Burn Into Me (31 page)

Tears are rolling down my cheeks and I’m shaking my head. What does he want from me? Is he going to—? Please, God. Please, no.

He slides my blouse off my shoulders and with his thumbs, the straps of my bra. In a sudden move he yanks it down so I’m completely exposed to him. I cover my chest with my hands, but he places them on his temples again while he stares at my breasts.
 

“Please, uncle. Please don’t. Please,” I say in a squeaky voice that I hardly recognize. My whole body is shaking, and hot tears are falling on my shivering skin.
 

“I just want you to rub my head. And looking at you helps with my headache. Just be quiet.”

He moves my hands in circles, but when he lets go, I can hardly move them, I’m shaking so badly. I feel his hands around my waist again, slowly pushing down my bra, my skirt and my panties all at the same time until they fall around my ankles.
 

My vision is blurred by tears, and I don’t notice what my uncle is doing until I hear a click and a pop, and a sound that makes my blood run cold—a zipper.
 

I scream, but my uncle’s thick fingers immediately cover my mouth.

“I told you to be quiet. You’re a bad, bad girl. Now I have to punish you.”

With his hand still covering my mouth, he shoves me onto the bed. Nauseated by the stench of his sweat mixed with the Tiger Balm lotion, I shift my head from side to side, trying to get some air. But a moment later, the weight of his pudgy stomach presses the little air I have, out of me.

“I’ll take my hand off if you shut your mouth,” he snarls.

I nod frantically, and when he takes it off, I take a deep breath in. Tears flood my eyes, and I grip onto my comforter to stop myself from falling apart. When he pushes my legs apart, I squeeze my eyes shut, scalding tears trailing down my cheeks.
 

This is it. Something bad is going to happen.

But nothing prepares me for the sudden burning, stabbing between my thighs, making me feel as if I’m split in half. I can’t help but let out a squeal of pain.
 

“I said quiet!”

My uncle grabs my hair and slaps me in the face, but the sting is nothing compared to the throbbing pain between my legs when he starts moving inside me. Groaning, he closes his eyes, and I think I’m about to pass out, when he suddenly freezes. Voices sound from downstairs.
 

Please, let them come home. Please let this be over.
 

He pulls out of me, relieving his weight from my body, and leaps off the bed, yanking up his pants, zipping them up and doing up his belt. I breathe a sigh of relief when he heads for the door. But suddenly he spins around and shoves me hard into the mattress, hissing, “Don’t tell anyone about this, otherwise I’ll take away all my money and make sure you’ll live on the street.”

 
He takes the key out of his pocket, opens the door, and disappears, closing the door softly behind him.

 
I’ve been staring at the wall, not noticing its cracks and stains due to my hazy, tear-filled vision. I turn around and find my mother and sister seated at the table, heads inclined and cheeks glistening.

Rose is the first to stand up. “I’m so sorry, Elle,” she says.
 

And when she puts her arms around me, pressing me to her, I fall apart, sobbing in her arms.
 

When I’ve calmed down somewhat, I hear my mother blowing her nose, muttering, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he did that.”

I know it’s a shock to her system, to find out that her revered big brother turns out to be the low-life scum he is. At the time, I tried to tell her about him, what happened to me. But she wouldn’t listen. After my father died, my mother struggled to keep us afloat, to put food on the table. She saw Uncle Han as a gift from heaven when he came to visit us and offer her his financial support. So whatever I would have said, she never would have believed me.
 

Looking at my mother now, her head in her hands, pathetically rocking to and fro, I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.
 

I wonder if I can finally let go of all these years of anger towards her. Anger that resulted in me rebelling against her, dying my hair in crazy colors, dressing provocatively, getting piercings and tattoos—anything I knew would make her blood boil. But only now do I realize that by doing those things, I continued to let her control me. It is only when I can let go of that anger that I will truly be free of her.
 

I release myself from Rose’s arms at the same time as my mother lifts her head and says, “All those years… he must have felt so guilty.”

Snapping out of my brief moment of compassion, I slam the palm of my hand on the table, making tea spill out of the little cups.
 

“Come on. The asshole has never even reached out to us before. How would you even know that he’d feel guilty?”

“I told you, my sister told me over the phone. He confessed to her what he’d done.”

“So what’s the big deal? He confessed, so what? I don’t understand why you keep on going on about it. If he wants my forgiveness, you can tell him to go straight to hell.”
 

That’s it. I’ve had enough of talking and opening wounds that have been safely buried for years. I’m leaving this goddamn house, and she won’t be able to stop me this time.
 

I step into the hallway, casting a last glance at my mother, but stop dead in my tracks when I see the solemn expression in her eyes.

“Uncle Han is dead. And in his will he left you one million dollars.”

Elle

A million bucks.
 

In the span of a few seconds, I’ve turned from a struggling-to-make-ends-meet college student to a goddamn millionaire.
 

I’ve been lying on my crappy couch for hours looking at the cracks in the ceiling. I can’t believe this is really happening. And I can’t make up my mind about it: is it a dream or have I just stepped into a nightmare?

When my mother told me the news, my first reaction was a red-hot fury. How dare that asshole try to pay me off for what he’d done to me? As if he could ease his guilt—somehow right his wrongs after his death. No way in hell I will accept his blood money.

For years and years I’ve locked away my horrible secret. Even so, I’ve had to cope with terrorizing nightmares that kept me up most nights, and during the day, the self-hatred and self-blame that made me turn to alcohol and meaningless hookups, making me forget and ease my pain for a few fleeting moments.
 

Now everything is out in the open. My mother finally believes me—I witnessed her guilt-ridden wailing after she dropped the million-dollar bomb. But with my rage towards her fading, something is shifting inside of me. Without the weight of my long-held secret, a feeling of calm, of relief, is seeping in. For the first time ever, I am considering to let go, to move on. And there’s one thing that will help me do just that: the money.

Instead of rejecting my inheritance, I could give away the entire sum to charity. Putting the money towards a good cause would wash some of its blood off. But somehow I feel it’s not the right thing to do. I have been given this opportunity, this
choice
to make. To refuse it or give it away is easy, but it is not the tough choice I am facing. If I am strong enough to leave this behind me, I would see the money for what it is: a chance to turn a negative into a positive; a chance for me to make a real difference. I would be able to fulfill my dream—to set up a program to help homeless kids.
 

 
The cracks in the ceiling suddenly form into a pattern; a small crack in the corner splits into two, and further branches outwards like a bare tree following nature’s design. In that moment I know: I will make the hard choice.
 

My resolve causes a renewed energy to surge through my body, and I leap from the couch. I need my cell phone to call the café and swap tonight’s shift as I intend to work things out with Ryder and get his input on how to get the most out of the money. Perhaps it could even become a project for us to work on together. The thought makes my pulse jump.
 

I pull the phone out of my jacket pocket and power it on. I’ve only taken a couple steps to the kitchen corner to fix myself a cup of tea, when my cell starts beeping. And beeping. And beeping.

When I look at the screen I find several missed calls and messages from an unknown number. The messages turn out to be from Alex, Ryder’s friend, asking me to call him urgently.
 

Knitting my brow, I dial the number, and he picks up at the first ring.

“Elle. Finally. I’m so glad you returned my call.”

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“Is Ryder with you?”

“No. Why?”

I feel my heart sink, a feeling of dread washing over me.
 

“I can’t find him. I’ve tried calling him, but when he didn’t pick up his cell, I went to his office and found it lying on his desk.”

“So? He could have forgotten to bring it.”

“No, he never, ever leaves without it.”

A shiver travels up my spine.
 

“Um… did you check his apartment?”

“Yeah, he isn’t there either. I’m worried about him. I went to see him earlier and I left him in a bad state. He’d been drinking a lot—something I’ve never seen him do.”
 

Closing my eyes, I take a deep, pained breath. This is what I have done to him. If something happens to him, it will be my fault.
 

“Did you check the garage? Did he take the car?”

“The car is still there. But I think he may have taken his bike for a ride.”

“His—his bike?”

“Yeah. I thought he went to see you.”

“No. We’re not talking anymore. He hates me.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s just hurting. Badly. I guess he must have taken his bike for a ride to clear his head.”

“In this weather? It’s freezing. It’s dangerous on the road.”
 

“I know. I’ll go for a drive to look for him. I’m sure I’ll find him.”

“Please call me when you do, okay?”

“I will. Thanks, Elle.”

After I hang up, I feel on edge. Where did Ryder go? Why didn’t he bring his phone? I stare down at my cell. Alex is going to find him, surely.
 

My phone double beeps with a message, and I almost drop it, anxious as I am to hear some good news. But when I look at the screen, it’s a text from Damon.

Join me?
 

I frown, not understanding what he means. Only when I receive another text from him with a time and venue, I remember what he told me earlier—that he is planning to go to a racers’ meet tonight.
 

I peer at the screen, contemplating on what I can do to find Ryder, when I receive an incoming call from Damon.
 

“Hey, are you coming tonight?”
 

“No. I told you, I’m not racing anymore.”

“Come on. You don’t have to do any races. Just be there to support me. I really need the cash. Anyway, I heard your boyfriend is taking on Mikey Miller tonight. I thought you’d wanna be there.”

My heart plummets. “Wh—what did you say? You mean—Ryder?”

“Yeah, didn’t you know? I just heard from Jamal. I don’t know to believe him, but their stakes are thirty grand. And you know Mikey. For stakes as high as that, he’s gonna make sure he wins—if you get my drift.”

No. This can’t be happening.
 

“I’ll meet you there,” I tell Damon before dropping the phone on the table and grabbing my riding gear to get changed.
 

I soon find out that my leather jacket and helmet do not protect me much against the bitter cold. But oddly, it doesn’t bother me. All I think about is Ryder, hoping that the race with Mikey is no more than a rumor. I think back to what happened to CJ, and that causes my bones to chill more than the weather ever will. Mikey is greedy and ruthless, and he will crush anything and anyone that stands in his way. Even if that means a loss of life.
 

Ryder has no chance. Even if Mikey would play it clean, the icy roads and the intoxicated state Alex says he is in, would place him in real danger of losing control over his bike. But Mikey doesn’t play it clean.
 

A shudder runs through my body, and I tap my hand against my chest, willing my cell phone to vibrate as an alert of a call or a message from Alex, telling me he has found Ryder. At the next traffic light, I take a glance at it, but the screen remains blank.
 

When I finally arrive at the meeting place, the clouds of exhaust smoke and the thunderous roars from bike engines signal the size of the crowd. I nod greetings to a few familiar faces, but don’t get off even when my eye falls on Damon’s bike. He is just a few steps away from it and smiles when he sees me approaching.

“Hey. Glad you could make it,” he says.

I look left and right and over his shoulder. “Have—have you seen Ryder? Is he here?”

“Nah. Haven’t seen him, but I just got here.”

“Have any of the races started yet?”

“I think so. When I arrived, I saw a bunch of guys going down the road.”

Leaving Damon standing with a puzzled expression on his face, I rush off to the place where the race is likely to be held, an unlit straight stretch of road. In the distance, I glimpse a group of racers milling around. At first glance, I don’t see Ryder among them, so I apply the brakes with the intent to turn back. But then a glimmer catches my eye. I slow down further, almost to a stop, and my heart skips a beat.
 

Staring at me are the silver gills of a shiny S1000RR. On it appears a familiar black leather jacket covering the tall, athletic shape that is burned into my brain. And next to him stands a racer clad in all-black, astride a black Busa—Mikey Miller.