Chapter 12: Help!
9:43 PM, June 5, 1962
The rest of the night went by in an awkward manner, no thanks to Pete. I tried to avoid him, but he just seemed to pop up out of the blue whenever I was talking to George or Paul. He just wouldn't leave me alone. I saw those crafty smiles he shot at me when the two other boys weren't looking. He definitely had something in store for me, and I wasn't exactly eager to find out just what that something was. I decided to just go upstairs and read a book until John got back.
My plan was working until I heard a few light knocks on the bedroom door. I looked up in fear and my eye twitched a little as I dog-eared a page in my book and set it down on the bedside table. I didn't even have a chance to get off the bed before Pete crept in, opening the door only enough to let himself squeeze by, as if he were just coming in from a storm and didn't want to let in rain. He shut the door quietly and wandered over to the bed as I watched him with horror, frozen to the spot.
"Hey", he purred, climbing onto the bed to straddle me as his hands ran up my legs to latch onto my hips. I couldn't move. My heart felt like it was going to explode and warning bells were going off in my head. My throat felt like a desert and my tongue felt like lead. Everything was happening in slow motion. I opened and closed my mouth in rapid succession, trying in vain to form a scream, a whisper, anything. But nothing came out.
"You know you want me, honey. I can see it in your eyes. And I just can't help myself. You're a small girl, but you've got some nice curves. What are those, C's?", he asked, gesturing to my breasts. I nodded, he was right, surprisingly. Never in my life had I felt so self conscious of my chest, save for the time with the cop. "So we're gonna do this nice and quick. If you can be a good girl and stay quiet, no one will ever know this happened. And who knows, maybe we can have a sort of on-the-side relationship until you break things off with John. Baby, you know he's not right for you", he said as he pinned my arms and legs to the bed, his speech interrupted a few times by his lips softly kissing up my body, coming to a stop just below my ear.
My body composed itself again and I tried to worm my way out of his firm hold. But he didn't budge; of course he didn't. I'd gotten lucky enough to avoid rape once, why the hell did I think I could do it again? I was a small girl, standing at a height of 5'4" and weighing in at a whopping 110 pounds. He was already easily overpowering my meek attempts at fighting him.
"Shh, just lie back and keep quiet", he said, clamping his big hand over my mouth. It was a repeat of my other experience. He pulled a switchblade out of a breast pocket in his leather jacket, thrusting it into my face.
"You see this? If you're a bad girl, I won't hesitate to carve you up a bit, give you a few little scars to remember me by. You understand, darling?", he hissed, drawing the cold, metal point against my neck to show he wasn't fucking around.
When he lifted my arms over my head to pull off John's sweater, I made no attempt to break free, only complied with his every command. He didn't bother tying me up, he knew I was too scared to try anything funny while that knife was still in his possession. He finally put away the switchblade, raising his fists to let me know that he'd beat me with his bare hands if I made it hard for him to get what he wanted.
I laid there helplessly, my eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as tears dripped down the sides of my face. He cupped my breasts in his hands, rubbing my nipples between his fingers. I clenched my teeth together and decided to take the chance. I'd rather die than let him take advantage of me like this.
I let out an ear piercing scream as his eyes widened in disbelief. Disbelief soon turned to anger as he slapped me across the face, hard. My cheek stung but I didn't care. I just hoped the boys would come upstairs before Pete could make anymore moves.
"You fucking little bitch!", he roared, brandishing his switchblade at me, just inches from stabbing me in the chest when the door slammed open, banging against the wall as Paul surged in, taking in the situation. He immediately pounced on Pete before he could even turn around, knocking him to the floor and throwing punches at his face. George wasn't much of a fighter, but he joined in, pinning Pete to the ground as Paul took out his fury, leaving Pete with a blood-stained face.
I scrambled off the bed, pulling John's sweater over my head as if it were a suit of armour. I slumped back against the wall, feeling something warm trickling down my chin as I observed the horrendous beating that was taking place just feet from me. I wiped at my face, drawing my hand back to examine the liquid. Blood. The bastard had slapped me so hard he'd split my lip open. It was gushing everywhere, but it was the least of everyone's problems at the moment.
Paul and George drew back from Pete, giving me a clear view of his unconscious body. Paul stood over him, fists clenched and eyes burning with hatred. George backed away, coming to sit beside me as he put his arm around my shoulders. Apparently Pete had managed to sock him in the left eye; he was going to have one hell of a shiner. Otherwise, he looked fine. His hair was a bit ruffled and he looked spent but unwounded.
Paul, on the other hand, looked rough. His lip, like mine, was also split, he had a deep gash running down one side of his face and the skin on his knuckles was broken, allowing blood to slowly surface on his hands.
"What the fuck did he do to you?", Paul asked, his stony glare melting into concern as he focused his attention on me, still wrapped in George's embrace.
"I screamed before he could really do anything bad. Can you just get him out of here, please?", I muttered, looking at my feet.
Paul nodded and motioned to George to come help him. George slowly took his arm from around me and braced his hands against the floor, standing up. Together, they lifted Pete off the floor, carrying him to a destination unknown to me. I couldn't care less where they dropped him off, so long as I never had to come in contact with him ever again. I was just glad he hadn't gotten as far as the cop had, but I still felt violated.
I recounted the events that had just taken place, waiting for George and Paul to come back, when a pair of feet stopped in front of me. I looked up to find Paul, arms crossed, blood still trickling down his face as he surveyed me. He held out his hand and pulled me up, gathering me into his arms. I rested my head against his chest, winding my arms around his back tightly.
"Are you alright?", he asked, his warm breath coming into contact with my scalp with every word.
"I guess", I replied truthfully, unsure of exactly what I was feeling. Shock, anger, fear were somewhere in there, I suppose, waiting to be released in succession.
"Do you want to go downstairs? I'll get John over here", he offered, his hands gently stroking up and down my back.
"No, don't call him. I don't want to ruin his night, you know? When he gets back, we'll tell him", I insisted.
"I suppose you're right", he said, a little hesistant to obey my wishes.
I could see where he was coming from. I mean, if I were in his position I'd call John, too. Hell, I'd sprint over to Mimi's screaming, notifying him that his girl was nearly raped by one of his mates. On the other hand, if I were Paul I'd be scared out of my wits, awaiting John's return anxiously. I was afraid of what John would do once he found out. Being close to John came with a price: his temper. He wasn't exactly the most patient fellow, and when you got on his bad side, he'd explode, unleashing a fury so absolute you'd wish you had never been born.
Of course, he'd never physically done anything to me, but I'd experienced his savagery firsthand on several occasions. The first time was at school, when some poor bloke thought he could tease John a little. Nope, he got worked up and managed to send the kid to the emergency room and earn himself a one way ticket to the principal's office.
Paul led me by the hand downstairs, pulling me onto the couch with him and stroking my hair as I rested my head on his shoulder. George was nowhere to be found.
"Paulie, where's George?", I inquired softly, my eyes focused on a photo of a light haired girl, beaming on the front cover of the newspaper lying on the coffee table.
"He's gone to Mimi's", he answered, combing his fingers through my hair.
"What? Paul, why did you ask if I wanted John here if you already sent George over?", I fumed, sitting up and slamming my hands down on the cushion beside me.
"I didn't ask you. I told you he was coming. I said I would get him over here, remember?", he blurted, raising his palms in defense.
"Well, fuck", I stated simply, shrugging my shoulders and walking to the kitchen.
"You got any alcohol in here?", I called back, fishing through Paul's cupboards one by one, only to slam them shut when I couldn't find the aforementioned drink.
"Delilah, you know that's not a good idea", Paul warned, still lounging in the living room.
"Yeah, well fuck you, Paul", I muttered, finally hitting the jackpot as my eyes stole over a wide selection of rum, vodka, whiskey and some wine from 1956. Alright, I could make this work.
I chose my favorite, the three-quarters full bottle of Jack Daniel's. I snuck a quick glance back at Paul, who had turned his attention to the now-blaring television set, and unscrewed the cap, taking a large swig. The golden liquid blazed a trail down my throat, leaving fire in its wake with every second it passed further into my body. I hadn't had a good drink in ages, due mostly to the fact that everytime I went to a bar with the guys, they'd make me sip on a coke and rum as I blatantly refused to drink beer, limiting my intake to one alcoholic beverage per outing.
I had managed to down nearly half the bottle before I heard an emphatic "Delilah!" from Paul as my actions became known to him. I heard his footsteps pounding on the hardwood floor behind me and attempted to take in one last mouthful as he spun me around and snatched the bottle from my grasp, seemingly without much effort.
By then, I knew why it had been so easy for him to pluck the whiskey from my hands. I was wasted and my grip had been pretty loose on the glass neck of the bottle. Nevertheless, I was perturbed that he'd taken my only escape from me.
