Chapter 1: The Day She Moved In

The first time I met Aunt Rachel was in high school, right after I’d gotten my ass kicked. No way was I letting my mom see me like that, so I bolted straight to my room—only to walk in on something that made my face go red and my heart start pounding.

It was late afternoon, sunlight slanting through our old windows, dust motes swirling like tiny ghosts. I tossed my backpack down, still breathless from running, and there she was: Aunt Rachel, back turned, halfway through changing her clothes. Her skin looked smooth, pale in that golden light, and her jeans hugged her hips in a way that felt more MTV than Main Street. My heart did a weird, fluttery flip—half fear, half wanting to know more. She pulled a shirt over her head and let her hair fall down her back, moving like a slow-mo scene from a movie I definitely wasn’t supposed to watch.

She turned and caught me staring. I braced myself for her to yell or freak out, but she didn’t.

Instead, she shot me this sly little smile and said, “Your mom’s gonna ground you later.”

That threw me. She said it with a wink, like we were partners in crime. I looked away, suddenly fascinated by the beat-up hardwood floor, my cheeks burning like I’d been slapped. But I didn’t leave—I was stuck there, half embarrassed, half knowing if I ran, Mom would see my face and ask questions I couldn’t answer.

I turned my back, standing awkward and silent while she finished changing.

Behind me, I heard the soft rustle of denim, the zip of a zipper. The air smelled faintly of her perfume—jasmine mixed with something spicy, like the free samples at Macy’s. I swallowed hard and tried to focus on the peeling band posters on my wall, counting the seconds until it was safe to turn around.

Once she was dressed, Aunt Rachel came over and looked at my face, way too close for comfort.

She was taller than my mom, and the confidence she gave off felt almost like a dare. Her hands were cool and gentle as she tilted my chin up, inspecting my split lip and the bruise blooming under my eye. For a moment, I forgot about the pain, lost in the flecks of gold in her eyes and the way her gaze softened with concern.

To me, she was the definition of magnetic. There was something about her that drew me in, a pull I couldn’t fight.

Her jeans hugged her hips, her boots clunked on the floor, and she wore a cropped top under a battered leather jacket. Big silver hoop earrings swung under her wavy hair.

She looked like she’d just stepped out of a 1994 Winona Ryder flick—all attitude and vintage leather. Chipped red nail polish, hoops, and that flash of bright red lipstick sealed the deal. Aunt Rachel just looked at me, her scent wrapping around me—dangerous and wild.

Back then, every woman my mom’s age wore plain blouses and slacks, but I’d never seen anyone like her. She was like a movie star come to life.

She could’ve been Winona Ryder’s cooler cousin, or someone you’d see at a smoky dive bar in Austin. I didn’t have the words for it at that age, but I knew she was different—electric, like she belonged in some world bigger than our little town.

She grinned at me and asked if I’d been beat up.

Her voice had a teasing warmth, like she already knew but wanted to see if I’d admit it. I wilted a little, bracing myself.

I lied, “I fell.”

She didn’t buy it. “Did you fight back?”

Her tone changed, just a little, like she was weighing me. My shoulders sagged as the lie fell apart. She saw right through me, so I admitted, “No. I was scared. Thought he’d come after me again.”

Aunt Rachel rolled her eyes, then pulled me down to sit on the bed beside her. She cupped my face in her hands and said, “Let’s get you fixed up first, then we’ll talk payback. Hold still.”

Her fingers were cold and strong, holding my chin steady. She grabbed a bowl of cold water and a towel, gently pressing it to my bruises.

I didn’t know where to look.

If I looked up, her eyes pulled me in—sharp, but kind, like a thunderstorm and shelter rolled into one. Her breath was minty, with a faint trace of smoke. If I looked down, her red lips were softly blowing on my wounds.

Lower still, she was bent over, totally focused on helping me.

Her hair brushed my shoulder, and something about her calm made me feel seen. I kept my eyes fixed on the corner of the bed, every breath filled with her perfume.

That was my first impression of Aunt Rachel: there was something magnetic about her, a pull I couldn’t fight.

It felt dangerous, like sneaking out after curfew or taking your first sip of whiskey. After that, she moved in with us. To me, it was like having a movie star crash on our couch.

At dinner, she’d sprawl in her chair, legs crossed, flicking a cigarette and listening while my mom scolded me for being dumb enough to “fall off my bike.”

Mom scooped mac and cheese onto our plates, the box kind with neon cheese powder. Aunt Rachel flicked her ashes into an empty Coke can, grinning as Mom ranted about hospital bills and scraped knees. She never ratted me out—never mentioned the bruises weren’t from a bike. She’d just wink at me across the table, like we shared a secret joke.

She never told my mom I’d been beat up.

She’d take another drag, kitchen filling with her laughter and the faint tang of smoke. I’d always heard women shouldn’t smoke, but Aunt Rachel made it look iconic.

She belonged in an old black-and-white movie, all shadows and smirks. I once asked why she was living with us, but they shut me down fast.

Their voices got tight, so I dropped it. Our house was tiny—no spare rooms. To keep her from sharing with my parents, my mom hung a curtain in my room.

It was a cheap blue bedsheet, strung across the middle of the room with thumbtacks and hope. Aunt Rachel slept in my bed. I slept on the floor.

Late at night, I’d lie there while Aunt Rachel sat on the bed in a camisole nightdress, rubbing lotion onto her legs.

The lamplight made her skin glow. I watched her hands glide over her legs, feeling shy, but she just treated me like a kid and didn’t care, casually asking, “Why’d they beat you?”

She talked to me like we were equals, like I was old enough for her secrets. I said, “He was smoking in the bathroom when the teacher came. He tried to make me hide his cigarette, but I chickened out. The teacher found it on him, so he told me not to leave after school.”

Aunt Rachel nodded, then suddenly drew the curtain closed.

The sheet swung shut, casting her in silhouette. I could hear her undressing on the other side. She said again, “I’ll help you fight back.”

Her voice was muffled but fierce, like she already had a plan. She’d promised to protect me.

But I was a teenage boy with a restless mind.

I’d lie there in the dark, stomach twisted in knots, listening to the soft thump of her tossing clothes in the hamper. All I could think about was her undressing, naked behind that curtain.

I did something I’m not proud of.

I couldn’t help myself. There were two lights in the room. I switched off the one on my side.

With the light from her side shining through, I could see Aunt Rachel’s silhouette—her arms, her hips, long hair loose over her shoulders. She looked like something out of an art class sketchbook. She was applying lotion. Even as a shadow, she was beautiful, like a painting. She even gave me advice: if someone tells you not to leave after school, just climb the fence and run.

That night, under my blanket, I punched myself hard.

I hated myself for being gross. Aunt Rachel was so good to me, and I’d spied on her shadow.

I fell asleep sick with guilt. Aunt Rachel seemed to forget her promise to help me.

I’d watch her in the mornings, hair tied up, sunglasses on, looking like she was about to set out on some wild adventure. She never brought up what I’d done or what she’d promised.

A month passed. Then, late one night, she called me out and said it was time to get revenge.

I was shocked. It’d been weeks—everyone but me had forgotten.

But Aunt Rachel looked serious. “When you want revenge, never let them know it was you.”

Her voice was low and urgent, like she wanted me to remember this forever. I used to think Aunt Rachel would get a bunch of guys and make me beat my bully up in front of everyone so I could win back my pride.

But her way was different.

We went to my classmate’s apartment building. She had a friend from out of town call him, saying there was a food delivery to pick up downstairs.

It was midnight—quiet except for the hum of streetlights and a train somewhere in the distance. The air tasted like rain and old cigarettes. My palms were sweating so bad I almost dropped the trash bag. Aunt Rachel pulled me to hide at the entrance. “Don’t say a word, or they’ll know it’s you.”

I was terrified. When my classmate came down, Aunt Rachel followed, suddenly whipping a thick black trash bag from her pocket and yanking it over his head.

I froze.

My feet felt glued to the concrete. But Aunt Rachel was all action—she yanked off her leather boot and slammed it down on his head.

The sound echoed in the parking garage—a sick, hollow thud. He fell, clawing at the bag. I realized he might get it off, so I ran up, grabbed the bag, and pinned him from behind.

He was panicking. The more he struggled, the more the bag sucked to his face. He couldn’t see or breathe.

My hands were shaking, my heart pounding so loud I thought it would explode. Aunt Rachel smashed his left cheek with her boot. I balled my fist and punched his right cheek.

The school’s biggest bully started sobbing under the bag—wailing, desperate, helpless.

The bag muffled his cries, making them sound weird and broken.

We beat him until he was barely conscious. Just as I felt a rush—almost high from it—Aunt Rachel grabbed my hand and yanked me away.

But I was so wound up I accidentally pulled her down with me.

She fell hard, gasping in pain.

The crack of her knee on the pavement snapped me out of it. Guilt slammed into me. I asked if she was okay, but she shushed me and whispered that if we kept going, we’d get into real trouble—enough was enough.

She gritted her teeth, “That’s enough, kid. We’re not murderers.” We ran. Aunt Rachel was limping, so I rushed to help her.

We ducked behind a building. I watched my classmate finally rip the bag off, lying there sobbing and broken.

The street was empty except for his sniffling and our ragged breathing. Aunt Rachel took out her phone and recorded everything.

Then she said, “Later, make a new account and send this video to your class group. Let everyone see him getting beat and crying—ruin his rep.”

She said it with a glint in her eye, like she was giving me power. I nodded, feeling a crazy thrill, and asked, “Can I tell my best friend it was me?”

Her smile vanished, replaced by a cold, hard look.

She grabbed my shoulder, voice like ice. “Remember—once you tell a secret, it’s not a secret anymore.”

Looking in her eyes, I realized she was nothing like the other adults I knew.

Most grownups would tell me to go to the principal, or let the school handle it. But Aunt Rachel played by her own rules.

People always taught me to be a gentleman. Aunt Rachel taught me how to be a villain.

On the way home, Aunt Rachel’s leg hurt, so she asked me to carry her.

I crouched down, feeling her warm, soft body on my back.

She wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and for a second, I felt like the hero in a coming-of-age movie, carrying the femme fatale through the neon night. My heart jumped. I nervously held her thighs—her jeans tight, her warmth soaking through.

Aunt Rachel leaned in close. “Did it feel good?”

Her voice was teasing, her breath warm on my ear.

Blushing, I nodded and carried her home.

She ruffled my hair as I set her down on our porch, the steps creaking under us. Back inside, I did what she said: made a new Facebook account, joined the class group, and posted the video of my classmate getting beat.

The whole class saw him cry. He lost it in the group chat, demanding to know who did it.

I replied, “Watch your back at night.”

Then I left the group.

There was a wild rush in my chest, a power I’d never felt. Aunt Rachel’s warning echoed in my head, but I couldn’t keep it all in.

When he hit me, everyone saw. Now that I’d hit back, nobody knew.

I wanted people to know. I thought my best friend wouldn’t betray me, so I told him everything—including Aunt Rachel’s part. I made him swear not to tell.

He promised, and we fist-bumped like it sealed everything. After I finished messaging, Aunt Rachel limped out of the bathroom. I quickly stashed my phone, hoping she wouldn’t catch on.

She said she’d sprained her foot. I rushed to get the rubbing alcohol.

I had her sit on the bed, then carefully started cleaning her ankle.

Suddenly, Aunt Rachel winced in pain. I looked up, startled—and realized the situation.

She was wearing just a short camisole nightdress, and I was kneeling in front of her, hands on her ankle.

The lamplight made her skin look almost unreal. I froze. Aunt Rachel caught my stare, yanked her dress down, and smacked me on the head. “Behave.”

Her hand stung, but the embarrassment hurt worse. I apologized, cheeks on fire, and kept working.

Maybe to break the tension, Aunt Rachel grinned and said, “Oh, you can blush? That’s adorable.”

She was just trying to lighten the mood, but I got it all wrong.

I thought she was inviting me. My heart pounding, I looked up at her.

Before she could react, I kissed her lips.

I only meant it to be quick.

But the second our lips touched—her softness, her scent—something exploded in my head. I wrapped my arms around her waist, not thinking.

In that moment, I understood what it meant to want someone you can’t have.

The silk of her nightdress, the curve of her waist, her scent in every breath.

She panicked and tried to talk, but as soon as she said “no,” I pressed in with another kiss. She struggled, and I pushed her down onto the bed.

I looked down at her, wanting to keep going—but I froze.

She lay there, camisole askew, her mischievous face now filled with fear. Her beautiful eyes brimmed with tears.

Only then did I realize: even the toughest woman I’d ever met could be scared—and it was because of me.

Aunt Rachel sobbed, “No... please...”

My heart twisted. I slapped myself hard, apologized, and ran out.

I wanted to disappear. I kept replaying her tears in my head, wishing I could take it all back.

I hid in the hallway all night, praying she’d come out and call me back.

But the old house just creaked and groaned, and the only thing that came was the cold. She never did.

I spent the whole night out there. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her tear-stained face.

I felt like a monster. She’d been nothing but good to me, and all I could think about was kissing her.

The hallway smelled like dust and lemon floor cleaner. At dawn, Aunt Rachel finally came out.

She told me to go change my clothes, not to let Mom notice anything.

But all I could see were her swollen, red eyes.

Maybe I was nuts, but I asked, “Did I make you cry all night? Do you hate me that much?”

She looked at me, then crouched down, cupped my face, and said, “Kiss me and see.”

Her hands were gentle, her voice almost kind. I stared at her, thinking she’d forgiven me.

I couldn’t help myself—I kissed her.

But then she bit my lip—hard. Blood exploded in my mouth.

The pain was instant and sharp. She bit down so hard I almost screamed.

Blood dripped to the floor. I tried to hold in my cries, but Aunt Rachel didn’t let go.

Her eyes were cold, furious.

I saw the warning in her glare—don’t cross this line again. She bit down even harder, until I sobbed and begged her to stop, my words mangled by pain.

Only then did she let go. I spat blood onto the floor.

I touched my lips—she’d bitten so deep, it nearly went through.

Blood kept dripping, and she smiled again. “We’re even now. Next time you force a kiss, I’ll take a chunk out. If your mom asks, you fell off your bike, got it?”

I nodded, terrified.

Because of that kiss, I had to go to the ER for five stitches. My lips were ruined, the scar ugly and twisted.

The ER doctor, tired and sipping coffee, just shook her head and told me I was lucky. She said it would never look the same again. I should be grateful my lips were still attached at all.

My mom chewed me out for being an idiot and took away my bike.

She spent the drive home lecturing me about making smarter choices. I felt sick with guilt over Aunt Rachel and asked my mom how long she’d stay with us.

My mom’s face went dark.

She fiddled with the steering wheel, voice tight. Finally, she told me the truth: Aunt Rachel used to run a big business out of state. At a networking event, some client got her drunk and tried to assault her. She stabbed him with a knife.

My jaw dropped. I tried to picture Aunt Rachel—cool, calm, dangerous—turning on a dime and fighting back. After that, she fled here. Both sides kept quiet—the client couldn’t call the cops or he’d get hit with attempted rape, and Aunt Rachel couldn’t either, since she stabbed someone.

But the guy was powerful, so she had to contact both the local underworld and the police to negotiate. Once it was sorted, she could go back.

Hearing all this, I shivered. I’d never imagined she was someone who could actually stab a man.

Suddenly, all her toughness made sense—the way she could face down bullies, take risks no one else would. Aunt Rachel really cared about my mom. Otherwise, last night, she might have stabbed me.

Her tears weren’t just for her—they were for my mom, too.

She really is a good person.

The worst part is—I only loved her more.

The more dangerous she was, the more I wanted her. That’s just the truth.

That night, just like Aunt Rachel said, we made up.

She was free-spirited. Once revenge was done, and she said we were even, it was like nothing had ever happened.

Just like the first night, she gently cleaned my wounds, asking if it hurt—even though she was the one who’d bitten me.

I looked into her eyes and said, “Auntie, I really like you.”

Aunt Rachel dabbed at my lips and replied, half teasing, half warning, “I’m fifteen years older than you.”

She raised an eyebrow. I said I didn’t care. I just wanted to know what kind of guy she liked.

She answered, “I like men stronger than me.”

That crushed me.

It was like all the air went out of my lungs. I was just a scared kid who didn’t even fight back. She wasn’t just a businesswoman—she’d stabbed someone. How could I ever be stronger than her?

After she finished, Aunt Rachel pinched my cheek. “Little rascal, now it’s my turn.”

She sat on the bed and lifted her foot.

Her toes were painted red, the polish chipped. This time, she wore shorts, not a nightdress.

I knelt, holding her foot and applying medicine, quietly saying, “Auntie, I still like you.”

She replied softly, “Shut up.”

Her voice was gentle, but I could tell she was tired of my confessions. I knew she was getting impatient.

But I also knew: at the cockiest age, I’d met the one woman who could conquer me.

I would’ve given her everything.

But all I brought Aunt Rachel was trouble.

That night, when I got home, my mom told me Aunt Rachel was leaving the next day.

She’d found a powerful mediator and would go back to settle things.

Knowing she was leaving, I was so sad I couldn’t eat.

I poked at my mac and cheese, appetite gone. Aunt Rachel noticed. After dinner, she patted my shoulder and asked if I wanted to go for a walk.

I followed her out, sulking.

She walked beside me, lit a cigarette—the flame lighting up half her face. She blew out smoke and said, “You know, you’re pretty cute. I don’t dislike you.”

Her voice was soft, almost kind. I touched my scarred lips. “Then why’d you treat me that way?”

She said, “Because you messed up. Never force a kiss on a girl, ever. She could be someone else’s someday. You can’t just take what you want.”

Her words stung, but I knew she was right. I kept my mouth shut. Her words hurt.

Would she really be someone else’s wife someday?

If that happens, I’ll be miserable.

Just thinking about it made my chest ache. I walked with my head down. Suddenly, Aunt Rachel shoved me.

It was just a little nudge, but enough to snap me out of my sulk. I told her to knock it off, but she shoved me again, harder.

I turned, about to whine that I was already upset—but stopped cold.

The person who shoved me wasn’t Aunt Rachel.

My classmate stood behind us, eyes burning, with a couple of his goons. He got right in my face, almost knocking me over.

He yelled, “What the hell! It was you two who beat me, right?!”

Aunt Rachel froze, staring at me like she couldn’t believe it.

Her eyes searched mine, realization dawning. I never thought my best friend would rat me out.

I denied it, desperate, but my classmate started laying it all out in front of everyone.

He shoved his phone in my face, showing screenshots and texts, piecing together everything I’d told. Only then did it hit me: I told my best friend, he told his girlfriend, she promised not to tell. She told her best friend, who immediately told my classmate—they were cousins.

Each of us only told our closest person.

But, like Aunt Rachel warned, once a secret is spoken, it’s not a secret anymore.

Aunt Rachel looked at me, shock and disappointment etched on her face.

My hands shook so bad I almost dropped my phone. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move.

Because what I told my best friend wasn’t just about the fight.

My stomach twisted. Right then, my classmate and his thugs walked up to Aunt Rachel.

Aunt Rachel flicked away her cigarette and kept the butt between her fingers.

She squared her shoulders, trying to look tough. Suddenly, my classmate grabbed her jacket zipper and yanked it down.

Her jacket opened, showing off her body. The boys whistled and jeered.

The sound made my skin crawl. My classmate licked his lips, grabbed Aunt Rachel’s waist, and sneered, “Don’t worry, I don’t hit women. But you hit me—how you gonna make it up to me?”

Before he could finish, Aunt Rachel grabbed his hair and yanked his head back.

She pressed her burning cigarette right into his cheek.

He screamed and stumbled back, clutching his face. Aunt Rachel’s revenge was always fast and brutal.

But my classmate shouted, “You stabbed someone in another state, didn’t you?!”

Aunt Rachel froze.

For a split second, all the fight left her. My heart hammered in my chest.

I’d told my best friend everything, and now it was out.

The streetlights buzzed overhead, and somewhere a dog barked in the distance. My breath fogged in the cold air. Aunt Rachel stood there, stunned, not knowing what to do. My classmate wrapped his arm around her waist, yanking off her jacket, whispering in her ear, “If I call the cops, you’re toast. I heard you’ve got a big business out there—ready to lose it all?”

The other thugs chimed in:

“Yeah, we don’t care. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

“But you’re different. You finally made it. If you go to jail, it’s over.”

Their voices were flat, almost bored, like they’d done this before. Finally, I saw Aunt Rachel tremble.

She wasn’t afraid of these punks. She was afraid of the law.

In the face of real power, she was as helpless as an ant.

Her bravado faded. The thugs saw her falter and pressed closer.

I watched as her shirt buttons were undone, one by one. Their eyes devoured her.

Their laughter rang out, echoing off the empty street. My classmate, impatient, threatened, “Come with us to the woods, or I’ll call the cops. Your choice.”

They were all hyped up. Aunt Rachel was gorgeous—none of them hid their lust, like they’d just won the lottery.

I’d once watched Aunt Rachel’s shadow through a curtain, wishing she’d stand before me, kiss my forehead, and say she liked me.

Tonight, my dream came true in the worst way.

In the moonlight, she wore only a thin bra and an unbuttoned shirt. She turned to look at me.

There was no hatred or disappointment in her eyes.

She looked at me like she was sorry for something she couldn’t fix. The fearless Aunt Rachel was now just scared.

She was fragile again. She wiped her tears, tried to hold them back, but bit her trembling lips, turned, and walked with them into the woods...

As she disappeared into the trees, I realized I might never see her again—not the real her, not the fearless woman I thought I knew.

I wanted to scream, to run after her, to do something—anything. But I just stood there, useless, as the woods swallowed her up.