Stepbrother Soldier: A Forbidden Military Romance Novel (15 page)

As I drifted off, I remembered, lazily, a few lines from a poem I’d
studied in college. It was short, and it had always stuck with me. The poet’s
name was Lorine Niedecker, and I hadn’t quite understood the poem when I first
read it, but I’d never forgotten it, and now, with Ashton, it suddenly made
more sense. I thought of it, then, as I listened to his heart beating, my head
rising and falling with his breath.

“You are the man
You are my other country
and I find it hard going

You are the prickly pear
You are the sudden violent storm

the torrent to raise the river
to float the wounded doe”

18

It hadn’t taken much to get my story to grace the headlines of every
newspaper in America. After talking to Jane, and confirming to both her and
myself that yes, this was what I wanted, and what I needed, I’d reached out to
Professor Jordans, who’d been a journalist of some repute for the Washington
Herald before becoming a teacher. After hearing my story, he’d paused for a
long moment.

“I know people you can talk to, Christy, but...well, this is going to
sound just awful, but I don’t want my name attached to this in any way. I
applaud your determination, but I’ve retired from all that. I can support you
privately, but not publicly. I hope you understand. I’d like to be your ally,
but I have a family to think about…”

“Oh, no, no, I understand completely, Professor. I wouldn’t ask you to
do anything except maybe get me in contact with someone. Or at least give me an
idea where to start,” I’d said, trying to sound understanding when my heart was
actually feeling a bit bruised.

Of course, I hadn’t expected him to stand up beside me throughout the
upcoming ordeal, to put his professional reputation on the line for a student.
But it hurt, a little, to know that people who wanted to help me were also
afraid of what helping me would do to them.

I’d have to get used to that feeling, though. I would have many, many
similar conversations with people I respected and admired before all was said
and done. The thing that hurt most, though, is when people I turned to for help
referred to my story as “allegations”, as though they didn’t quite believe me.

Not being believed about something that meant so much…it was a sort of
pain that I’d never experienced before, and it cut deep.

It was, of course, going to get much worse once I
had half the country calling me a liar.

But, true to his word, Professor Jordans got me the contact information
for the people I’d need to speak to at Rolling Stone, The New Yorker, The
Washington Post, and even the Huffington Post, a sort of last-resort if none of
the big print names were willing to hear me out.

The Rolling Stone, which was fresh off a different “alleged rape”
scandal for which it had gotten burned, declined; The New Yorker followed suit,
wary of getting mixed up in the same dirty business. But the Washington Post
was interested.

Very interested.

“And you think you can get some info on the other
girls?”

“Possibly.”

“And your stepbrother will back up your story?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you think you can get enough people to speak
for your character?”

“I sure hope so.”

There had been a long pause on the other end of the line. The woman I
was speaking to, who sounded rather young to be in any sort of editorial
position, had a crisp, clean, brisk tone that implied efficiency above all
else. I automatically liked the cut of her jib.

I wanted to work with someone who’d tell the story without leaning too
hard towards the emotional appeal, who’d want to represent the truth above the
sentimental. There was the sound of chatter in the background, almost as though
she had placed one hand over the speaker and was talking to someone else.

“Alright. How soon can you get to DC?”

I’d say “and that’s all she wrote”, but that would be a lie. Veronica
Bastille wrote a three-page expose on the scandal. With me at her side, she
scoured what few military records were available on the Admiral. She contacted
people he’d worked with in the military. She tracked down six of his other
victims through channels she couldn’t even reveal to me, and got four of them
to talk. She talked to my professors, my friends, Ashton. A week after I
arrived at her desk, with nothing but the Admiral’s name, address, and
telephone number, my story went to press.

The headline: U.S. ADMIRAL ACCUSED OF MULTIPLE RAPE AND ATTEMPTED RAPE
DURING SERVICE

The subheading: U.S. Navy accused of massive
cover-up.

And then his picture, huge, larger-than-life, a close-up of his face
printed in grainy black and white. Wearing his uniform, smiling, looking like a
good American sailor. Nothing in his eyes implied the monster that lived
inside.

When the paper hit the stands, Ashton ran down and grabbed a whole
stack. We read the article together, poring over the words, dissecting each
quote, each point and counterpoint. It was good. It was very good.
Well-researched, with no clear bias, it told the facts as they were. And after
that, I knew, time would only tell what would become of us.

It was a subject of some contention between Ashton and I whether or
not we should reveal ourselves, use our true names. I wanted to; he didn’t. He
was worried about his career in the military, the only life he’d ever known.
He’d spent his entire life thinking that everything would be taken care of,
that he’d never have to worry about money or a job, because he was a military
man. By coming forward and speaking out against the very institution that had
basically raised him, he was putting all that in jeopardy.

But, I reminded him, “be bold, and mighty forces will come to your
aid.” Of course, I would never force him to come forward, but he was actively
fighting me about using my real name, too. But I didn’t want to hide. I wanted
to be bold. I wanted to tell the world that I wasn’t afraid of it, that I
wasn’t afraid of anything. My future career, friendships, relationships, be
damned. If I wasn’t Christy Starling during the most important thing that had
ever happened to me, I could never be Christy Starling again.

I also did it because I didn’t want to be ashamed of what I was doing.
I didn’t want to be ashamed of having been almost raped. After all, I had no
reason
to be ashamed of it. It certainly
wasn’t my fault. And if I’d tried to hide, I would feel like it was because I
had something to be ashamed of.

Of course, there would be many times over the course of the next days,
weeks, and months that I would regret that decision.

One of the first things I learned about what it’s like to become a
cultural phenomenon, an unwitting celebrity, is that you give up a lot of
personal freedoms. I’m not just talking about the freedom to live comfortably,
privately, without being hounded by news crews and journalists and photographers.
I’m talking about basic freedoms, like choosing what to wear and how to style
your hair and make-up and what you were allowed to say and how you should walk
and what stores to shop in.

As soon as my story broke, I got dozens of offers for free legal
counsel by law firms looking to bank on my celebrity, who wanted to be involved
in a fight that could change the country as we knew it. I was as selective as I
could be, and took most of the firms up on their offers to fly me out to their
offices and meet with their staff.

When I finally settled on a firm, I was sat down and told, in no
uncertain terms, that if I wanted to be successful in the long-term, keep my
supporters on my side, and try to sway those on the fence, I would have to
follow some pretty stringent rules.

For one thing, there were some places I couldn’t shop at anymore, even
though life on the road meant I didn’t do much shopping, anyway. Whole Foods,
for example, was someplace I couldn’t be spotted. It was too expensive, too
liberal, too “extreme”: it would make me look like I was a rich hippy, instead
of the simple but well-educated and driven farm girl that I was supposed to
look like.

I was allowed to wear one of two sorts of outfits: simple, understated
business suits that toed the line between attractive and frumpy, and “country
wear”. While I have no small affection for flannel and denim, it was tough
waking up in the morning and being limited to two looks. I’m not much of a
fashionista, never have been, but you never realize what you take for granted
until it’s taken away from you. I couldn’t dress too “sexy”, but I still needed
to look attractive. I had to look professional but down-to-earth.

My hair should always be in a bun or ponytail,
but not too tight.

I had to wear make-up, but only so much. It actually took me quite a
while to get a hang of that one; I’d never been one to wear make-up, and I felt
awkward and uncomfortable every morning laboring in front of my mirror trying
to apply just enough blush and eyeshadow to show off my green eyes without
looking skanky.

Why, I wondered, should it matter whether or not I looked attractive?
It wasn’t like the truth was going to change if I looked like something that
would be scraped off a horseshoe after a long day of riding. But, of course, I
knew the answer. People trust attractive people, are nicer to them. There have
been plenty of experiments to prove that. Plus, if I looked good, no one would
say “who’d want to rape that ugly ho in the first place?”

Which they did say, by the way, anyway. Just
another thing that I had to let roll off my back.

I was encouraged to play up my rural upbringing, my down-home ways, to
appeal to the lower and middle class when I went to interviews or rallies in
red states. In blue states, I was to talk up my education, my academic
achievements.

Ashton got his share of coaching, too, though not as much as me. He’d
let his hair grow out since returning from duty, and it was a matter of no
small debate whether or not he should cut it. Actually, pretty much everyone
agreed he should cut it, so that he could look more like a good soldier who
wouldn’t lie, who’d earned the public’s trust overseas.

“No way,” Ashton had said the first time the subject came up. “I’ve
waited my whole damn life to have long hair. I’m gonna have to cut it soon
enough. But not until the last damn minute.”

He was surprisingly adamant about it; he told me that it was the one
thing he’d always wanted, just to grow his hair out a little bit, just that
little bit of freedom. Of course, I supported him whole-heartedly. He looked
damn sexy with long hair, too. That had a lot to do with my standing behind
him.

But, despite the constant bickering about his hair, he played his role
as the supportive stepbrother, the career military man, the decorated veteran,
splendidly. He acted humble, calm, bashful, even. Like me being a down-home
farm girl, he was a good American boy who just wanted to serve his country and
keep his family safe.

He kept a lid on his temper, which I knew could be volatile, even when
he had to sit through a particularly rough interview where I was thrown to the
wolves. His anger would come out afterwards, when we were alone in the car or
the hotel room, but on camera he was all supportive smiles and concerned nodding.

He’d quit smoking while we’d stayed at Jane’s farm, and most of the
drinking, too, and he kept it up, even though I knew it was harder than ever
for him. He didn’t tell me outright, but I knew how badly he sometimes wanted
to light up and sit back with a six-pack. He’d sometimes make a cocktail from
the mini-bar in his hotel room, but he didn’t go out to bars or bring booze
back to the hotel.

Not that we even
could
go to
a bar if we wanted to. We could barely walk past a KFC without turning heads, a
rippling tide of whispers and murmurs following in our wake.

A number of celebrities had come forward to endorse my side, mostly
well-respected female figures who were already involved in the feminist
movement. I have to admit, meeting Angelina Jolie and Meryl Streep was pretty
exciting. But when Emma Watson leaned in to me confidentially after making a
brief appearance at a rally I was also attending and whispered “celebrity kind
of sucks, doesn’t it?” into my ear, I felt a wincing annoyance.
Yeah, but I didn’t choose this shit,
I
thought.

“Sure does,” I whispered back, keeping my true
feelings to myself.

The irritation faded quickly; after all, how many people get to
whisper conspiratorially with Hermione Granger?

Still, it would have been rather nice to get that opportunity
without
having been almost raped by my
stepfather.