At sixteen, I got a job, then another, and dropped out of school so Mason wouldn’t have to. He was the one with a future. The one with a way out.
I was not going to be the reason he stayed.
Now I’m twenty-three, with no degree, no real home, and barely any money left because I poured everything into his life.
I would do it again. A thousand times.
The truck rattles as I pull back into Boulder Flats, and the second I see the trailer, my stomach tightens. Russel’s bike is not there.
Relief flickers, small and fragile.
Inside, Mom is passed out on the couch, an empty bottle hanging from her fingers. I step over her and head to my room.
Without Mason, the space feels wrong. Bigger. Quieter. Too empty.
I grab my guitar and sit on the edge of the bed, letting my fingers find the strings. The vibration settles something insideme, grounding me in a way nothing else ever has. Music has always been the only place I feel safe. My father loved movie soundtracks and played the piano, and he’s the one who taught me everything I know.
I am about to set it aside when the sound cuts through the quiet.
A Harley.
Low, heavy, unmistakable.Too close.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up, my heart jumping into my throat as I push off the bed and move toward the door, but I am already too late.
Russel fills the doorway, swaying slightly, his presence swallowing the small space whole, the smell of beer hitting me before he even speaks.
“Hello, little lady.”
My stomach drops, dread curling tight in my chest. I know that tone.
“Why don’t you come into the kitchen and make me a sandwich.”
“I have work.”
“No, you don’t.”
The air shifts, heavy and suffocating, and I nod before I can stop myself, swallowing everything that wants to fight back as I turn toward the kitchen, each step measured, careful, my pulse loud in my ears as I bend to open the mini fridge.
His hand lands on me without warning, rough and claiming, and I spin around so fast my elbow slams into the counter, pain shooting up my arm as I stumble back into him, into the heat and smell of him that makes my stomach turn.
“Don’t be like that,” he mutters.
“Get away from me.” My voice shakes, thin and unsteady.
“No.”
His hand clamps around my throat, cutting off air as he drives me back into the wall, the impact knocking the breath out of me, black spots flickering at the edges of my vision as his grip tightens and his other hand drags lower.
No.
Panic surges, sharp and blinding, and my fingers scramble blindly along the counter until they close around something solid, something cold.
The frying pan.
I don’t think. I swing.
The crack echoes through the small kitchen, the force of it jolting up my arm as his grip falters, loosens just enough for me to wrench free and suck in a breath that burns all the way down.
