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Looking in the mirror, I see what a horrible state I’m in. I feel every bit the whore Wyatt accused me of being. My hair is a wild mess of tangles, and my eyes are puffy and red from crying so hard. I cringe when I shift on my feet and feel the wetness around my pussy that I hadn’t managed to clean off with the blanket earlier.
I carefully peel my jeans off, trying to avoid scraping my sore knees. The hot water of the shower stings, but I have to clean them so they won’t get infected. I take care to wash between my thighs and have a sudden, horrifying thought—I need to buy one of those emergency contraception pills as soon as possible. The last thing I need is to get pregnant as a homeless teenage runaway.
God, I feel so fucking stupid.
With my back against the tiled shower wall, I slide down to sit and stare at nothing, crying silently as the water washes over me until it goes cold. Shivering as I step out of the shower, I dry off and avoid looking in the mirror. I can’t stand to look at myself now.
I pull on another clean pair of underwear and soft black yoga pants after spreading the ointment on my knees and covering them with the bandages. I brush out my wet hair and put it up in a slicked-back bun, then pull on a new oversized hoodie.
I grab my duffel bag after stuffing everything back into it and walk back to the checkout counter. Whispering, I ask the cashier if she knows where I can buy the pill I need. She tells me the nearest pharmacy is right off the highway, about fifteen miles down the road, if I keep heading west. I wilt thinking about the distance, though I shouldn’t be surprised since we’re in bumfuck nowhere, and try to dredge up the mental and physical strength I need to get moving after I thank her for everything.
I look toward the long rows of trucks parked in the lot and consider asking one of the drivers for a ride, but I’m too scared. I thought I was willing to do whatever it takes, but I know differently now. What if one of them hurts me even worse than Wyatt did? I thought he might have been a good—if standoffish—guy, but I’m clearly a terrible judge of character.
I thought I was all out of tears, but fresh ones roll down my cheeks against my will as I walk down the shoulder of the highway toward the pharmacy. Since I left my phone at home to avoid being tracked, I can’t check how long it will take me to get there. After paying for my shower, I’m left with just over half of the money I had stolen from Mom.
I hope and pray it’s enough.
Wyatt
This whole situation is totally fucked, and I’m a lousy lowlife for what I did to Dolly. If Mama knew what I did, she’d shoot me dead. Pops would rise up from his grave just to help her bury my body.
It’s the least of what I deserve.
Never did I think I could do something so heinous. Raping her—because let’s face facts, that’s exactly what I did—yelling at her, accusing her of being a lying whore, not catching her when she fell out of the truck, then leaving her to fend for herself all alone at the truck stop.
I’m not a man who cries often, but goddamn, I’m so ashamed of myself that tears start to form in the corners of my eyes. The way Dolly shrank back from me, crying out when she skinned her knees bloody, screaming at me to stop following her…
I’m not a good man like I always thought myself to be. I let my insecurities about my weight and looks ruin everything.
You’re either lying to yourself about wanting me for some godforsaken reason, or you pulled a fast one on me and really are some kind of whore, selling me a bullshit sob story so I’ll feel sorry enough to give you a ride.
I can’t believe I said such repulsive shit to anyone, let alone such a sweet girl. I’m just as bad as the guys I had warned her about. I hurt her in so many different ways. But then I have a terrifying thought—what if she hitches a ride with someone worse than me? Someone who’ll rape her repeatedly until they kill her and toss her body out where no one will ever find her?
Most of the guys I’ve met in this industry are good, hard-working guys who just want to do their jobs quickly and get back home to their families. But if I’m capable of doing this to her, what else is one of them capable of doing?
I go back and forth, arguing with myself about whether or not I should go back to get her while soul-crushing guilt gnaws at my insides. Then the memory of my cum dripping down her slender thighs hits me like a ton of bricks, and that image makes my decision for me.
Though it’ll put me behind schedule, I take the next exit and turn around, heading east back to the truck stop. I can’t live with myself not knowing what’s going to happen to Dolly, wondering if there will be any long-term consequences to me cumming inside her.
It makes me sick with fear to think she could already be gone. Maybe she’s already hitched a ride in one of the trucks passing me heading west. We didn’t exchange phone numbers, so I have no way of contacting her if I don’t find her. I don’t even remember her last name from when I checked her ID.
I drive with more urgency, speeding more than I should, praying she’s still at the stop, not knowing what I’ll do if she isn’t there.
Chapter 9
Dolly
Since I don’t have a phone or watch, I don’t know how long I’ve been trekking down the shoulder of the highway, but it feels like I’ve been at it for hours. Though the day started off cool, it didn’t take long for me to start sweating under my thick hoodie. Beads of sweat roll down my temples and spine, and I’m dehydrated after not thinking to ration my last water bottle.
I stumble over a rock I didn’t see in the road and fall to my injured knees, scraping my hands this time as well. “Fuck! How much worse can this day possibly get?” I’m so damn tired of hurting and crying. I’ve done enough of that to last several lifetimes, and I’m just. So. Fucking. Done.
I felt so free and exhilarated when I left my house yesterday, but if this is freedom, it sucks. God, I was so painfully naive and stupid. All I could focus on before was finding a way to get away from home, which felt so unachievable at the time. I didn’t do a whole lot of planning for what would happen afterward since I wasn’t all that convinced I could even pull off an escape in the first place.
I’m paying dearly for it now.
I get to my feet and make my way even slower while I try to ignore the screaming pain in my knees and the blisters starting to form on my feet. The pharmacy feels like a million miles away, and my mouth is dry as a bone. As much as I hate it, I might be forced to try my luck hitching a ride again if I don’t reach it soon.
What feels like another hour later, I hear a truck rumbling up slowly behind me, slow enough compared to the other eighteen-wheelers that have blown past that my pulse jumps as I imagine the driver craning their neck to watch me as they pass. Then they pull over to the shoulder ahead of me, and my breath stutters at the sight of the giant who jumps out of the cab, fear making my heart beat painfully fast.
