Page 3 of Off the Rails

Deep breath.

With much coaxing, the piss against the old pine needles and leaves that covered the forest floor. I shifted my foot, trying to keep it from hitting my shoes, when⁠—

Snap.

My head whipped up. I grabbed at the waistband of my daisy dukes and pulled them up as I searched for the source of the sound.

Before I could manage the button, five men appeared from the darkness. As they got closer, I started to recognize their puffy, beer-swollen faces. The assholes from earlier with the loud, stupid opinions. The ones who knew where I worked.

Fuck.

The one in the flannel shirt sneered and stepped closer. “Look who we have here, boys. Little Miss Feminist, all by herself in the words.”

One of the other guys laughed. “You think she can girlboss herself out of this one?”

Everywhere I looked, there was a man standing in my way. No way out.

I fucking knew I shouldn’t have said shit. Should’ve kept my mouth shut.

My mom had always warned me about it, how much trouble my words were going to get me in.

Should’ve listened.

Too late now. I had no choice but to try and talk my way out of it. “Didn’t your mamas teach you how to respect a woman?”

One of the bastards in the back licked his thin lips, words slurred together. “She’d make a good wife if we could tame her.”

The one in denim stepped forward. Inches from my face, he rubbed his rough, calloused hand over my cheek. “She’d look pretty hot chained up in my basement. Might break her then.”

I could’ve vomited at the feeling of his crusty skin. All of them were shit-faced, eyes dilated and bodies slow.

But there was no denying the rush of fear that coursed through my veins. Sure, they were drunk and high on god knows what, but they were bigger than me. They were losers, total dirtbags. And still dangerous.

“Maybe we should fuck the slut until she admits she likes it.” The guy in the white shirt let a sick smile creep over his face.

It was an oxymoron. I didn’t believe in slut shaming in the first place, but by their logic, if I was such a “slut,” submitting wouldn’t have been that difficult.

They didn’t care about oxymorons, though. They could hardly pronounce the word.

What they cared about was getting their dicks wet. And as if his words had been an invitation, all of the men started to fumble toward their zippers. A disturbing hunger took over their faces as they watched me shrink against the tree.

The one in the wife beater put his hands on my shoulders, pushing my back into the peeling bark of the oak tree. But the flames flickering behind them illuminated just enough of an escape path to make a run for it.

As he looked down, grabbing at his dick and trying to pull it out with his whiskey fingers, I saw my chance. In a swift move, I lifted my knee to his nutsack.

He doubled over, yelping in pain as I slipped out of his grasp and ran deeper into the woods.

Run. Just keep running.

I pushed off the heels of my chucks, forcing my body forward.

Behind me, Wife Beater’s voice bounced off the trees as he yelled after me. “Get that fucking bitch! Make her pay!”

I heard their heavy feet behind me, pounding against the forest floor as they tried to catch up. But they were unsteady, swaying with every step.

I was a dancer, though. I was in better shape than these fucking losers.

Hustling, I weaved between the trees, using my size to my advantage, slipping through gaps in the trees that were too narrow for them. My head was on a swivel, looking for a way out of the dense woods.