Rivers end boxset volume.., p.16
River's End Boxset Volume 3, page 16
The texts and calls kept coming. As did Quinn’s visits. As well as Iris’s visits to see him. He finally decided to take a helicopter. It would reduce the total trip to forty minutes and he could land in the field outside the ranch.
Iris rolled her eyes at the first suggestion of it. Refused to even let him. She scoffed at the idea. Until another month of commuting passed by… He convinced her by saying they would have four more hours to spend together instead of commuting alone.
And damn. She let her boyfriend visit her in a private helicopter and he sent it over to her when it was her turn to visit him. He often tried to be on it with her, but couldn’t always make it. The first time she all but rolled her eyes over and over at herself. Being both excited and scared, it was more than thrilling. She was almost ashamed to realize she loved traveling like that and could almost get used to it.
She good naturedly endured the teasing of her family members and cousins and everyone else. By then, the entire town knew all about Quinn Larkin and how extraordinary he was… mostly because of his unlimited wealth.
Everything was amazing… Iris had to almost force herself to work, and live, and be normal in order to stay normal.
CHAPTER 10
THE SHOP WAS DARK. Finishing up, Iris threw the last crescent wrench into the third drawer of the red toolbox. Shane and she were meticulous about keeping the shop organized. Always. They demanded it of anyone who worked with them too. Mateo was second best about following their instructions. Mateo was also the reason Iris was still there at ten thirty at night. She was finishing up the body work so he could paint the car they were restoring early tomorrow.
The door clanged. “Dad?” she called out.
“No.”
“Oh, sorry,” she said, straightening up and turning around. She used the rag to wipe all the grease from her hands, streaking it black with each stroke. The pungent odor overpowered her nose when she grazed her cheek. She turned towards the visitor. “We’re closed now. Did you need something?”
The figure was large and standing in the doorway. The lights were low, and only the one over her workbench was still on. The large garage was bathed in otherworldly light. “Iris? Don’t you recognize me?”
She set her rag behind her and started towards the figure. “I’m sorry, but I don’t. Did we fix a car for you?”
“No, your dad built my ride. A year or so ago. You helped him.”
A small grin lifted one side of her mouth. “Oh, yeah? How’s it running? My dad’s builds are legendary.”
“Yeah, legendary. It is. I get comments everywhere I go.” He stepped further into the shop. Yeah, another one of her dad’s guys. They all wore excessive leather. Tattoos, long hair, facial hair, most often huge and hairy. Like this one who was visibly older, in his sixties, she guessed. Gray but burly, and no one’s grandpa.
“He’s not here. Already gone for the night.” It was also pretty common for his biker friends to make their own hours and ignore those of the rest of the world. Her dad often got so caught up in a build, he would often still be working at two in the morning, unable to quit until he completed the vision he had.
“He wasn’t expecting me. I’m just passing through. I remembered the place. He sometimes worked late into the night.”
“Yeah, you know my dad.” Iris grinned, agreeing. She was at ease. She turned and started to bring the car lift back to the position where Dad liked it. “So which design was yours?” she asked, feeling tired and really eager to get out of there. Being familiar with some of the old coots who liked to reminisce over their builds, she knew how to mention the unique features that her dad’s vision built into their bikes. It was a status thing.
“I remember you often staying late to help him too.”
She glanced back at the stranger. Not the words she expected to her innocuous question. “Yeah. Yeah, me and Dad work close together. A lot.” So? Oh, crap. She forgot to lock the safe up. She had to get back into the office, which she already locked. She was leaning down, fiddling with the handle on the one of the compressors and its loose hose. Dad hated it when they weren’t all tidy and pressed in.
“Anyway, refresh me, which bike was yours?”
What the fuck?
Her head was suddenly purposely smashed into the side of the wheel that the compressor hose wound around. A hand was holding the back of her head, a large, fat, beefy hand that was clammy with sweat. He pushed so hard, she couldn’t fight back. Shocked and bewildered, she was unable to move. She did her best to turn and wave her arms around, trying to get away.
But another hand grabbed her right wrist and wrenched it behind her back. Before words could form, she was pulled upright, being held up against the stranger’s body. Her arm suddenly jerked free of the socket as his other hand grabbed a fistful of her short hair, snapping her head backwards, and virtually hog-tying her.
In a blink, she was trapped. He held her with an unrelenting grasp, and her tears flowed from her eyes as the tightly wound fingers wreaked havoc on her hair, some of it pulling free from her scalp. Her own arm was pressed into her lower back. “What? What the fuck? What are you doing?” she screamed. Hard. Loud. Panicked. Her heart thumped in her chest. Her veins were melting with so much adrenaline jolting through her body. No. Fuck. What was happening? How could this be happening? What the fuck did he want? Her? Why? How? NO!
Her brain refused to believe what she saw. Her thoughts ignored all logic and she kept chanting this couldn’t be happening to herself. What exactly was happening? What? Her fucking thoughts couldn’t register any of it. Having no experience in such horror she had no knowledge of it, no way to categorize it. No. Things like this just didn’t happen to her. This? What? What was happening?
Her knees hit the concrete as a solid knee pressed into the back of her legs. Strong. Hard. Like a fucking bull tackling her. She was so strong in her own right, tough and savvy… and things like this didn’t happen to her. How could it?
Kneeling on the concrete, her teeth rattled on impact from the jerky movement and pressure, which was unbearable. Like the weight of a car on her backside. She was on her knees, her arm still wrenched behind her, her hair and scalp temporarily freed. The large hand was now on her back. Before she could fight, turn, or utter a word, she was summarily pushed down hard and now lying on her stomach.
The wind knocked clean out of her lungs, she panicked, her eyes widening, and her mouth a shocked O as she gasped for air. Air. Fuck. Could she have any? Terror ensued. She was dying. The pressure in her lungs, torso and back was too much. Maybe he stabbed her and she was in shock, bleeding out, for it felt that strong.
But no. There. Her breath returned. She screamed as loud as she could. In those extended seconds, her brain managed to understand: he was attacking her. He already attacked her. He hurt her. He was intending to… what? NO!
That thought was too vile to finish. No!
Her scalp burned and her lungs strained like a landed fish seeking any form of oxygen. Then more pressure… so much more of it on her butt and lower back. Was he sitting on her? She was sure of it now. She went crazy and tried to extricate herself. Doing her best to turn and leverage herself free, she screamed. Loud. Often. Endlessly. Her voice sounded weak and her throat was raw.
He said nothing. Nothing. Why not? What did he want? Why was he here? For this? This was why he came here?
He jutted his crotch forward on her backside. She screamed harder, struggling with all of her might to get him off. Focusing harder than she ever had on anything, she tried to dislodge him, but he wouldn’t move a millimeter. Frantic now, her tears fell and mingled with her snot. Her mouth was half open and she kept uttering diminishing sounds of distress.
Digging her fingertips into the concrete in front of her, she resorted to a sad, desperate, frantic claw movement, trying to gain leverage. Something. She needed to find something to defend herself. A weapon. A handle. Something she could pull on and free herself from this fucking walrus. She needed… What? Something. What was he doing now? Why?
Her thoughts spun in her head without any solution. They finally congealed and agreed on one thing.
Her whole body, heart, soul, and breath went still. For a singular moment, she was dead. The certainty that dawned on her was as concrete as the ground beneath her knees.
He intended to rape her.
Why? Who was this guy? Why her? Why would he come back and randomly do this? Why did he pick her? The questions spun in her head and regurgitated, in no particular order and without making sense. None of it made sense. Nothing. Why?
Rape.
The realization, and the surety with which she felt it, set her off. The harsh cry that erupted from deep inside her, climbing up her throat before exiting her mouth, was the wail of a gutted animal, slowly bleeding out, dying but making one last heroic effort to get free.
She pulled harder on the concrete, but nothing budged. He had her pinned beneath him. She swam her arms and twisted her hips, using every last muscle in her core to dislodge him. She grunted and groaned repeatedly with the severity of her efforts. Her muscles strained to be free. God, fuck. Would her muscles actually rip? Tear? Would he dislodge her hip? As she twisted and bucked, he responded just as violently.
The sounds echoed off the metal sides of the confined space. She looked around, growing more desperate. Somehow, everything seemed disjointed. She saw the black bike Dad was building, the red tool box, and her favorite lift to use; then the images of her hands clawing the smooth, bare concrete with her jagged nails already broken in the few moments it would take to destroy her.
“That’s it, Iris. Fight me. Show me what you got. I like ‘em wild.” His voice filled her head. He used her name. Hearing her name on his lips made the bile burn her throat as saliva filled her mouth. She feared vomiting all over the front of her and having him simply smash her face in it to suffocate her. She had no doubt he intended to kill her. If only by his excessive weight.
“Don’t say my name,” she screamed. She tried to flip over again, but nothing moved. Reaching up behind her like she was having a seizure, she lost full control of her limbs. She tried to grab his mouth to shut him up so her name could not be spoken from his dirty, disgusting mouth.
But all he did was grasp her wrist and pin it to her upper back; she was instantly prostate. Again. He pressed harder and the tendons and tissue in her arm stretched past human endurance. They would surely rip. That’s what finally stopped her. She went perfectly still, stuck in place, trapped and ruined under his burdensome weight and grip. She whimpered and buried her face in the hard concrete. Fuck. Would it break her nose? she worried.
He leaned forward, pushing his weight fully on top of her. His mouth came towards her and she got a whiff of his foul, warm, moist breath when he whispered at the back of her neck, her ear and her temple. She jerked her face away but there was no escaping him.
“Dirty, little whore, aren’t you, Iris? I sensed it in you.”
Who was this guy? She still didn’t know. She couldn’t remember him.
She whimpered. How long had she been fighting him? Her entire life flashed through her brain and now all she had left to do was disintegrate into dust. She was done. Gone. Iris no more. She imagined using her teeth to rip his lips off, and tear his tongue to shreds so he could never again defile her name.
As he was about to do to her.
She cried the entire time. There was no conscious thought to it. Her tears simply flowed. Her throat was raw from screams, whimpers, cries and groans. She could barely breathe for the pressure he exerted on her lungs now. He stayed above her, his face right at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his putrid breath on her skin. Her once clean skin.
It would never be clean again.
His hand pressed on her hip, starting a new round of struggles. He controlled her by pressing her wrist higher up her back. He’d probably break it before this was over. Whatever this was. Why?
Who cared why? It simply was. He moved his hips enough to lift himself up. There was movement.
“You feel that?” His voice was low, but strangely conversational. She felt something pricking her neck. It wasn’t his fingernail but his knife. Her entire body went still and rigid as the knife blade.
“Yeah, that’s it, Iris. You understand. You can stop fighting now. Stop screaming. I can’t worry about that and if you do it again, I’ll slice your throat open. No more warnings. Now, be a good girl, Iris, and nod if you understand.”
The knife tip pressed into her flesh. The skin didn’t break, but he was only a flick of a wrist away from it. She surrendered herself to him. She gave him everything. Her entire soul. Her heart. Her breath. The rest of her life. She nodded and obeyed him.
He released her arm, pulling it free from between them and setting her hand flat on the concrete. She whimpered as the shoulder socket was straightened out. “Both hands like that. Right where I can see them.”
She did as he said. Lying on her belly, the cold concrete chilling her entire front with her hands resting palms down, she imagined a flat version of how she would look if she raised her hands for being under arrest. She buried her face in the floor and clenched her teeth. Be quiet.
That’s all she could order her body to do. Be still. Be quiet. Act dead.
She might end up there anyway.
He released her and rose. She stayed down, her eyes clenched shut and waited. Her entire body was tense. Hands, gross, sweating, threatening death, slid to her waist. Her shirt was pushed upwards. He dug underneath her and undid her jeans button. Hearing the zipper slide free made her shudder. She bit her lip so severely, she’d soon be sucking her own blood.
Be still. Be quiet. Act dead.
He tugged down her jeans. Tears flowed freely down her face as the cool air drifted over her now naked bottom to the tops of her thighs. He groaned as he pulled the pants off her shins and feet. After several more grunts, they were gone. Goose bumps covered all of her skin. She started to tremble involuntarily. She could not stop it. There was no way to calm herself. What if he sunk the tip of the knife into the soft, white flesh of her neck because of her jerks and trembling? They increased as her teeth clattered and banged together.
No.
The word was no longer a scream. It was no longer a fight. A prayer. A plea. It was simply the last word she could find to say or think that mattered. Maybe ever again.
No.
She didn’t pray. She knew it was too late. There was no intervention or rescue for her.
No.
No. Her life as she knew it was over. She was over. Iris would no longer be Iris. Not anymore.
No.
She trembled with her now naked bottom half on the concrete floor where she spent her life working, talking with her dad, learning about engines and loving her childhood. Now? It was her death bed. Her mortal sin. Her forever. The Iris before and the Iris after.
No.
It sounded so normal and ordinary but it became monstrous as it seemed to echo through her head. The snap of a belt buckle, the soft clang from his belt before the louder, terrible slide of a zipper. Then he dropped down. She recoiled, but the knife wasn’t on her neck now. It was behind her. She shut her eyes harder, thinking her eyelashes would fall off from the pressure. She began to reflect on the things that were about to be done to her, things she could not see, but would never again unsee.
His weight dropped behind her, his legs straddling hers. He sat back and grabbed the sides of her bottom. She tried as hard as she could to gag the sounds of her distress, but a whimper escaped. Sucking on her bloody lip as her tears wet her face and the floor, she could not stop tensing up. Her broken, ragged fingernails dug across the concrete along with her toes. Her bottom was pulled off the floor and she tried to brace herself. She wished she could escape her brain. Go somewhere else. You are not here. This is not happening. You are not Iris. You are not a victim. No. No.
No. You are not Iris.
But right then… she was.
The sensation, the pressure, and the pain were unbearable and lasted forever. Her muscles would remember this always and involuntarily relive it. Re-experience it. Forever, she would know this as her prison. Her death. Her forever brand.
He braced her hips and held her where he wanted her before he pushed his penis deep inside her. It was full and hard and filled her up. She cried out. The pain was matched by her moan of distress. Knife be damned. There was no human way to stop it. She could not stop him from putting his body inside hers.
No.
Not her. Not Iris. This wasn’t happening.
He rocked back. No. More? Was it done? Please, let that be all of it. The end. Please. What more could she stand? Or take? Let her die. Let her pass out. Let this be over.
But no.
No. He pulled out and pushed harder and her body fucking let him. She had to let him. How could her body not know? She could not stop him. She quit functioning. Ceasing to be. But that wasn’t what happened. Her body let him in. He pushed and pulled and hammered and grunted. His torso fell over her back, his hands raking her shoulders as his hips imprisoned her and slowly tortured her.
How long could he do that? Over and over? She started to grow numb. Immune. Gone. Did she pass out? Would she? Please? God free her. But that didn’t happen either.
But then, fuck… no. Oh, then things started to happen. Her body recoiled in horror and she trembled and cried, trying to hold in her screams of despair but he hammered on and on and on. He was ripping her to shreds. It hurt. It hurt her. So much. Her soul. Her heart. It hurt to breathe.
