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I stood up. “He’s on his way. We’re meeting here.”
It was all I could think of, and was well worth a try.
He stepped directly in front of me, stopped, and eyes me from head to toe. “Better get this over with before he shows up.”
Before I could react, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me to his side. A sharp pain shot through my scalp and along my spine.
I looked down, saw the toe of his boot, and stomped my heel into it as hard as I could.
He spun me around. “You little bitch,” he seethed.
His hand slammed against my face. It wasn’t a slap. Not even close. He hit me.
With his fist.
I stumbled, but didn’t fall. “He’s gonna kill you,” I said through my teeth.
He pulled off my blazer, ripped my shirt, and pulled my bra up over my boobs. I fought against him at first, but it did little good.
His hand shot up my skirt and ripped off my panties.
“Don’t you dare rape me,” I said clearly and concisely.
I wanted the recorder to catch every word.
“Shut the fuck up. We’re all gonna get some of you, you lying little whore.”
He shoved me against the booth, bent me over, and pulled my skirt over my hips.
I refused to become a victim. Shedding a single tear wasn’t an option. While the sound of the other men’s voices either cheered him on or claimed their place in line, I felt his filthy skin against mine. The smell of gasoline, beer, and filth filled my nostrils, and I fought not to vomit.
I bit my lower lip and closed my eyes. I mentally struggled with him, the other, and what – if anything – I could do. Eventually, my mind gave up and drifted away.
While he pounded himself into me, my body may have been in the bar with him, but my mind and spirit were far away.
On a ski slope in Wyoming.
So high I could almost touch the clouds.
