Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
It hurts to go to a school so far away from home, but I’m going.
It hurts to endure my dad’s drunken temper, but I’m enduring.
It hurts to miss Jake with every breath I take, but I’m doing it.
I’m missing him and still breathing, and that hurts the most.
TWO YEARS LATER…
The hurt is more than I can bear. It penetrates deep into muscle and bone, throbbing long after each strike. I curl tighter into a fetal position on the floor and wrap my arms around my waist, protecting vital organs.
The next kick catches me in the stomach with enough force to knock the wind from my lungs.
I gulp and gulp and finally catch my breath. But the agony persists, pulsing at the base of my spine, relentless and overpowering. I pull my knees to my chin and release an earsplitting cry, loud enough to alert the neighbors.
They never hear me. They’re never home. There will be no rescue.
“Stop! Please!” I sob so hard I feel things popping in my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Where’s the key?” My dad’s slurring roar showers me in a mist of spit.
He found out about the motorcycle. I don’t know what I expected, but his reaction hurts worse than the time he caught me at the bus stop trying to run away.
Eyes droopy and glazed, he staggers around me and collides with the wall. If he were sober and wearing shoes, I’m not sure I’d survive the beating.
It’s my fault, starting with a stupid decision I made two years ago. A reckless jaunt to the ravine. I ruined his life.
“Give me the key!” He careens toward me, rearing back a leg to strike again.
I roll out of his path, and his foot hits air.
He mumbles under his breath and swings around, as if trying to orientate himself. “The key. Now!”
“I have it. Here.” I wrestle the key from the pocket of my jeans and hold it out with trembling fingers.
I purchased the motorcycle a week ago, and it would’ve gone undiscovered if the insurance agent hadn’t called to validate ownership.
He balls a hand around the key, his eyes sunken and sick with madness. “You’re grounded.”
Grounded from what? I have no friends. He confiscated all my electronics three months ago, and every penny I earned waiting tables went toward that motorcycle—the riding lessons, repairs, licensing, insurance. I’m at a total deficit. There’s nothing he can take from me.
Pushing into a sitting position, I clamp an arm around my banged-up midsection and focus on what matters.
I just graduated from high school at the top of my class and was offered a full-ride scholarship to University of Illinois. But I turned it down.
I’m going home.
Since Dad forbids me to step foot in Oklahoma, I didn’t tell him I enrolled at Oklahoma State University.
I don’t know how I’ll pay the out-of-state tuition, even with my grants and academic scholarships. Doesn’t matter. It’s the college I’ve dreamed of attending since I was a little girl.
It has one of the highest rated veterinarian programs in the country, and it’s only an hour drive from Jake and Julep Ranch. Two hours in the other direction, and I’ll have Lorne.
That’s if they want to see me.
They never called. Never wrote. Never reached out to me in any way. Not once.
Are they missing me? Or forgetting me?
My mind has been a convoluted, spinning mess of delusions and doubts. Most days, I concoct creative, understandable reasons for why they haven’t contacted me. Like my messages are intercepted, and my emails must be blocked. John Holsten never liked me. He wouldn’t want me distracting his boys from their future on the ranch.
On bad days, I beat myself up with insecurities. What if they read my letters and deliberately ignored them? What if they moved on without me?
I’ve been in constant turmoil, and I honestly don’t know how I made it through the past two years.
But it’s finally over.
It’s time Dad understands that.
The plan was to wait until tomorrow when I have legal grounds to make my stance. Despite the hell he’s put me through, he’s still my father, and dammit, I just wish… I wish I had his guidance and support.
With a ragged breath, I rise to my feet and step back until my back bumps the wall. “I’m moving out.”
“The fuck you are! You’re still my child, and you’ll abide by my rules.”
He stuffs the key in his pocket, as if that can stop me. I have a spare in my bedroom.
“How the hell would you support yourself?” He scrubs the bald spot on his head, gnashing his teeth. “You got a place to live? Food? Health care? What about college? You want to throw away your education?”
“It’s not your concern anymore.” Determination hits my blood, and I straighten my spine. “I’m eighteen. A legal adult.”