Page 67 of Truck Stop Tempest

“Ungrateful fucking cunt.” Erik dragged me through the gravel toward the dark edge of the lot, the world spinning, a whirl of dark sky, gravel, trees. Doom.

His SUV waited in the shadows, a death trap with jaws open to swallow me whole.

There’s a beast inside you.

Rocks tore at my knees, my hips. Fire licked my scalp. But I didn’t yield to him. I didn’t cower.

“Stop! Let go! No, Erik! Help! Somebody, help!” I screamed, and struggled, and clawed at the hand tangled in my hair.

His grip tightened. He jerked, bending my neck at a sharp angle, forcing me flat to the ground, and clamping his other hand around my throat, squeezing tight.

Evil, steely eyes glared down at me. “Scream again, and I’ll shut you up for good.”

I couldn’t breathe. Shards of light danced in my vision. Still, I kicked, and punched, and scratched. Erik was too strong, too large, too full of hate. My desire to live was no match for his need to dominate. No matter how hard I fought, I would never overpower my lifelong tormentor.

Exhausted, I dropped both hands, palms to the ground, met his glare, and relaxed my body, curling my fingers into the loose dirt.

The vise around my throat loosened.

“Good girl,” he growled, leaning foolishly close.

The moment he released my neck, I shoved two handfuls of gravel in his face, aiming for the eyes. He stumbled back. I rolled, pushed to my feet, and ran.

The diner door was so close. I reached for the handle. Pulled. With ungodly force, Erik slammed against me, pinning me to the door, knocking the breath from my lungs. “Where do you think you’re going, kiddo?”

I screamed—twisting, thrashing, fighting. Fighting. Fighting. First punching at the door, then punching at his chest.

He grabbed my throat with one hand, this time pulling me off my feet, sliding me up until we were face-to-face. I kicked, unsure where I would strike. He countered with a punch to my gut.

The world blurred. I dangled in his grip, unable to move, unable to curl into the pain. I hung like a tattered rag doll in his strong hold, waiting for the next blow.

Men’s voices came from somewhere distant. The pounding of feet. Two men ran past, yelling, “Go. Go.”

The cinch around my neck disappeared. I crumbled on the ground. Gasped for air. Blinked through the fog. Tried to make sense of the scene.

More footfalls. “Tuuli. Tuuli. Shit. You okay?”

Tango squatted, hands everywhere, inspecting for injury.

I was far from okay. Angry. Furious. It wasn’t fear that made me tremble, though. Murderous urges fueled my cells.

I batted Tango’s hands away and scrambled to my feet, searching the lot. Erik’s Mercedes was gone.

“You’re safe. He’s gone.”

Roger came our way, phone in hand. He stood next to Tango, heavy breaths, clothes disheveled. “I’m sorry, Tuuli.” He bent at the waist, hands to knees. “I’m so sorry. There was a fight out front, or I would’ve been here. I would’ve seen—”

“Stop. Both of you stop!” I shouted. I needed to go home. I needed Tito. “I’m okay. Really. I’m good. I just want to go home.”

Tango reached for me. “No, Tuuli, that’s not…”

“No!” I raised a palm to shut him up. “Follow me if you have to, but don’t coddle. I need to walk.”

I ignored the heavy footfalls behind me and made the trek across the lot and up the steep incline, my heart heavy, my mind reeling.

Erik had always been violent. But he’d raised his torment to another level. Something had changed. The dynamic altered. He’d always feared my father too much to leave visible bruises, but now? I pressed my fingers to my throat, then swallowed, testing for damage. Ouch. Aside from the pain, everything seemed to work. No doubt, I’d find ugly marks on my neck in the morning. I cringed but stifled my moan.

I was so tired. So damn fed up with feeling insufficient and helpless. I fought, and he still overpowered me.

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