Page 68 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

He finds my phone. He grunts and tosses it away, then drags me off the chair. The motion is shocking, the impact of hitting the floor reverberating up my spine. He rips the button on my jeans and yanks my pants down.

No.

White spots flicker in my vision, but I’m not going out like this. I kick at him and try to scream, but all that comes out is a hoarse whisper. Panic rises in me, sharp and swift. It nearly blinds me with fear.

“Yes, scream some more,” he groans.

I can’t scream. It’s just the low whistle of air—but he seems to like it, because he pinches my thigh until I do it again. Make the pathetic noise, empty my lungs and struggle to fill them.

He dodges my kicks and kneels between my bare legs. Through the mask, it seems like his attention keeps dancing around. From my face to the rope to… lower.

And I’m helpless to stop him from unbuttoning his pants and palming himself. From leaning over me, the mask filling my vision.

twenty

sydney

“What the fuck?”

I catch sight of the driver storming in with someone else hot on his heels. Everything is blurring. But the driver doesn’t just stop—he lunges at the clown-masked man and rips him away from me.

The rope around my neck loosens.

I suck in a deep breath immediately, my lungs filling and the burning subsiding. I inhale so hard I cough. But it soon turns into hyperventilating. I roll into a fetal position and press my forehead to the concrete.

My gasping breaths sound loud in my ears.

“Sit up.” Hands grasp at me, and I’m dragged back against a warm chest. “Hang on, just try to take slow inhales and exhales. Like me.”

I can’t think about breathing until this rope is off my neck. He makes quick work of unwinding it from my torso and hands, finally lifting it up and over my head. My quick inhales and exhales are too shallow, and I try to calm down. The spots in my vision are back, and even Penn’s steadiness at my back doesn’t help much.

My attention is pulled away from me, though, to the driver. He has the clown-masked asshole against one of the mechanic’s lifts. His hand is around the bigger guy’s throat, and while he’s weakly clawing at his arm… he’s not trying to dislodge the driver.

When he releases him and steps back, the big guy sags against the lift.

It’s not enough.

He almost raped me.

“He wouldn’t have.” Penn. In my ear, like always. The little voice of fucking reason.

I shove off him and pull up my damn pants. The button is gone, but the zipper isn’t.

I have always been an underdog, and I know it has a lot to do with money.

Until college, my mom and I were the definition of white trash. Someone who lives in a trailer and doesn’t have a car and walks to school because the bus doesn’t pick up there. And bikes? Bikes cost money. The last time I had a bike was at my dad’s house, and I was seven. It had pink streamers coming from the handles.

When I outgrew it, I didn’t ask for another.

To some, a lack of money means a lack of strength. It’s easy to take advantage of a poor person. It’s easy to dangle something impossible in front of them, just to watch them dance.

And how many times has Mom disappeared with boyfriends for the promise of money? How long did it take me to decide to use some of my savings for a car to get to college?

So maybe people look at me and they see where I came from, but I know I’m worth more.

I’m worth more than this.

Oliver is the driver. His mask is on, but Penn is here… And where would Penn go that Oliver wouldn’t?