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PROLOGUE

5 Years Ago

Sadie’s 21st Birthday

“ S hots!” Catalina screams, drawing out the ‘o’ in a long, drunken slur. I’ve lost count of how many we’ve taken tonight. My head swivels towards her, bobbing unsteadily on my neck as I struggle to keep it upright. There’s only one more hour until last call. A sudden hiccup startles me, and I hope like hell I can push through until then. The beginning of a vicious hangover is already throbbing against my skull. At least I no longer need to worry about waking up early to feed my pop’s hogs, since Cat and I finally sold the last of them. I should drink a glass of water.

“Happy fucking birthday, Sadie!” Cat shouts again, and I wince at the shrillness of her voice. Earlier tonight, my step-sister insisted, damn near demanded, we go out to celebrate my first legal drink. The thought of not doing so was apparently an inconceivable tragedy; I’d surely regret not marking this significant transition into adulthood. Besides, didn’t we deserve to cut loose once in a while? Her argument was thin, but here we are anyway, at Drifters, a shitty little dive bar in Boneburrow. Of course, there aren’t many other options in this tiny holler of a town, and we’re still burdened with the hour-long drive back home.

I blink, and the bar and its patrons appear like snapshots of a camera. I can even hear the little mechanical clicking of the shutter each time my eyes close. A double image of Catalina ghosts behind the first. I blink again, trying to force them into one. Click. She rolls her hips in smooth circles, dancing to whatever outlaw country song plays from the jukebox in the corner. Her long raven hair streams behind her as she spins. She gives me a knowing smile when she catches me staring. Click. Her soft grey eyes peer at me through thick dark lashes and she slides the little glass over to me. A trail of tequila follows it across the sticky bar top. Click. I open my mouth to give her a hard time about wasting alcohol, but before the words come out, thick arms wrap around my waist, a solid mass pressing into my back. Click. Click.

Hot breath assaults my ear. Each raspy blast of air plagues my nostrils with the sour smell of whatever shitty beer he’s drowning himself in tonight. “God, yer so fuckin’ pretty,” he mumbles lowly, like I’m already underneath him in bed. He trails a finger down the back of my arm before swooping up the tequila shot and replacing it with a glass of whiskey. “Looks like you could use somethin’ stronger.”

Unease pokes the back of my mind, nagging at something I can’t quite decipher. Maybe it’s just the steady buzz of alcohol my brain’s soaking in. Blink. Click. Fuck it.

I down the drink, desperate to escape this interaction. My face pinches as the liquid burns the back of my throat, and my stomach heaves as the whiskey sloshes into a bath of tequila. I throw a hand over my mouth to keep myself from blowing chunks all over the bar top. I should have eaten something, anything, before we came. Maybe that half bag of chips is still in the truck.

The drink is gone, but the man still stands behind me. The heat oozing from his body intensifies the unpleasant warmth spreading inside mine. Nausea ripples through me, and I spin against him, trying to sidestep his hold, but his body pushes in tighter now that I’m facing him. The edge of the bar top digs into my back. I try to arch away from it, but the movement only squeezes our bodies closer.

I squint, attempting to focus on his face, but the features blur together into a kaleidoscope. Light refracts around him in a fuzzy halo. His eyes might be dark blue, and there’s definitely tufts of ginger hair peeking out beneath his cowboy hat. They look like tiny carrots dangling there, and I get the wise idea to knock the stupid hat off his head. I clumsily swipe my hand out at it, but he catches my wrist. “Oh, I like ‘em feisty.”

A nervous laugh bubbles out of my constricted throat as I twist my wrist in his hand, but his fingers dig deeper into my skin. Sweat trickles down my temples and my pulse roars in my ears. The whooshing sound of my heart rises above the bar noise that has warped into a low, slowed down version of its previous clamor. My eyes dart in every direction as panic sets in. I need to find Cat, my lifeline, but she has moved on to some other spot in the bar. My vision distorts further, like looking at the room through a jar of molasses. The floor sways, and walls start to spin around me. Cat.

“Now darlin’, if ya didn’t want it, ya wouldn’ta worn these tiny little shorts for me,” he snarls, leaning in to me until our foreheads meet. His tongue crawls from the top of my lip to the tip of my nose. His free hand rubs across the back of my leg, just below the denim of my shorts. One finger creeps underneath the fabric, sending a sickening chill through every nerve in my body. No.

I writhe against him, but he pushes his pelvis in, holding me in place against the bar. A tingling feeling, like when I’ve sat in the same place for too long, works its way through my body. My muscles spasm, and I try to regain control of them, but I only manage to tremor. I’m going to be sick. My face feels like a furnace, but cold sweat rolls down my back. The terrified squeal of hogs before slaughter resonates inside my head, and bile rises in my throat. Before it can spew, my vision tunnels to black.