The Arrest -7-

I don’t even know why I am writing this. It’s the most nonsense writing I have ever accumulated. Yet, something compels me to continue.

Gypsy sat up, her hands moving along the ground beneath her. She was no longer inside of the hotel room. Maybe this was all a bad dream, but the way her body ached, she knew that was only a wish. “Hello?” she whispered, praying the no one called back. She was afraid of the dark. Everyone knew that the young blonde feared the dark more than she did a beating. Her childhood trauma involved a lot of dark times. Those times she wasn’t alone, though. “Is anyone there?” asking again, her voice raspy from screaming. Rolling from her back to her knees, wincing. That was the minute she realized she was on gravel. Each pebble grinding into her knees and the palm of her hands, she quickly pushed herself to her feet, but still the darkness consuming her vision. A rattle in the distance. She wrapped her hands around her body, holding tight to her sides. “What is that,” her small voice cracked. What if it was a mountain lion? The California foothills were notorious for having the big cats lurking. More hikers than she was comfortable with died at the jaws of the predator’s. Suddenly, she thought about how horrible of a death that must be.

As a set of headlights approached, Gypsy realized she was lacking her clothing. All she had on was a pair of red panties, her tits exposed. Sure, they were small, but they fully exposed her to both the elements and whoever was approaching. As the lights came closer, Gypsy waved her hands back and forth to get the attention of the driver. What the fuck would they think about a naked girl on the side of the road? Would the inhabitants of the car be worse than the ones that beat her body until she ached from excruciating pain? “Please, please help me,” the young girl screamed. Running, her feet cut as the gravel tore into her soles, all of that forgotten when she realized the car was a cop. “Oh god, please,” she whispered, falling to her knees when the uniformed cop stepped from the car.

“Miss, are you okay? Miss, do you need an ambulance?” asked the cop.

Shaking her head from right to left, she needed a doctor, but no, she didn’t want this cop taking her to the hospital and having to endure a rape kit. No, she didn’t need the horror that would entail. Gypsy had spent enough nights in the emergency room with kids from the shelter. She knew that horror they went through and the way the hospital staff treated them. They were always the guilty ones. They asked for it. No, she wouldn’t go to the hospital. She didn’t need to go to know what Dominic Paloma had done to her. The cigar burns on her chest told her everything she needed to know.

“I need a ride home. My name is Mary Kennedy,” she said. Gypsy knew her name would be known, and this cop would know that all of this had to be kept hush. She was the sister of the sitting President of the United States. There was no way the press could find out about her wandering naked on an old dirt road. If the press didn’t kill her, William would for dismissing Secret Service. She hated those men and the way they followed her.

“Of course, Miss Kennedy, but you really should see a doctor,” he said, his eyes diverted from the naked girl. “Here, I have a shirt you can slip on as I drive you home,” the cop added.

The ride home was short, but not without a lecture. The cop, who was older, and as he told it, had kids of his own, wanted her to see someone immediately. Did she look that bad? She must have looked like a bad crime scene. Honestly, she was just that.

Gypsy assured the cop that a doctor would be called tonight and thanking him for all of his kindness. It wasn’t until she walked in the front door of her home did she break. Rushing to the bathroom, she didn’t want anyone to see her. Not like this. Hiding in the large white bathroom, she took the first look at herself. A black eye, cut mouth, bruises already displayed on her flesh, but the burn hurt the most. Dominic made his point tonight. Even with that book, she wouldn’t be safe as long as he was breathing. She would deal with that later, but for now, she needed to get the filth from her flesh. Even her hair carried the stench of a cigar. Gypsy hated cigars. Her father made sure of that.

Sitting in the shower’s bottom with comet and a scrub brush, she washed away any evidence. Crying for the first time. Not because of what happened, but because she knew this was far from over. As soon as Dominic learned, she gave him the wrong book, he would kill her. Gypsy knew that as well as she knew her own name.

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