Free The Kissing Game by Suzanne Brockmann Page A

felt her arms go up, around him, and suddenly she was holding him, comforting
him.
She didn't know why, didn't
have
to know why. Her friendship was unconditional, it always had been. And, oh, man, she smelled so good, felt so right in his arms But even that couldn't overpower his need to know the truth.
    “Simon, what on earth is the matter? You're shaking ….”
    “You've got to let me finish reading that.” Simon's voice sounded harsh and strained even to his own ears.
    “Reading what? I can't believe something I wrote in my diary could make you so—”
    “The rape.” He tried to say it flatly, but his voice faltered.
    He felt her stiffen, felt the tension suddenly appear in his shoulders and back. She swore, just once, under her breath, and pulled away from him. He let go, suddenly afraid to touch her, afraid to move.
    “Figures you had to read that one,” she said, and swore again. She was unable to hold his gaze, looking down at the book in her hands, at the notebooks that she'd tossed onto her throw rug, out the window at the deepening twilight, looking anywhere but into his eyes.
    “Why didn't you ever tell me?”
    “I couldn't. I could hardly tell anyone.”
    “Not even Leila?”
    She glanced up at him then, her expression guarded. She carefully closed the notebook. “I told Leila.”
    “Everything?”
    A slight hesitation, but then she nodded. Simon's stomach hurt. She hadn't.
    “You told Leila that you were being hassled and you feared for your safety so you made themen who chartered the boat all jump overboard, and towed them back to harbor.”
    Frankie nodded again. “That's what happened.”
    He had tears in his eyes again, and this time he couldn't blink them back. This time they threatened to overflow. “Dammit, tell me the truth.”
    She shook her head. “That
is
the truth.”
    “I don't believe you.”
    Her eyes flashed. “Okay, so I didn't go into detail. Can you really blame me for not wanting to talk about what it felt like to be
completely, utterly,
vulnerable? Is it my fault for not wanting to discuss what it felt like to have some awful stranger's hands in my shorts? It was easier to tell her that I was just …. hassled.”
    Simon's voice felt tight. “I wouldn't call what I read in your diary
hassled.
You were sexually assaulted.”
    She looked down at the rug again. “Yeah,” she said, her voice very quiet. “I was.” She looked up at him. “But not raped.”
    Was she telling the truth? Simon didn't know what to believe. He looked down at the notebookshe held in her hands. “You have to let me read what you wrote.”
    “So you'll believe me.”
    He nodded.
    She gazed at him for a long, long time, as if deciding whether or not to let him in on her terrible secret. Finally, she handed him the notebook. “It's so nice to know I have your trust.” The words were sarcastic, but her voice held only sadness. She stood up. “I need some fresh air.”
    Without looking back at him, Frankie walked out of the room.
    Simon looked at the notebook in his hands with a feeling of dread. Slowly, he opened it. Slowly, he turned the pages to where he'd been reading.
    This can't be happening. Can't be …. He's on top of me, all two hundred and fifty pounds of him, slobbering, suffocating me,
violating
me. They're laughing as he tugs at my shorts, as the denim rips. His fingers, touching, hurting. There's nothing I can do. Powerless, numb with fear. There's nothing I can do to stop this. A fish flops near me, eyes
glazing as it gasps for breath, dying, but still it struggles, still it fights to find the water.
    The fish won't quit, so neither will I. My arms are pinned, but not my teeth. I bite. Fat man pulls away. One arm freed—it's all I need. One thrust up, the heel of my hand to his nose, just the way Gram taught me. Gush of blood. Howl of pain. He jerks back. I scramble free. But, God, there's five of them, and they're not laughing anymore. I make it to the flare gun, cock it, and