Page 64 of For Cowgirls and Kings

“Like?”

“The girl, of course.”

“The girl has a name,” Stetson hisses, stepping toward him once more. “And if you’re not going to help us find her, get the fuck away from me and my family.”

Instead of snarling or posting up like I’m so used to McCrae doing, he retreats. It’s only a single step, and based on the look on his face it’s not out of fear, but respect.

“I’ll stay, and help look first thing in the morning,” he concedes, pulling another cigarette from his jacket pocket. Seeming to be appeased with that, Stetson nods, and her and Faith begin walking to the van without a second glance.

“You might freeze,” I state without offering an alternative.

“Naw. Hell’s plenty warm.” He shrugs, stomping back to his bike, and I watch him retreat.

I turn back in the direction of the rock, staring until my body begins to shake once more.

When my fingers are numb, I sag, turning to the van. I don’t know what to say as I climb inside the silence, but I take the protein bar Faith extends in my direction.

I’ll fix everything, just as soon as I have Dale back. I have to.

TWENTY-FOUR

ADALENE

February 18th, 2025

I’ve been here before,running from a man. Only this time instead of man—singular—there are three after me. This time I’m alone, when before I had a savior, and I was running more from my choices than my circumstances. And instead of knowing vaguely where I’m at, I’m running blind, into a forest that looks like it should be used exclusively for scary movies.

The grass, frozen and brown beneath my feet, crunches, and if I wasn’t so desperate to get away, I might be concerned that they could hear me. But I don’t have the luxury of worrying about such things. I simply have to run. And to pray.

May 24th, 2014

I fucking hate him.I hate that he looked at me like I was crazy—the one person I thought would have my back and understand my insatiable need to do something that might just be forme.I hate the shock and disappointment that contorted his expression when I implied that he should take me home and“take care of me”. I especially hate that nowthat I’m seconds away from getting what I thought I wanted, I no longer want it because I don’t want him disappointed in me.

And fuck that’s annoying.

Kevin, a guy I’ve seen in my math class every day for the last four years, typically being the loudest, rudest, and most annoying guy in there, is latched to my neck like I’m an oxygen tube a mile under water. He’s even slurping, and I fight off a shiver of disgust. I don’t want to piss him off—he has a reputation for being the guy to get into fights when he’s drinking. Guy or girl, I don’t think it matters.

But I also don’t want to do the no pants dance with him anymore.

At first I thought I did, because well, I wanted to do it with whoever might take me. Get rid of this pesky virginity that everyone thinks is a big fucking deal, when really it’s just a flashing light and siren announcing how“innocent”I really am. Then I wanted to because I was so mad at Mateo for acting like I was beneath him—too pure to ruin, or too innocent to defile—and I wanted to prove him wrong.

But now I just want out of here. The question is how.

“Hey, can…can we talk a second?” My voice wobbles and I hate it. I’ve had more to drink than I’ve ever had—considering I’ve never been drunk in my life, it’s a pathetic threshold, but still—and my emotions are all over the place.

I’d never admit it, but I’m scared of what comes“after”. Having no experience means I don’t know what to expect.

Which is why I wanted it to be Mateo.

We could have remained friends, nothing had to change. I just wanted help with a problem, and I trusted him to be there for me like he’s always been. Except not this time apparently.

I push at his chest, giggling in an effort to cover a sob crawling up my throat. I push the panicdown—I won’t cry.I won’t be the girl who gets drunk at a party and cries. Especially with a guy trying to get lucky.

That’ll only intensify my reputation as the naive, innocent, prude girl everyone thinks I am. And even if they’re right, I don’t fucking need them to know as much.

“Hey—” I try again, when his hand gropes at my left boob, grabbing it hard enough I know it’ll bruise. But he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even lift his giant head. So I shove again, harder. “Listen, I need you to stop.”

This makes him pause, for a second, and then he laughs into the crook of my neck. The sound is mean, and hateful, making the hairs on my arms and neck stand up. “Everyone told me you’d be like this. They told me to not waste my time on you.”