more effective. She liked the thin, circular brushes that were all hard
bristles. The first time she'd used one on him, the shock and pain had
been so unspeakable that he'd fought back and it had been her lip that
had been bloody. She'd used her fists then until he'd found escape in
unconsciousness.
He was no match for her, and he knew it. She was a big woman and strong
with it. When she was drunk, she was stronger yet and more ruthless. It
didn't help to plead, it didn't help to cry, so he'd stopped doing both.
And the beatings weren't as bad as the other. Nothing was.
She'd gotten twenty dollars for him the first time she'd sold him. He
knew because she told him, and promised to give him two dollars for
himself if he didn't make a fuss about it. He hadn't known what she was
talking about. Not then. He hadn't known, not until she left him in the
dark bedroom with the man.
Even then he didn't know, didn't understand. When those big, damp hands
were on him, the fear was so blinding bright, the shame so dark, the
terror so loud, as loud as his screams.
He'd screamed until nothing could crawl through his throat but a
guttural whimper. Even the pain of being raped couldn't push more out of
him.
She even gave him the two dollars. He burned it, there in the dirty sink
in the horrible bathroom that stank of his own vomit, he watched the
money curl up black. And his hate for her was just as black.
He promised himself, staring at his own hollow eyes in the spotty
mirror, that if she ever whored him again, he would kill her.
"Ethan." Her heart tripping in her throat, Grace scrambled onto her
knees to shake his shoulders. The skin under her hands was like ice. His
body was rigid as stone, but trembling. It made her think wildly of
earthquakes, volcanoes. Boiling violence under a hard layer of rock.
The sounds he made had wakened her. They'd made her dream of an animal
caught in a trap.
His eyes flew open. She could see only the glint of them in the dark,
but they looked blind and wild. For a moment she was afraid that the
boiling violence she sensed would break through and batter her.
"You were having a dream." She said it firmly, certain that that was
what was needed to put Ethan back into those staring eyes. "It's all
right now. It was a dream."
He could hear his breath rasping. More than a dream, he knew. It had
been the cold-sweated flashback he hadn't had in years. But the result
was the same. Nausea curled sickly in his stomach, his head pounded and
swam with the pathetic echo of a young boy's scream. He shuddered once,
violently, under the gentle hands on his shoulders.
"I'm okay."
But his voice was rough, and she knew he lied. "I'll get you some
water."
"No, I'm okay." Not even water would settle on his jumping stomach. "Go
back to sleep."
"Ethan, you're shaking."
He would stop it. He could stop it. It would only take a little time and
concentration. He saw that her eyes were huge, more than a little