Page 50 of Truck Stop Tempest

Dad held his favorite belt, one end wrapped around his wrist, the buckle end striking Riley’s broken skin over and over.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear through the ceiling and help the boy. I couldn’t move with Jonas’s full weight on top of me, pinning my face to the floor, where I couldn’t see anywhere but through the crack, couldn’t see anything but the brutality of a scene I’d lived over and over. The only difference was I’d never been chained, or half-naked. Dad had never hit me hard enough to leave permanent physical marks.

My father dropped the belt. His face was red, his eyes sleepy looking, his breaths shallow. He stared for a long time at the shaking boy before licking his lips, unbuttoning his pants, and rubbing his hand up and down his crotch. He stepped closer to Riley, then half-groaned, half-whispered, “Time to earn your place, boy,” and pulled the zipper of his fly down.

I tried to scream again, my whole body quaking with the force.

Jonas rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him, spitting out, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” into my ear. He pressed his face to my wet cheek, “Show’s over, brat. Cover your ears.”

I cried, and screamed silent, “No. No. No’s” into his hand.

“Tuuli. Shh. I’m here. You’re safe.”

I bolted into a sitting position, sweaty, crying, and about to vomit. I barely registered the fact that Tito was next to me. I threw the blankets off and stumbled down the dark hall to the toilet.

I didn’t puke. There wasn’t food in my stomach to purge. Instead, I braced my hands on the porcelain seat, arms locked, and stared into the bowl, tracking the little ringlets my tears made as they dropped into the water.

Tito’s bare feet passed my periphery. He sat on the edge of the tub, elbows to knees, head in his hands. “I’m going to ask you a tough question. I need the truth.”

I swiped a swelling tear from my eyelash and nodded, feeling every agonizing inch of distance between us.

“Did your father hurt you? Was he abusive?”

I retched, fighting another wave of nausea. “Why would you ask me that?”

“You were talking in your sleep. And it sounded like…” Tito huffed, stood straight, pounded the wall, then mumbled, “Never mind,” before pushing past me, retreating.

What I said next stopped him cold. “He was abusive. All the men were. But he never sexually abused me, if that’s what you’re asking. He never—” My voice broke. God. I hated revealing my ugly past, but once the bucket of truth had tipped, there was no stopping the runoff. “He never touched me because he likes boys.”

The air shifted. Every muscle of his bare torso rolled before going rigid. “The fuck’d you say?”

I didn’t elaborate. Deep down, I knew I was as guilty as my father for not telling anyone what I’d seen all those years ago. What I’d always known, even though I didn’t fully understand the depths of his abuse. Then again, I’d only been a child. Jonas had made me promise never to tell. He’d said my father would kill us. I had believed him.

I had never returned to my favorite hiding spot after witnessing what really happened during my father’s private meetings. I had never gone near my father’s office again.

Avoidance and denial—a warm, fuzzy blanket to a guilty soul.

Tito turned, and I could swear he trembled. A full-bodied, violent shiver. I hated the way he looked at me like I’d just admitted to killing kittens for pleasure.

I straightened, too, reflecting his glare. “Now, do you understand why I didn’t want anyone to know who I was or where I came from?”

I pushed past where he stood bone stiff and hunted for my clothes. I needed to leave. I needed to put the past twenty-four hours, hell, the past twenty years, behind me. Forget my family. Forget the Truck Stop. Forget Tito.

Start fresh. On my own terms.

“Where are my clothes?”

“In the trash. I tossed them. They were ruined.” He scratched the stubble along his jawline, stared at the floor, eyes unfocused. “Your father fucks boys?”

“You threw away my clothes?”

“Yes.” He fisted his hands at his sides, the muscles in his arms flexing, twisting in short spasms. “He’s hurting kids?”

I didn’t want to talk about my father. “You do realize I have nothing to wear, right? Everything I own was in Jonas’s trailer, including my ID, my bank card. Everything. And you have to know I can never step foot in that place again; I can’t. Not after—”

“Tuuli.”

I didn’t want to think about the blood. The dead girls. “You said I have to leave this morning. How am I supposed to do that with no clothes?”

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