Page 102 of Dirty Beasts: Chance

Just drive.

* * *

* * *

* * *

Past midnight.No fucking clue where I am, except still in the goddamn boonies. West Virginia, maybe.

My headlights pierce the night—it’s pitch black out here, with an endless wash of stars against a black sky. A deer crosses ahead of me, pausing on the other side and watching me, its eyes shining silver in the darkness.

A farmhouse ahead, the obligatory light glowing orange amber, illuminating a patch of the dirt driveway, a pole barn, and a battered old truck.

Off in the distance, on a rise, small yellow squares indicate a house. Here, a high fence runs parallel to the road, six feet high at least, with barbed wire rolling across the top. Clearly, someone likes their privacy.

A huge gate, this one chain-link, manually operated.

Oddly, it’s ajar a few inches. Some security.

I’m in an almost Zen-like state, and I almost hit her.

She’s half jogging, half stumbling on the shoulder of the road. Holding her ribcage. My headlights give me a snapshot of her—fairly tall, slender, willowy. Auburn hair, long, the tip of the braid dancing just above her ass. She’s wearing an ankle-length skirt, the kind ultraconservatives make their women wear. Denim, or khaki material, hard to tell from the brief glimpse. Long-sleeve shirt—not enough for the chill in the air this time of night.

I keep going.

Not my fucking problem.

I glance in my rearview—I can just make out her shadowy shape behind me. She stumbles, falls, catches herself on her hands, scrabbles to her feet and lurches into an agonized, desperate run.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I jab my foot onto the brake pedal and slew the car onto the shoulder. Neutral, parking brake. Leave it idling. Hop out. My taillights bathe the road in a dim red glow, exhaust curling in the light.

She halts several feet away. Arms around her ribs, gasping. Not crying audibly, but I see the tears on her cheeks.

Good fucking lord, she’s stunning.

Exquisitely beautiful. Her features were crafted by a master artisan, and she is his opus. Symmetrical, all perfect curves and delicate angles. Wide almond eyes, dark, brown or gray. Even in that conservative, almost Mennonite or Amish getup, it’s clear she’s got a hell of a body. Slender, svelte, but with enough curves to make a man dream of her.

She’s trembling, staring at me. Silent.

I gesture at the car. “Get in.”

She shakes her head. Not no, I don’t think, just…unable to process what I’m saying. Or, unable to even speak.

“You’re hurt. Running from someone.” I take a step toward her, and she shuffles backward with a terrified whimper. “Hey. I won’t hurt you. Trying to help.”

She’s been beaten to hell. Her lip is split and bleeding, her nose is bleeding, and a bruise darkens her eye. The way she’s holding her ribs makes me suspect they’re bruised at least, if not cracked or broken.

And yet, she’s breathtaking.

Seeing her beaten, battered face cracks open a memory.

His foot slams into her stomach, and she can’t even gasp or cry. Can only curl in on herself, mouth open and flapping, eyes leaking tears. Or, they would, if they weren’t both swollen and bruising. He hauls her up to her feet...and backhands her, a vicious bone-jarring crack of his knuckles against her delicate cheekbone. She stumbles backward, twisting away, still not able to breathe from the kick.

I tackle him from behind, try to get my arms around his throat. I almost manage, but I’m not fast enough, not strong enough. I’m only ten, after all. He hurls me over his shoulder and his foot batters into my stomach, sending me rolling…