Page 77 of The Auction
“Don’t do it, Creed,” I wailed, my back sliding against the door until my ass hit the floor. “It won’t feel good. Trust me, Iknow.”
The tears were back and I knocked my head back against the door, once, twice. If I could have done it hard enough to black out, I would have.
As it was, it didn’t take long to cry myself into unconsciousness.
When my eyesblinked open I saw the sunlight beaming through the curtains. The window in my bedroom was cracked open to let the fresh air seep in and every bone in my body felt the pain of sleeping on an old wood floor beside the door.
The music was gone. I heard nothing. My eyes barely opened and my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls.
I might have thought I’d gotten drunk last night like Creed had accused me, if I wasn’t absolutely positive I had scoured this house for some hidden bottle of whiskey, only to come up empty.
Fuck Herb and his commitment to temperance.
This was just the result of a long, hard crying jag.
I had to pee. I had to put some cold water over my eyes. I needed to brush my teeth and rehydrate.
I sat up, my back against the door, and reached behind me for the door knob.
It turned.
At some point last night he had unlocked the door.
I got up, and waited to see if my legs would hold me. They did. Then I left my bedroom and crossed into the bathroom.
After taking care of business, a cold shower helped to clear my head.
I knew in my bones what I had to do now.
Back in my room, I threw on jeans and a t-shirt that barely reached the top of my jeans. Clothes that I’d long ago outgrown but still wore because this was what I had. This was the only thing I had.
I got down on my knees next to the bed, and lifted up the wood slat under my bed where I’d hidden my stash of cash. With the extra twenties I’d accumulated, I had more than thirteen hundred dollars now. It wasn’t enough, but depending how long it took Creed to shut off the debit card, I might be able to add another three hundred in cash plus whatever I could put on credit.
I grabbed a duffle bag from the top of my closest and stuffed everything I could fit inside, which was basically everything I owned, summer and winter gear.
The only thing I left in the closet was that fucking pink dress and the ballet slippers. Plus, the corsage that I’d dried out and kept in a box.
You need to take that dress. You could interview for jobs in that dress.
Staring at it hard, I willed the emotions away. The feelings I’d felt when I’d been wearing it.
Happiness.
There was no such thing for the likes of me. Those were just the breaks for a girl born to Herb Clarke on a sugar beet farm in Montana.
I pulled it off the hanger, rolled it into a ball, stuffed it into the bag, and shoved the slippers on top of it. Once I got a job interview, it would iron.
But the corsage. That could stay.
Stepping back out onto the upper landing outside my bedroom door, I listened for any sound inside the house. Not that he would care that I was leaving.
He won.
With zero sense of stealth, I walked outside and made my way to my truck. I tossed my duffle bag in the back seat, got in behind the wheel, and pulled the keys out from the cup holder. Except when I tried to turn the engine over, nothing.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I said, my head falling back against the headrest.
It was most likely a dead battery, I thought. Not a big deal. I could deal with that. Ever since Creed had given me his little speech about what he could do to disable an engine, I’d been studying up. I had jumper cables and could jump a battery if I needed to.
