Beneath Blackwater River Leslie Wolfe (me reader txt) 📖

One of the men tugged at her jeans, and she opened her eyes wide, in a panic. Hell, no.

“Dad?” she called, using the appellative her stepfather had demanded her to use. Yet he remained silent, watching from the sofa, smoking a stogie and scratching his privates. “Dad!” she called again, squirming to get free of the hands holding her down.

She didn’t stand a chance; they were too strong for her.

“Dad!” she called again, raising her voice over the sound of the TV.

This time, he responded. “Huh?”

“Dad, I’ll tell Mom. Tell them to stop—”

“Uh-huh, okay,” he replied, sounding absentminded. “When you’re done there, get me a beer, willya?”

Potbelly and Ink Skin were snorting the white powder lines off her belly, their stubble scratching her skin, their heated, stinking breaths burning a trace against her flesh that made her sick to her stomach. She propped her heels against the table surface then pushed her abdomen up, without notice, as hard as she could, her sudden move shoving the straw Potbelly was using up his nose. He screamed and stepped back, holding his nose with both his hands. The other, in a stupor, stood and watched as she kicked the third man hard below the belt and made for the door.

She only stopped briefly to grab her sneakers and her jacket, then bolted, not bothering to slam the door shut behind her.

She didn’t stop running for a couple of blocks, not feeling the raindrops against her face, not even to put on her shoes, until she was out of breath and at a safe distance from those pervs. Then she sat on a curb, panting. After tying her shoelaces, she put on her jacket and zipped it all the way up.

It was cold.

The street was almost deserted, rain keeping everyone indoors. The small shops that lined both sides had been closed for hours, barricaded behind folding security gates locked shut with large padlocks. A few yards away from where she’d stopped, loud snoring came from a large cardboard box pushed against the recessed entrance of a two-story office building, where the wind couldn’t do much harm. The occasional car sped by, but no one cared about the hunched silhouette sitting on the curb, probably dismissing her as yet another homeless person.

She felt a chill.

She reached into her jeans pocket for her phone, but it wasn’t there.

Oh, crap. The image of her phone charging on the nightstand taunted her. She would’ve rung Marci and maybe spent the night at her place, like she’d done a few times before. But it was late; she couldn’t just land on her doorstep without calling first.

The hospital where her mom worked was a solid thirty minutes away on foot, but she started walking in that direction, hands shoved deep into her pockets, her jacket’s collar raised to hide her blond hair and as much of her face as possible. She kept close to the walls, distancing herself from the sparse traffic, hoping she wouldn’t draw anyone’s attention.

Her anonymity didn’t last long; within minutes, a patrol car bearing the insignia of Lane County Sheriff’s Office drove by and spotted her. The cop lit up the flashers and pulled to the curb, lowering the passenger window.

“You shouldn’t be on the streets so late,” the deputy said, smiling.

She stared at him, panicked for a brief moment until she recognized him. Her mother’s second cousin, technically her uncle, Deputy Rutledge, a chubby and lighthearted fellow, oftentimes mocked at family events for being too nice to be a cop.

She knew better than to speak the truth to adults. If she whispered one word about what was going on in her home, the cops would lock everyone up and put her in foster care. She’d learned that from a school buddy of hers. Even if her mom wasn’t home, she could be charged with child endangerment, or neglect, or whatever these people thought of throwing her way, when all she was doing was earning a living for her family. Kirsten would never see her mother again.

“Just getting some snacks,” she said, forcing a smile and pointing at the 7-Eleven across the street. “My folks have people over.”

Uncle Rutledge stared at her for a few, endless seconds, then said, “Make it quick and then go straight home, all right?”

She nodded and he left, turning off the flashers as soon as he set the patrol car in motion. She stood there, watching his taillights disappear around the corner, wondering what to do, where to go. She needed to get out of there, out of the small town of Creswell, Oregon, where everyone knew everyone, and no one ever minded their own business.

Kirsten came to a crossroads and paused, although the light was green, and she could’ve crossed ahead. If she continued on, for another twenty minutes or so, she would reach the hospital where her mother worked. She would have to explain what happened, and fight with her mom who refused to accept things were so bad in her absence. The cowardly parasite she’d married was a con artist with a record, and good at tricking her into believing whatever lies he told. Every time she’d tried to tell her mom what was going on, Kirsten had ended up grounded and crying, even slapped across the face one time.

But if she turned right, within a few yards she’d reach the highway, where maybe she’d be able to hitch a ride to… Where?

To out of there, anywhere.

She’d find a way to survive. She’d just turned fourteen, but looked older, more mature. With her long, silky blond hair and her full lips, she’d be able to land a job somewhere, waiting on tables for cash at the end of the day, or cleaning motel rooms. Her athletic build and the endurance she’d built running 10-mile races told her she’d be fine, as long as she could get the