“Please tell me, how many women have you successfully gotten in your bed with that pickup line?”
He grins, accentuating the blond peach fuzz peppered above his mouth. I bet he thinks it makes him look more like a man.
“I got one in there right now. But I' ll gladly kick her out just for you.”
Disgusting.
I hate this fucking job. I hate my boss. And evidently, I hate his family, too.
I’ve been working in this god-awful mechanic shop for a month and have been sexually harassed more times than I can count. I’m at my wit’s end, but I need the money.
“No, thanks,” I quip. “I'll let Brent know you're here to see him.”
His smile falls, replaced with a dark expression. I give him my back before something foul falls out of his mouth—worse than what already has.
The small shop is nestled in a run-down town deep in the mountains of Montana. Luckily, I haven't seen my face plastered anywhere here, and the media has moved on to another world event that only affirms this planet has gone to hell.
Now that I no longer have Layla, I wonder why I even bother walking amongst the living. But I refuse to have fought so hard for my life just to throw it away. I can only call it pure stubbornness at this point.
“Brent, your cousin is here,” I call into his office, standing firmly outside the door. Every time I go in, he asks me to shut it behind me, and it always ends in a highly uncomfortable situation. Most times, he hits on me. Other times, he finds a reason to berate me, then tops it off with a lovely threat.
He knows I'm running from something since I admitted it's too dangerous for me to have a driver's license, and he loves to use that as collateral.
“Which one?”
“He didn't say,” I respond woodenly.
He sighs, the sound laced with irritation.
“Then how do I know he's my cousin?” he snaps. “You know damn well I got the police up my ass. And the first one goin' under the bus is you, little girl.”
And there's the threat.
“I'll go ask,” I mumble.
He mutters an insult beneath his breath while I trudge back toward the creep. He's fiddling with the car scents, taking one off the rack, sniffing it, and deliberately returning it to the wrong row, all the while wearing a smart-ass smirk on his ugly face. I clench my teeth, anger flaring. Brent’s yelled at me several times for not having the scents arranged correctly when customers do exactly that.
“What's your name?” I ask, attempting to keep my expression neutral. Last thing I want him to know is that his endeavor to piss me off is working.
His answering grin is evil, and I hate the way that makes me want to retreat in on myself. I've seen that very face far too often. And what comes after.
“You need my social security card, too? Just get my fucking cousin.”
It takes effort to refrain from spitting on him the way he just spit on me. Keeping the saliva in his mouth with that gap must be impossible.
“He wants your name first,” I insist.
“I ain't doing shit— Brent! Brent, get the fuck out here!” he yells loudly.
Fuck .
My heart speeds as I hear my boss's door slam shut behind him, followed by his angry footfalls. Panic unleashes, and I'm assaulted by the memories of Rocco charging at me with the same heavy steps.
Brent stomps up to the cash register, fire in his brown eyes. Sweat gathers along my hairline while I fight to stay in the present. Except, I don't know that reality is much better.
“The fuck you yellin’ for?” he snaps, glaring at the man for a beat, before turning it onto me. This time, I do shrink away.
My boss is a big man. And he's mean.
Distantly, I hear the chime of another customer entering the shop, though none of us acknowledge them.
“This little bitch refused to get you after I asked nicely. She's fucking disrespectful!”
Being called a bitch is certainly nothing new and certainly doesn’t hurt my feelings, but him risking my job is absolutely uncalled for.
My mouth falls open, a protest building on my tongue. However, it instantly dissipates when Brent's accusing stare swings onto me.
“That true?”
“I-I was just trying to get his name like you asked,” I defend myself weakly.
“Bullshit. She was fucking grilling me, man!”
“Shut up, Bud,” Brent barks, though he keeps his fiery gaze on mine.
The familiarity between the two is apparent. Guess that means he is Brent's cousin, which only makes my situation worse.
“Go into my office and wait for me,” he orders darkly .
The intention in his eyes is unmistakable. If I do as he says, I'll be walking out with one less piece of myself intact.
I nod, the movement jerky, as I turn toward his office. There's also an exit this way, and if I want to save myself, then it's imperative I take it.
Another job bites the dust, and I still have little money to show for it.
Devastation mingles with my growing anxiety. I'll have to find another town and beg for an illegal job, yet again. And the likelihood of finding a boss who's a decent human being is low. I haven't had one thus far and have gone through four jobs now.
I'm exhausted. So fucking exhausted.
“The dumb bitch can't even arrange these right,” his cousin—Bud—snaps. “The strawberry is mixed with the…”
I don't hear the rest of what he says, and I don't need to. He only cemented the necessity to get the fuck out of here.
I speed-walk directly toward the exit and charge out of there without a backward glance. Sunlight pierces my eyes, though I hardly register the sharp pain. I have tunnel vision, and the only thing on my mind is getting as far away from Engines & Oil as possible.
By the time I reach the bus stop, I've no idea how much time has passed. I don't remember a single second of it, nor the entire ride to the women's shelter I've been staying at.
With clouded thoughts, I eventually make it to the shelter. There aren't many women boarded here, thankfully, but I am required to have group therapy sessions with them to stay.
It's incredibly uncomfortable. At least they’re like me here, traumatized, and just want to be left alone. And it helps I get my own little apartment, though I am required to pay a small fee to keep it. The shelter’s meant to give survivors a form of independence away from their abusers, and it’s considerably cheaper than renting regular apartments around the area.
I reach my door and nearly shove through it to get inside, convinced Brent followed me and is right behind me. Though I didn't see a single soul, it still feels like someone was right on my tail the entire way home.
Only when the door is shut and locked do I throw myself against it and release a heavy exhale.
I'm incapable of feeling relieved when I'm in near-constant danger, but at least I’m not alone in that office with Brent, possibly on the brink of being assaulted again.
That… that's honestly all I could ask for at this very moment. That, and to not have been followed home by one of those creeps.
Another exhale, and then a sob is bursting free. I slap a hand over my mouth, yet it's a hopeless attempt to contain the outcry.
Soon, I'm overcome with them, and I'm no longer capable of standing. I slide down the door, my shoulders shaking and chest heaving as wail after wail rebounds against my palm.
Tears stream down my cheeks in rivers, and for the longest while, there’s no thought behind my agony.
I'm not even sure why I'm crying anymore. Because of what could've happened? Or because I have to start over once again? Maybe it's because no matter how hard I try to get my feet firmly beneath me, they always get kicked out.
I just… I can't take this anymore.
I don't want to die, but I don't want to exist. And I wish with every ounce of my soul that I was never born. That I had never been brought into a world so cold, violent, and full of heartache.
And the worst part is that even though I feel dead inside, I'm painfully aware of how alive I am. I dread every night when I fall asleep because I know I have to wake up again and do this life for another day.