Free Wanderlust by Skye Warren

their people.”
    “ And you believe this
bullshit?”
    Anger simmered inside me. “Why are you
doing this?”
    The words immediately meant more than
his antagonism over the story. They were about taking me, keeping
me. About hurting me when he could have simply walked away. Part of
me wanted the truth, however cruel, while the other part hoped that
my words had been swallowed by the hum of the motor, the quiet rush
of the air outside the window.
    “ I don’t know,” he
muttered.
    Not much of an answer, but the raw
honesty I heard in his voice felt like an opening, a crack in the
veneer. Not that he would let me go with apologies or anything that
extreme just because he’d displayed a moment of doubt, but that I
could learn something about this man who held me, see around the
thumb that pinned me down, see beyond the walls that always penned
me in. What made someone like him tick? Why did he do something
like this? Had this moral ambiguity always been inside him or was
it learned, evolved—forced upon him just as it was me?
    “ Who gave you that?” I
asked softly, gesturing to the beads swaying from the
mirror.
    He scowled. “A man who will no longer
speak my name. Does that make you happy?”
    “ What did you do before
you became a truck driver?”
    He looked at me sharply. “Why would
you ask me that?”
    “ I’m curious,” I said
defensively, though not really giving up ground—not yet. “It
doesn’t matter, right? It doesn’t matter what I know. I can’t do
anything to you.”
    “ No, you can’t do anything
to me, not a goddamn thing. You think you’re clever, huh? You want
me to open up to you, and then what? Maybe I’ll fall in love with
you? Maybe I’ll let you go? Not gonna happen. You’re mine. I caught
you, and I’m not giving you back.”
    My throat stung, but I refused to back
down. Maybe I was goading him. Would it be so bad if he snapped?
Then it would be over. The words tumbled forth, unruly and vehement
along the dashboard.
    “ You can keep my body and
you can hurt me and have sex with me, but you’ll never really know
me. You’ll never really have me, just like she didn’t.” It became a prayer,
one for each bead on the rosary. “Never, never, never.”
    A low growl seemed to emanate from his
chest. “I don’t give a shit about knowing you. I just want to use
you.”
    His hand tangled in my hair, dragging
me down to the floorboards. Tears flooded my eyes at the pain—at
the defeat. He unzipped his jeans and shoved inside my mouth, still
guiding my movements with his fist in my hair. I didn’t have time
to consider whether I’d fight. I was already doing it. Not really
sucking, but then I didn’t have to, couldn’t keep up anyway. There
was salt and heat and liquid-coated skin, and then I was gagging,
choking on it, hearing him tell me he still didn’t care as long as
he got what he wanted. He was inflamed, and I had made him that
way.
    “ You’re just like them
anyway,” he grunted. “Just like them, just like them.”
    Like a prayer of his own.
    The body will cope with what it is
given—that was what I learned then. My mind shut off in increments,
until he hit the back of my throat and I didn’t feel like throwing
up anymore. I didn’t feel anything at all, just floating in a sort
of trance while he pulled the truck off on an abandoned weighing
station. Not even when he pushed me back and I sprawled back onto
the floorboard. Not even when he pulled up my skirt. I tensed
slightly, braced against the impact of his invasion, but that was
only physical—it didn’t mean anything. He couldn’t move
me.
    Until he bent his head between my
legs. At first there was nothing. What was he doing? Then I felt
it, small wet caresses. Not blinding pleasure or searing pain but
slow licks, sensual caresses, and a little bit of unwelcome
comfort. It felt like an apology, as he knelt between my knees.
Like atonement.
    The blissful paralysis I’d been
floating in began to thaw