The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (people reading books txt) 📗

“Then, don’t,” Julian says. He’s just as quiet and makes no moves to close the distance between us. He stands closest to his bedroom door. I stand closest to his bed.

My heart breaks for us, and what we’re losing in this moment. We’re losing a chance to be together, to be happy, to start over. We’ve both gone through so much and we only want a sense of home and a heart to embrace us. In each other, we both had found that. And now, right after he gets done telling me that I’m the reason New Orleans feels like home to him, I’m going to take it all away. I’m going to destroy us.

Without dropping his gaze, I take two steps back. Against my better judgement, I sit on the edge of his bed. I’m too weak to stand. I motion for Julian to sit next to me and he does. He watches me as I talk, but I don’t face him. If I do, I’ll break, even more than I already have.

Chapter 19

I was a client of Beaux’s. I sought him out when I caught wind of the District Attorney’s plans to charge me with corporate espionage. This was two years ago. Beaux said he’d be able to get me a plea deal with no jail time. There was just one thing I had to do for him. Beaux coerced me into having sex with him in exchange for my freedom. I’m not sure if you consider that rape. I suppose you could say it was a small price to pay in comparison to twenty years in prison. But . . . what I did, what I allowed him to blackmail me into doing, was worse than a prison sentence would have been. He destroyed me emotionally. I lost all respect for myself. I lost confidence in my abilities to run my company. I tried telling myself I was in control and that it was worth it. It wasn’t. That’s why I’m speaking up now, even though doing so will ruin whatever reputation I have left. —Marie Holt

Mr. Thomas and I met when I worked as a temporary assistant for another attorney at his law firm. I was twenty at the time, and I hoped to one day be a lawyer. I worked at Shaw Peterson for three months. During this time, I was able to sit in on meetings, use the company break room and gym. I had access to most areas, and it was there that Beaux made his advances. It started off as comments about my appearance. “You look nice today” progressed to things like, “I like that skirt on you” and “That shirt would look better if you just undid one more button.” At first, I admit I liked the attention. He was handsome, in my chosen profession, and respected by his peers. When he offered to give me some career advice over dinner, I thought, why not? But it wasn’t long into our date that I realized his career advice came at a price, one I wasn’t willing to pay. He rubbed my leg underneath the table. I told him to stop, but I guess I wasn’t firm enough. The higher his hand moved up my skirt, the more uncomfortable I felt. I tried not to make a scene, but I had to tell him to stop once more. His face got really red and I could tell he was angry, which only made me feel even more embarrassed. Beaux got the check, and we left. We’d ridden in his car and even though I insisted on getting myself a cab, he assured me it was okay and that he would drive me home. In an effort to salvage a possible work relationship, I accepted the ride. He raped me inside his car, right outside my house. I . . . I never went back to Shaw Peterson, and I never became a lawyer. He ruined that for me. —Samantha Carson

I met Beaux when we were in college. My sorority had a mixer with his fraternity. A girlfriend and I were playing beer pong with these two guys. Beaux happened to be my partner. He was kind. He didn’t even make me drink the beer. After we got done playing, he asked if I wanted to go upstairs where it was quieter. He said we could talk and get to know each other. I said yes. I learned soon after that unless you want to screw, you don’t go upstairs in the fraternity house. You could hear the moans and movement through the walls. They weren’t very thick. As soon as we sat down on Beaux’s bed, we started kissing. It was fine at first until he moved his hand up my shirt. I told him, “I thought we were going to talk.” He pushed me back onto the bed and got on top of me. He said, “Don’t you want it? I know you do. You wouldn’t have come upstairs if you didn’t.” I was stunned. I . . . I tried to say no, to move from underneath him. He pushed me back down and said, “Don’t be a tease.” It wasn’t what he said that made me stay. It was the look in his eyes, so cold, so unfeeling. And the way he pushed me; my chest ached from just the swift movement of his fingers. I was afraid of what he might do if I tried to leave again. —Amy Hines

I wasn’t raped by Beaux Thomas, but my best friend was. Apparently, she came home one day to an invitation taped to her dorm door. It was written on this old-style paper with gold calligraphy. I know because she showed it to me. The invitation requested her presence at the exclusive, secret club called Gent here in the city. We’d heard rumors about it around campus, but no one ever knew if it was real, which only made it that much more exciting