TARA

I'm shaking so hard my arms and legs are cramping.

When Tommy barged into the bathroom, all I saw was my father's angry face, sure he was about to punish me because I ran from him, hid, make me never do it again. And I'm trying to shut the door on the memories of nights my father did exactly that, bolt it, but it's not working. They keep pushing back, conjuring vivid, nightmarish visions of nights that didn't end with me escaping, nights when I limped away, each step sending shooting pains through my body as I tried to find a safe place to hide. Memories of the years when there were no hideaways.

Tommy telling me he won't hurt me, broke through my panic. And I wanted to believe him, but he was holding me so hard it hurt. I'll never trust a man. I can't. But I know how they think, I had to learn. Slyness and coyness trump brute strength. Almost every time.

Tommy's still my best bet for finding Samantha quickly, if she's here. And if I play my part well, he might even deliver her to me.

That small voice that actually wants him to touch me, make love to me, deliver on his promise never to hurt me, is calling me all sorts of vile names right now. But I ignore it as I drape a clean shirt over my naked body and undo the first few buttons. This shirt's not as oversized as the others I brought with me, and actually looks a little like a dress. I stuff the pictures of Samantha in the breast pocket, and leave my room before I can change my mind again.

I'll let him fuck me, and then I'll ask him about Samantha. It'd work better if I could conjure up some tears while I did it, but I haven't cried since I was thirteen years old and realized that nothing but death will ever erase the nightmare that's my life.

I'm knocking on Tommy's door, with no recollection of actually having walked there. But that's a good sign. It means I'm already blocking it out, that some other Tara is going through with this plan. The strong one. The one that fears no man, and no nightmare. The one that feels nothing at all.

The door flies open, and he's towering over me, wearing just a pair of pajama bottoms, an intricately carved cross hanging from his neck on a silver chain, over a black and white tattoo of the same thing. Around us, the smell of a man's shower gel is mixing with the bubble gum scented one I used. His left forearm is covered in angry red slashes right over the intricate snake tattoo that covers it. My nails left that, and I feel my cheeks grow hot in embarrassment, a pleasant warmth waking in my belly at the thought that I marked him. And that I want to do it again.

"I'm sorry about before," I say, my voice deep and sultry.

"Can't blame me for getting the wrong impression though, right?" His eyes are begging me to agree. And for the first time I notice that his eyes aren't actually black. They're a very dark blue, like the ocean on a full moon night. And the currents in them are dragging me down, past all barriers. The reason I came here is still clear in my mind, but I also know that beyond all logic, this is exactly where I want to be standing.

He moves aside and opens the door wider. I step into the room, passing so close to him I can feel the heat rising from his body as I close the door behind me.

"You didn't get the wrong idea," I whisper and now it's the strong Tara talking, the one that always does what she must. To survive. And make sure her sister survives too. "And you can take me any way you desire. I want you to."

He frowns at me like he doesn't believe me. But then his lips curl up into a grin. I lick my lips.

He's on me in a flash, his hard, strong chest pressing me against the door, his lips on mine soft yet firm, his tongue looking for mine. His passion is sweeping me under, fireworks exploding in all colors of the rainbow inside my mind. Even the strong Tara loses her balance and topples over, disappears in the flood of desire I never felt before, didn't even know I could.

But it crashes against the barrier inside me with the force of an earthquake. I can't do this. I've been raped too many times, and all those memories are now a hurricane inside my mind, attacking the soft pleasure his lips are waking inside me. I want to surrender to it, I want it to win.

One of his hands is kneading my breast, the other cupping my ass. His kiss grows deeper, fiercer, and his hard cock is throbbing against my stomach. All those sensations combined have me skirting the edge of reason, my pussy growing wet, pulsing in need to be filled. I freeze as his hand brushes against my clit, flashes of past pain radiating through me like I'm feeling them now. I can't do this. I'm too messed up. I can never be with a man again.

He stops kissing me, takes his hand away and cups my cheek.

"No?" he asks, his eyes searching mine for an answer that's beyond words. If I said yes now, he'd know it was a lie. And I don't ever want to lie to him.

I shake my head, and look down, closing my eyes. I messed up. Failed. Like I always do. I should pack up and leave tonight, tell the detective everything I know, and let the cops handle it.

He runs his thumb over my lips then lets me go, steps back because he's done with me.

But at least he's not raping me. At least he's respecting my, "No". Now I can at least forever remember what might have been.

"I guess I'll go now," I mutter blindly feeling along the door for the knob. Because I can't actually physically turn my back on him. Even though that's the only logical thing to do.

He just looks at me for awhile, his face blank, but his eyes are studying me so intensely, my knees are turning to mush. Maybe I didn't mess it all up. Maybe I get a do over.

He breaks the eye contact abruptly, walking to his desk and picking something up from it.

"You'll want to take this photo of your girlfriend before you go." He's holding a photo of Samantha out to me, and I'm having trouble swallowing. Hope dying is the worst feeling in the world. That picture was taken a few weeks before Samantha disappeared, and if he doesn't recognize her she was never here. "Next time you want to get back at your girlfriend by fucking a guy, pick a different man."

That's what he thinks is happening?

"She's my sister," I mutter, just those few little words taking the rest of my energy away. Maybe I should've just said, "Was my sister" and let go of all the hope from now until forever. It would hurt less, make it easier to breathe, to get up in the mornings, to survive.

Confusion replaces the harshness in his eyes, until they're softer than midnight clouds as he looks down at the photo. "She's pretty, reminds me of my mom."

I snatch the photo from his hand. "It's not. It's my sister."

I'm angry now, because I'll never give up the hope, and I can't believe I even considered it.

"Trust me, I know it's not my mom," he says in a very faraway voice. And I know that brittle strain in his eyes as he looks at me. It comes from trying not to remember something you can't forget. I see it in my own eyes when I look in the mirror, saw it often in Samantha's.

I have the door open before I realize I've moved.

"You can stay, if you want." I hear him say. His voice sounds like it's echoing across a vast distance, calling me home.

I want to stay, but what's the point? He has his pain, and I have mine. I can't give him what he needs. No matter how much I want to.

My eyes are burning with the tears I can't shed as I close the door again. I'm staying. Because even a dash of hope is better than none.

* * *

TOMMY

The last thing I expected was for Tara to come back. I almost didn't open the door when she knocked, thinking it was one of the others. And I certainly didn't expect her to stay when I asked her to. I'm not even entirely sure why I did. But she looked so lost holding that photo, telling me it's of her sister.

She's sleeping on the sofa now and whimpering softly, tears streaming down her face. Crystal was right, it's the saddest fucking thing I've ever seen in my life too. And the need to comfort her, make it better, stop her from crying in her sleep ever again, is burning through my body harder than any adrenaline surge I've ever experienced.

But if I wake her, she'll just fly out of here again, clawing at me, her eyes accusing me of doing her wrong, hurting her. I'd never do that to any woman. And especially not this girl who's so wounded, so broken, only her anger and hatred are keeping her from unraveling into a pool of sadness and pain.

I take the comforter and drape it over her, fighting the urge to nestle next to her on the sofa. I've never wanted to just hold a girl as much as I want to hold Tara right now. It'd be enough. I wouldn't even need anything more. My cock's telling me that's a big fat lie, but it's not completely certain of it either.

It's not like me to get all soft and romantic like this. But today was a trying day emotion-wise. I'm no good at handling emotions. Grief is fine, I'm used to that one. Anger I got under control. But these loving feelings…I don't want any of that. They're probably just the consequence of everything else that went to shit today. I'll wake up tomorrow morning and be back to my old self. Because the last thing I need is to grow feelings for one of the girls Crystal's trying to save.