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That’s it!
I won’t stand here for another minute letting him hurt and insult me. It’s clear now he’s as big of a monster as Dad is, and I’m so mad at myself for thinking that he actually cared about me. I want nothing more than to punch him in his stupid, handsome, infuriating face, but I don’t know how he’ll react if I try to do that. I might not be able to fight back physically, but for the first time in my life, I feel like I have the strength to stand up for myself as I straighten my back and level him with a glare.
“I’ve already lived with this kind of abuse for the first eighteen years of my life, and I didn’t escape my dad just to take this kind of bullshit from another man! I’m not a whore or a lizard. What we just did—that was the first time I’ve ever let a man touch me, and you’re a giant piece of shit for yelling at me and calling me names, and you…you ruined it! You ruined everything!” I hate how my voice cracks at the end, and I despise the ugly sobs bubbling forth against my will. “I don’t deserve this, not when all I did was lay down next to you because it was so fucking cold in here!”
I spin around, looking for my stuff so I can pack my duffel bag and get the hell away from him. Wyatt’s gone completely silent now, and I scoff, getting pissed all over again. I straighten to my full height, though he still stands head and shoulders above me.
“You know what, Wyatt? I didn’t ask you to pay for my food or my shower. My biggest sin was that I liked what you were doing to my body, and you made me feel like shit beneath your shoe because of it. So fuck you! I’m done!”
I rush to strip out of my soiled bottoms and wipe his cum away with his blanket, tossing it to the side. I pull on a new pair of underwear and my black jeans, stuffing the rest of my things in my duffel bag, and leave my used panties soaked in his cum on the floor.
Wyatt had escaped the cab while I was dressing, now pacing in the parking lot when I throw the passenger door open. He looks wretched, the color completely drained from his face.
In my hurry to get out, I miss the top step and fall out of the cab. Unlike last time, he doesn’t move fast enough to catch me. My knees hit the pavement hard, and I cry out as pain explodes from my kneecaps outward. Crying even harder now, I stand to see that my jeans are ripped at the knees, and I’m bleeding. I’ve gone from the highest of highs from my orgasm to the lowest of lows within minutes.
You deserve this, Dolores.
Wyatt
I’m too far away to catch her this time when she falls out of the truck, and my heart stops beating in my chest.
“Shit, babygirl, I’m so sorry.” I bend down to help her up, but she scrambles away before I can get my hands on her.
“Fuck you, Wyatt! I’m not your ‘babygirl’. I’m just a whore, remember?”
I swear I feel a part of my heart crack and crumble to dust. What the hell have I done? I’m no better than any of the fuckers I warned her about. I did this. I forced myself on her—a goddamn virgin teenager—bareback and raw, came inside her, then had the fucking audacity to call her a whore.
Out here in the light of day, she looks even younger and so fucking sad. I want to vomit just thinking about what I’ve done and said to her. All I want to do is rewind time and keep my stupid mouth shut. Just accept what she had given me, accept she wasn’t lying to me.
We’re starting to draw attention now, and a few guys step out to see what all the commotion is. I thought one of them might come forward, maybe step in between us and help her—this tiny girl crying as she tries to get to her feet while I tower over her—but not a single one of them moves. I even catch a few of them snickering, and I bet more than a few think she’s some dirty lot lizard, just like I accused her of being.
Approaching her and lowering my voice, I try again. “Please let me help you ba—I mean—Dolly,” I finish lamely, unable to look her in the eye.
“No! I don’t want your help, not ever again.” Shakily, she finally gets to her feet and slings her duffel bag over her shoulder. Ignoring me, she moves as quickly as her busted knees will let her toward the shop.
And goddamnit, all I want to do is scoop her up and hug her, take her back to my cab, and clean her knees. Hold her and rock her until she stops crying. Beg her to forgive me until she does.
I jog a few paces to catch up to her. “Dolly, please don’t go. Let me—”
She cuts me off when she whirls around, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Stop following me! I told you I’m done. I don’t ever want to see your face again!”
“What are you going to do? You can’t stay here.” I’m barely speaking above a whisper now, so ashamed of what I’ve done.
“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, Wyatt. Since I’m a whore who’s willing to sell herself for a ride, maybe one of these guys will be happy to let me hitch,” she sneers sarcastically, throwing her middle fingers up and taking off again.
With that, I watch her walk away and out of my life as she disappears into the shop. I’m drowning in shame and regret. The thought of her hitching a ride with someone else makes me physically sick to my stomach, but I know I don’t have the right to stop her. Maybe it’s for the best that I leave and let her forget all about me after all the vile shit I said.
I make a quick change into my standard T-shirt, jeans, and work boots, then run through the pre-trip inspection on autopilot, glancing back at the shop every few minutes. I’m hoping Dolly will reappear and, by some miracle, tell me she forgives me. That she’s changed her mind about leaving me…but she never does.
After dragging out the inspection for as long as I can, I climb into the cab. With one last parting look at the store Dolly disappeared into, and still seeing no signs of her, I put the truck in gear and leave the sweet, beautiful, sad girl behind.
Chapter 8
Dolly
When I get inside the store, I hide behind a display shelf to watch through the windows as Wyatt goes back to his truck and then drives out of my life. With one last look at his empty parking space, I turn to the checkout counter and lean against it to stop myself from crumpling to the floor. Looking anywhere other than the cashier’s face, I count out the cash I need to purchase a shower.
My eyes snap up to hers, though, when the cashier says softly, “Come on, honey. Let’s get you cleaned up,” with a sympathetic look and a small smile. She leads me to a shower room, opens the door, and then holds up a finger to tell me to wait. She returns with some antibacterial ointment and a small box of bandages before closing the door behind her, leaving me all alone.
