Silk - Caitlin R. Kiernan [48]
“Goddamn,” and that had been Rick Reynolds, or one of the other varsity fucks. “Will you just get a load of that?” Laughter from the girls, then, egging him on, and he’d laughed too, a husky, mean sound, and she’d strained to see over Tony’s shoulder.
“Goddamn faggot freak,” Rick Reynolds said, and she’d seen the slight and pretty boy walking nervously past the group. He’d worn a woman’s coat, big fake fur and leopard print with a high, turned-up collar, had held his head down, ostrich denial, misguided belief that if you don’t look at the dog it won’t bite you.
“Hey fag, you wanna show me some pussy?” and then Tony had pushed her back down, a bruising shove and her T-shirt hiked up, his insistent hands working their way beneath her bra, relentless fingers across her rigid nipples.
“Aw shit, man, I just wanted to see some pussy,” and the girls had laughed louder, caged-bird cackle, loving the show, loving the threat and fear and their time on top.
“Get off me, Tony,” Robin had said, and then his mouth had covered hers, the probing gag of his tongue forestalling any further resistance, the rejections he wouldn’t have to hear, wouldn’t have to pretend he hadn’t heard.
“I think he’s gonna cry,” someone said, not Rick but one of the girls, and the zipper on Robin’s jeans parted as if by its own traitorous accord. Tony’s hand had worked its way across her exposed belly, diamond serpent’s head with five anxious fingers, slipped beneath the elastic band of her panties and tangled in her pubic hair.
“Oh baby, you want it,” he said. “You know that you want it,” and then she’d kneed him in the balls, had brought her leg up hard and fast and felt his nuts and his stiffened penis, still trapped inside his pants, all mashed helpless between her and his body.
“Well, you come back around if you change your mind, fag,” Rick called after the boy, the girls still laughing like hyenas while Tony’s face had turned almost the same bright red as his new car. She’d wriggled out from under him, all the way out of the hatchback and into the cold, zipping up, straightening the rumpled mess he’d made of her clothes. And Tony held onto his crotch with both hands, leaned forward and spat curses at her like blinding venom. The others made a circle around her, just to see what had happened, she’d known that, but it felt like they were there to make sure she didn’t get away.
“You goddamn cunt!” he’d hissed, and she could see the sweat standing out on his forehead, the way he gritted his perfect white teeth together and forced the words through the spaces in between.
“I said no, Tony,” she’d said, breathless, her voice too small and alone.
“Fuck you, cunt! Goddammit! I ought’a fucking hold you down and kick your fucking face in!”
“Christ, man, what’d she do to you?” Rick asked, and she knew he was standing just behind her, would be there if she turned to run.
“The bitch kicked me in the fucking nuts, you dumbfuck!”
“That’s cold, Robin, that’s real cold,” Amy Edwards said, and she’d sat down next to Tony in the hatch, all big-eyed concern and opportunist’s reproach.
“I told him no,” Robin said again, and then he lunged at her, cooing Amy thrown to one side, his sparkling, hateful eyes, dog-snarled lips. His fist had landed once, big blow to her face like concrete and meat and a bag full of marbles.
No man had ever hit her, not even a spanking from her father; Robin staggered backwards, no one to catch her, and tripped, fell flat on her ass, the sharp parking-lot gravel unnoticed, her head too full of the suddenness and the force, the absoluteness of this violence. She’d sat there while the numbness in and around her right eye segued slowly into skin burn and bone ache, bright fire wherever he’d touched her. She was breathing fast and hard, and every time she exhaled there was a sticky, warm spray of blood from her nose, red-berry spatters down the front of her shirt.
“Christ, Tony,” surprise and a whisper of fear in Rick Reynold’s voice. “You busted her