Free The Sudden Weight of Snow by Laisha Rosnau Page A

Levi’s. Once the truck was parked, he said few words, his face getting closer as he mumbled something. It took me a while to identify the smell coming with him – Hungry Herbie’s home-cut french fries. I identified it right before he dug his tongue into my mouth.
    I pressed myself up against the passenger side and expressed no desire, hoping this would be enough. Rob Hanshaw backed away and stared at me for a moment, then came back in, one arm a vice around my waist, the other hand taking my own and pressing it against the stiff crotch of his jeans. He continued to jab his tongue around in my mouth while I tried to disassociatefrom my body, but my mind remained pinned between Rob Hanshaw and the truck door. I rubbed at his jeaned crotch to distract him. As he moaned, I twisted my arm, which was pinned behind my back, and groped for the door handle. I fought the instinct to clench my jaw as I slipped my fingers into his button-fly and began popping it open. I had to make him think I wanted it undone as I clawed at the handle with my other hand. Rob Hanshaw noticed and tightened his hold, pulled me up and away from the door in one stiff, swift motion. The force of my grip leaving the handle was enough to jerk it open.
    “Oho,” Rob Hanshaw said. “You’re not trying to leave, are you? We were just starting to have a good time.” He tried to stroke my hair but cursed when he caught a shock of electricity from it. The other hand kneaded my breast in a rhythmic, robotic motion that we girls had all gotten used to after four years of high school. Hand on breast, hand on breast, hand on breast – pulsing there, stuck like one of those small, ferocious dogs that, once attached by the teeth to a limb, will not let go. Hand on breast, hand on breast, hand on breast, while Rob Hanshaw struggled to pry open his unbuttoned fly. I started to move back, an instinct toward fresh air, but soon he had not only his jeans but also his briefs open and was pushing me down there.
    Cold metal buttons. Hard denim. Smooth, hot skin. Pieces of my own hair twisted in my mouth. Fingers like a clamp on the back of my neck. A buoyant voice on the radio announced atrocities big and small. Sweat, pubic hair like a Brillo pad, and the rising taste of salt.
    I gagged, then struggled to breathe, hit my head on thesteering wheel. Rob Hanshaw swore and released his hand from the back of my neck only to push his whole arm between the wheel and my head, wrap his arm around my neck, a lock. My entire body bucked and roared under Rob Hanshaw’s arm. My thrashing legs aimed for the door. I felt a boot hit it, the rush of cold air, the knowledge of space outside the truck. I twisted my body and bit the soft underside of his arm. When he yelped, I was able to pull myself out of the truck, dashboard and seats an apparatus to launch me out. It was completely dark by then, and when I gained balance, I stood staring back into the lit cavity of the truck.
Run
, I told myself, but I didn’t. Just stood there, my breath heaving, and looked back into the truck.
    I saw something pass over Rob Hanshaw’s face – annoyance or embarrassment, I wasn’t sure which – then watched as he gathered that up and wiped his face blank. “Ah, come on,” he said. “Get back into the truck. I’ll give you a ride home.” His tone was like that of a tired parent coaxing a child who had just had a tantrum. I stood there, mesmerized by the wash of yellow light from the cab. Rob Hanshaw sat waiting, staring out the windshield, his arm across the back of the seat. After a moment, he turned to me. “Come on. What are you going to do? Walk? You can’t walk from here, it’s too far.”
    I turned and started walking. Behind me, the truck door closed lightly – he would’ve had to lean across the seat to shut it – and the engine started. I heard a low groan in the axle when the wheel was turned too sharply. Then, the truck was in motion beside me, the window being rolled