Page 54 of The Games We Play (Balance of Power #3)

NAOMI

T he high I felt leaving the prison has completely faded and is now replaced with nothing but fear and dread. Trying to control the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on in the last thirty-six hours would be like trying to herd a Tasmanian Devil.

I take a mental note to Google Tasmanian Devils and find out if they are actually anything like the Looney Tunes version, because something tells me that’s not the case.

My mind wanders as I stare at the over-sized oak doors that lead into the courtroom.

It’s the same goddamn courtroom.

The same courtroom I spent weeks in while they sorted through evidence of what happened to me.

Where they dissected every single moment of that night.

Where they showed everyone the photos of my beaten body.

Where Nathan sat, staring at me like he would kill me if I testified for myself.

Where his attorneys called me a slut, a tease, and vehemently claimed I wanted it.

Not only did they say I wanted it, but I asked for it rough, and egged him on. Like I was intentionally plotting this situation because of who Nathan is, because of his family name.

The anxiety I felt as an eighteen-year-old girl, who felt like she lost everything, cowered with their words.

I never testified for myself. I never stood up for myself. I never allowed my voice to be the defense I needed, or the therapy I clearly needed to speak out.

At the end, we still got something, but it was only because someone else I didn’t know stood up for me when I couldn’t stand up for myself.

Our attorney located a teacher at his high school who reported multiple situations where Nathan had sexually assaulted other girls. Apparently it was reported, but nothing was done and the teacher was eventually fired by the same principal she reported it to.

Turns out that the principal was somehow related to Nathan Simmons' father, and the teacher was related to Nathan Simmons’ mother.

So, when the teacher showed up in the courtroom, there was a major outburst from his mother that caused a chain reaction, and Nathan jumped over the table in an attempt to attack her.

His attorney was able to pull him back before any physical harm was done and claimed he was just trying to stand up for his mother, but it still worked in our favor.

That teacher was brave for walking into the courtroom. She held her chin high and knew she was doing the right thing for a greater good.

If she hadn’t testified against him—against her own family—my attorney said he may have just gotten charged as a minor, claiming it was alcohol induced on both our parts since that was another one of their claims. They brought out every lie possible and made me look horrible to the public to better his own image.

But because of that teacher, because of her bravery, Nathan was charged as an adult and my voice was heard, even though it wasn't my own. Nathan was sentenced, although it was shorter than it should have been, it was still something.

Fifteen years with the possibility of parole in ten.

It’s funny how your view on time changes as you age.

At eighteen, fifteen years was colossal. Fifteen years? That was a lifetime through my na?ve eyes at that time, and a part of me almost felt bad he was going to jail for that long.

Now, fifteen years is a blip. And my eyes are wide open to the fact that Nathan will never be right for this world.

Holding my chin high as I take a deep breath, I allow the air to expel out through my partially parted lips, feeling lighter than I’ve felt in my entire life.

“Are you ready?” Rocco asks. He stands calm beside me in jeans and a t-shirt, making him look like any other bystander. But his shoulders are tight, his stance is stiff, and his hands that are folded over each other in front of his body gives his identity away like it’s written on a damn billboard.

Although it’s not the same man who’s brought me the comfort and security I need, I know Seamus is doing what he needs to do, not only for me, but for himself.

Plus, I’ve realized Rocco is even more fun to banter with because he’s even more rigid than Seamus, if that’s even possible.

“Yes, I’m ready, but are you, Tin Man?” I ask as my eyebrows lift to question his dense body language. “Relax.”

He looks down, confused, then looks back up to me, still just as confused.

“This is relaxed.” His shoulders loosen only a touch as he looks at his watch, then huffs an annoyed breath.

“I hate not being part of the mission, and I hate not having my earpiece.” He gives the area we are standing in a once over before staring back at the door.

“You are part of protecting me, and Seamus said that was the most important part of the mission,” I remind him of the words that Seamus said before we all split. “He said you were the only person he would trust with that.”

“You’re right,” he hides a proud smirk that appears as quickly as it disappears, “I just hate not knowing what the hell is happening on that side.”

Yeah, me too.

I know Seamus is good at what he does—what he’s trained to do—but even with that knowledge I’m on edge, as well. Unsure if he’ll get hurt, or caught, or the other twenty worst case scenarios that have run like a stampede through my head. But I also know I can’t dwell on that right now.

I steel my spine, lifting my chin, pulling in all the brave bits that have helped me grow into who I am at this moment. The girl whose voice was stolen by fear and shame. The woman who now stands tall and ready.

Stepping forward, I grip the spiraled, metal handle and push the door open.

The scent of wood and leather surround me as I glance around the room.

There aren’t many people here, the only ones I recognize are on the defendant’s side sitting in the first row behind the attorney.

His parents. The ones who fed the courtroom lies about their son, about what a stand up human he has always been. The ones who practically own the small town they live in. The ones who called me a liar and a whore to protect their rapist son.

They are talking amongst each other, like this is the prelude at the cinema. Dressed like it’s their first stop before Sunday brunch.

Rocco clears his throat, and not lightly. No, he made an intentional statement.

I hold back my smirk that feeds my confidence, and show it through my body language instead.

Keeping my chin held high, the attorney peers up, looking over the heads of Nathan's parents.

The confident smile he was displaying falls the moment he sees me, and his parents shift in their seats, turning around to see what made him stiffen.

The disgust on his mother’s face is as apparent as a blinding fluorescent light. His father’s neck slowly swivels back up to their attorney who is looking back at his assistant, fumbling through papers.

In all my life, I have never felt so gratified.

I hold more power than I ever gave myself credit for. I always have. They just made me think I didn’t. And now the roles are reversed.

The transfer of power is clear as I make my way through the middle aisle way, placing myself in the front row opposite them. His mother’s loathing eyes follow me the entire way.

Sitting down, I scooch over, making enough room for Rocco. As he sits down, I lean forward, glancing her way. I’m unable to hide my smile as they move around frantically and whisper amongst each other.

His mother stays put, keeping her eyes on me. It’s the exact same thing she did when I was eighteen and fragile, threatening me without words.

But it won’t work. Not this time.

And, because I can’t help myself, I wink as I give her my most proud smile.