rustling of fabric as he bunched her dress up around her hips; the strangled cries that ripped through her throat but felt foreign to her ears.

The hand clasped over her mouth muffled her screams; kicking, writhing...it didn't do her any good. Raw pain consumed her, wracked her frame the second he entered her. Tears cascaded down her cheeks and yet, in that moment, she stopped resisting.

He'd won.

She turned her head away from him, her faraway gaze settling on the door.

One-one thousand. Two-one thousand.

The seconds felt like an eternity, dragging her into the abyss with them. By the time he was finished, all she could feel was sore. Her head; her legs. She could feel the bruises starting to blossom around her throat once the pressure from his hand was gone, though she refused to look at him as he got up.

"Come back around if you want some more answers, kid." His smirk dripped from his voice.

She was vaguely aware of him moving around the living room; fastening his slacks; refilling his glass at the bar; and then, the faint slam of a door further inside the house followed by water rushing through the pipes.

Only then did she move a muscle, biting down hard on her lip to stifle a hiss as she crawled to her feet.

Her lungs were constricting. She needed air. God, she couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She staggered over to the door and threw it open, disoriented by the darkness that greeted her.

She made it halfway down the hill before doubling over, hands fisted in the grass as her body heaved through wave after wave of nausea.

She felt...barren. Used up and shattered.

Her fingers fumbled with her keys, silently pleading with her ignition before finally cranking the car. The street rushed by; the trees; the houses; the stop signs. She didn't care, pressing the pedal to the floor as she urged the car faster.

The windows were dark by the time she pulled into the driveway, spotting an oil slick where her mother usually parked; despite the sudden surge of relief, helplessness quickly took its place.

The one time I need you here, Mom, she thought bitterly. Her throat felt raw. She needed a cigarette. No, that could wait.

She left a line of discarded clothing in her wake as she made her way up the stairs to the bathroom. She couldn't bear to look at her reflection; rather, her hand squeezed through the curtain, turning the tap on as hot as it could go and standing under the stream.

It burned, scalding her skin pink. She didn't care. This...this was a good kind of pain. Using a loofa lathered in scented soap, she scrubbed her skin raw and then again for good measure. As the suds sank into the drain at her feet, she lowered herself to the floor of the shower and let the water rush over her.

Her neck, where he'd choked her; the junction of her thighs where she could still feel him; she only wished that she could wash her brain of the voice. His voice. Come back around if you want some more answers, kid. She shuddered at the thought, tried to focus on the sounds of water hitting the tile around her.

She could feel pieces of herself escape down the drain; pieces she'd never get back.

Hugging her knees, she sat under the torrent until the water ran cold.

Insomnia tore at the seams of her fraying sanity. Gil's voice echoed in her brain; she felt the ghost of his hand linger at her throat, asphyxiating her even within the safety of her sheets.

Half-past midnight, she turned to the bottle; gulps of Scotch whisky quelled her nerves but could not numb the ache that consumed her body.

Two o'clock found her curled up in the fetal position, clutching a pillow while she tried desperately to keep from crumbling under the weight of it all; disgusted with herself, humiliated, it took everything she had not to succumb to temptation and swallow the pills that beckoned her name.

By four, she was perched at the foot of her bed, staring down the barrel of a loaded revolver. Her father's Smith & Wesson.

But no matter how long she sat with her finger around that trigger, she couldn't do it; she couldn't let that bastard win. He may have thought he had the last laugh, but Bradley Martin was not going down that easily.

And then it hit her; this was nothing a bullet in the chamber and four pounds of pressure couldn't solve.

Vengeance lay in her trembling hands.

In the morning, she drove back to his house, parked far enough down the block to avoid detection. Concealing her weapon in her jacket, she measured her steps up the driveway, rang the doorbell, and trained her sights on the door.

The second he opened it, she fired a single bullet clear through his skull.