Page 31 of The Way Back Home

I swallow, and my throat screams. I do too, but nothing comes out. His truck door slams. He starts the engine and pulls out of the drive. My silent sobs are drowned by the noise, and I collapse back against the debris. For the first time in a very long time, I cry, and I stare at the long scars on my forearms because the truth is, August Cotton scares me, and that’s why I’m fighting so hard to save him. That’s why I fight for every ex-serviceman and woman in my program—because my own demons nearly destroyed me.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Olivia

Seventeen years’ old

“MAMMA?” I PULL BACKthe door to our trailer and my excitement dies on my lips. A wall of smoke and fear slams into me. Mamma is passed out on the bed, again. Andheis here.

“Is she still alive?” I demand, even though I know I shouldn’t sass him. I don’t like him. I don’t like him coming in here and making my mamma sicker than what she is.

“She’s alive,” he says. I glance at my mamma, and then back at him, Steve. With his wiry black hair and shrewd blue gaze. He’s thin as a rake, but I don’t doubt he’d still be strong enough to hold me down. The way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. I back out of the trailer door, but he jumps off the couch and pulls me so hard I have no choice but to follow or I’ll fall flat on my face over the step. “Where you goin’, darlin’? I bought your mamma some groceries—can’t have the two of you wastin’ away to nothin’, now, can we? God knows, she ain’t feeding ya. When was the last time you ate somethin’?”

“I’m not hungry.” A lie. I’m starving, and my stomach growls to disprove my point. I try to yank my hand out of his grasp, but he just tightens his hold.

“All growin’ girls gotta eat, and you got some more growin’ to do, don’t you, pretty thing?”

I shake my head. “I have to go. Someone’s expecting me.”

“Shit, girl. I know you ain’t got any friends waitin’ on you. Now fix us a fuckin’ sandwich and sit your sweet ass down here beside me.”

“I said I wasn’t hungry.”

Before I know what’s happening, he whips his arm out and backhands me across the face. The slap rings around our tiny trailer, and tears prick my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. My cheek stings; my lip, too. I glare at him. The devil gives me a pointed look that says he’ll do it again if I give him reason to.

“Bitch, you ain’t got a fucking choice,” he snaps.

My gaze darts to my mother. I keep hoping she’ll wake up, but he’s shot her all up with smack. I could smell it the second I walked in, and I know she’s not coming to anytime soon.

I could run. Everything inside me tells me to run, but where would I go? Mrs. Miller across the road sometimes bakes us cookies, and she’s always said she’d be there if I needed her, but she’s a little old lady, and certainly no match for Steve.

So I do as I’m told. I fix us both a sandwich. And I sit as far from him on the ratty little couch as I possibly can.

I drink the warm beer that he tells me to. It tastes like cat piss, and when he puts his boney, calloused hand on my knee and pushes up my skirt, I tell him to stop, but he doesn’t.

I turn my head away when he offers me the crack pipe, but he shoves the tiny thing between my lips. Burnt plastic rolls across my taste buds. My lungs scream as I’m forced to take a breath, and my head spins. I should run, but my body is frozen, numb, and heavy.