Princely Bastard (11 page)

At once Julian put his arm around me, and brought me close to him—and I could smell his strong cologne, which I pretended to like. I also smelled something else—pot, and soon someone offered me a joint.

“No, thanks,” I said.

“You sure?” Julian replied, before grabbing the pot himself. “It’ll loosen you up.”

“I’m sure,” I answered as I watched him take a deep drag. I also noticed that the monitors behind the front headrests were bright white, and I pointed this out—while feeling an unexplainable unease.

“They’re broken,” Julian told me. He also smiled, and added, “They’re even like that when the engine’s off.”

“That’s weird,” I muttered, with my mind somewhere else—somewhere inside his smile.

Julian responded with a shrug, and he kissed me a little—causing my unease to mostly go away. Though by the time we got to the bar on 7th Street in Hoboken I felt a different type of unease.

I didn’t think there was a chance they would let me in, and I wondered what would happen if they didn’t. But the bouncer barely looked at my ID or me—or at any of the boys.

“What do you want to drink?” Julian afterward asked me as we stopped in front of the long bar in the center of the place.

“Orange juice,” I mumbled, after not being able to come up with anything better.

“Orange juice?” he gasped. “I got you an ID so you could drink orange juice?”

“All right. A beer.”

He smiled again, and bought us a couple of beers. Though I didn’t drink any of it, as the smell alone was enough to remind me of those days before my mother came along—days I didn’t want to be reminded of.

Instead I found an empty spot by the wall, and I watched the boys drink and tell stupid jokes and stories. And I quickly realized I still didn’t fit in—that I’d never fit in, no matter how hard I pretended otherwise.

Finally, I had enough of them, and I put my beer on a ledge and headed out the door, only to stop when Julian put his arms around me from behind.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered into my ear.

“I’m taking the train home,” I told him.

“Why?”

“I’m not having a good time.”

“Me, neither.”

Surprised, I turned to him and saw a serious expression on his face.

“You think I like hanging out with those dicks?” he asked.

“Then why do you?” I demanded.

“I don’t know. You have to hang out with someone, don’t you? But I don’t want to hang out with them now. I want to hang out with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

“You’re just gonna leave your friends?”

“They don’t care. Look at them.”

I did, and I saw Julian was mostly right. The one exception was Chris, who again was looking at me as if he were upset—an upset I still didn’t comprehend.

“Come on,” Julian insisted, as he dragged me to the door and through it—and right up to the parked Lexus. He then unlocked and opened the back door.

“What are we gonna do in there?” I asked, with a bit of fright.

“Hang,” he replied, matter-of-factly—and he got into the car, which was dimly lit from the bright-white monitors.

Reluctantly, I followed. Very reluctantly.

Almost immediately, he started kissing me. He kissed my lips and my neck and my ears—and all my reluctance went away. I liked his lips, and his touch. I felt good—real good, even if I couldn’t get Vicki’s words out of my head.

They’re planning something. Something bad.

Suddenly, Julian lifted my shirt. He lifted it above my chest, and fear overtook me—and I stopped him. I grabbed his hands and stopped him.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured, much like he did in the bar.

I didn’t want to tell him. I didn’t want to tell him that I was scared, and that I had never done this before. So, instead I told him I was sick.

“Come on,” he begged. “Don’t you want to be my girlfriend?”

“Your girlfriend?” I gasped in surprise, while feeling myself rise off the seat.

“My girlfriend,” he insisted. “We’ll seal the deal right here and now.”

I was still frightened, but I was also excited—at the prospect of being Julian Bauman’s girlfriend, and all it would mean. It would mean never again would I be the strange girl. Nor would I be avoided or ignored. I was so excited by this that I released his hands, and didn’t say anything when he undid my bra and started groping me. Nor did I say anything when I heard his zipper come down.

Soon afterward, my jeans came off, and my panties—and I could feel him struggling to enter me. At the same time, I pretended. I pretended this was what I wanted, and that I wasn’t afraid. I even muted the cries of “stop!” that were desperately trying to escape my mouth.

Finally, he got what he wanted, and I cried out in pain. But he didn’t care. He fucked me even harder.

“Stop!” I yelled. “It hurts! It fucking hurts!”

“You fucking whore!” he screamed back while flinging himself into me. “You fucking whore!”

He then slammed into me one more time, and came—and collapsed on top of me. And I felt both used and filthy.

“Get off me!” I hollered, before pounding my fists into his pretzel-like arms—and pushing him onto the floor.

“What’s your fucking problem?” he screamed, while rubbing his bruises. “You fucking bitch!”

I didn’t reply to this. I just quickly dressed—and so did he, and just as quickly the boys returned to the car—and we started back home.

I actually thought it was strange how they came back just when Julian finished with me, but I didn’t say a thing. I just crossed my arms and tried to pretend I wasn’t there. I also wished Patrick were around, even though I knew he probably would never be around again.

As for Julian, he ignored me and joked with his friends as if nothing had happened. They all ignored me. All except Chris, who was again looking at me as if he were upset. He even looked more upset than before, and a bit angry, too.

“Are you all right?” he softly whispered to me as we reached South Orange.

Without saying a word, I moved away from him, and when he gently put his hand on mine I shook it off. I shook it off and tried not to cry. Then, as soon as we pulled up in front of my house, I jumped out of the car and slammed the door closed.

Instantly, I heard laughing from inside the car, along with the slapping of hands. Though this was followed by something unexpected—arguing.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Julian!” Chris hollered.

“Fuck you!” Julian cried out.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of punches—lots of them.

“Get him off me!” Julian screamed, just before the car sped off.

As it did, I ran into my house—praying I wouldn’t run into Vicki. I also ran up into my room and into my bed, where I cried myself to sleep while cursing myself for believing I could be Julian Bauman’s girlfriend—or anyone’s girlfriend.

And, early the following afternoon, I was still in bed. At which time I heard soft knocking on my door.

“Go away!” I yelled.

“It’s me,” Vicki murmured.

“Go away!”

“Aimee, please.”

Angrily, I jumped up and ran to the door, which I whipped open before screaming, “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, looking as if she were about to cry.

“About what?”

“I . . . haven’t you seen Facebook?”

I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I knew it had to be bad. So, I slowly and unsurely made my way toward my backpack, and even more slowly and more unsurely took out my phone.

“Maybe you shouldn’t look,” spoke Vicki, who was now crying a little.

I woke the device up anyway, and went to Facebook, and on my news feed I saw the dark and grainy video of Julian and I having sex—a video entitled “The Deflowering of the Shrew.”

Even worse, lots of people from school had reposted it, and someone even said they had put it on PornHub. And they were all joking about it—especially Julian.

They were all joking about me.

“I’m sorry,” Vicki called out. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry about?” I howled, with tears streaming down my face and my whole body withering. “You don’t care!”

“I care!”

“You’re not my real sister!”

“I am! I’ll always be!”

This was the last thing I wanted to hear. I actually didn’t want to hear anything. Or see anything—especially my phone, which I threw against the wall, prior to grabbing my backpack.

“What are you gonna do?” Vicki mumbled.

“I’m never coming back here,” I told her—“that’s what I’m going to do!”

I afterward stormed out of the room—almost knocking Vicki off her feet, and I ran down the hallway, with tears pouring out of me.

“He’s gonna pay for what he did!” Vicki yelled. “I swear he will!”

But I didn’t listen to her. I just ran out of the house and caught a bus on South Orange Avenue—one heading toward Penn Station in Newark. And I continued on my nightmare—a nightmare that was just beginning.

I FINISH TELLING Mark my story and look up into his sad eyes.

“I didn’t kill him,” I mutter. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

“I would’ve killed him,” Mark replies. “I would’ve killed him so badly. And I wouldn’t have been sorry about it.”

After listening to Mark’s words, I clutch his chest, and I rest my head on it. It’s my escape—my escape from everything I was and didn’t want to be. An escape that was just now falling out of my grasp.

So I grasp harder.

I WAKE UP, with Mark gently nudging my arm.

“What?” I mumble.

“We’re here,” he softly says. So, I get off him, and we head off the bus. We head off like we’re heading toward our own executions. Which, at least for me, seems true.

The bus then leaves, and I see we’re in an industrial area. I also see a huge and well lit port nearby. But what I really notice is Mark slowly turning in circles as if he were lost.

“Well, where is it?” I ask.

“Knoll Drive,” he replies.

“And where’s that?”

“Close.”

“You don’t know?”

“I know.”

With a bit of fury, he takes my hand and we hustle down the street, and soon we reach an intersection, where he releases my hand and again turns in a circle.

“It doesn’t look like you know,” I tell him.

“Aimee, please,” he begs—and we head down another street.

“Mark,” I utter, “I have a real bad feeling about this. Can we just go?”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere!”

“I have to do this,” he insists. “I told you—it’s the last time.”

“We can find some other way of making money.”

“How?”

“I don’t know!”

“Neither do I!”

WE’VE BEEN WANDERING around San Pedro for twenty minutes, seemingly in circles. In fact, we’re now heading toward the same street the bus left us off on—and I tell Mark this.

“You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want!” he howls. “You don’t have to be with me at all!”

“You know that’s not what I want!” I scream. “You know it!”

Finally, we reach the bus stop and see someone waiting there, and Mark asks her for directions. And it turns out that we really were close.

Too close.

MARK DRAGS ME up a steep grassy hill—one that’s still wet and soft from the rain the night before.

At the top of this hill, we see gated warehouses everywhere, along with the faint sounds of people. Which we follow. We follow them toward one warehouse in particular and its locked gate—something Mark shakes over and over.

“What do you want?” suddenly comes a male voice from somewhere behind the gate—somewhere nearby. Though we can’t see him.

“Action,” Mark replies. “That’s what I want.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, son.”

“I’m one of Larry’s boys.”

“Larry who?”

“Larry Lee.”

Just then, an aging night watchman appears from underneath the darkness, and he glares suspiciously at both of us.

“Call him if you don’t believe me,” Mark adds.

If anything the man glares even more, but he unlocks the gate.

WE ENTER A dark loading dock in the back of the building, and see two large men beating the crap out of each other, cheered on by a couple dozen Neanderthal-like spectators, which include many who look like they’re fighters.

Quickly, Mark rushes up to one of these “men”—a heavyset guy in his forties with lots of rings and necklaces—a guy who’s also holding a thick wad of cash. Actually, he’s shaking it.

“You Coomer?” Mark breathlessly asks, with me stopping a step behind the two.

“Maybe,” Coomer replies.

“I’m looking for some action.”