Page 1 of On Your Knees

Chapter One

Aspen

“Fuck off, you human equivalents of a participation award!”

Sure, it’s not the best insult I’ve ever thought up, but I’m furious and walking backward, away from the house, while my two ex-roommates watch me leave. I flip them off. Apparently they have wanted to ask me to move out for a while because I make their boyfriends uncomfortable.

Well, fuck their boyfriends!

All because Simon touched my ass, and I gave him a bloody nose. He deserved it, and yet I’m theone being punished. The fuck stain. And what is with fucking S names?

“Just so you know, your boyfriend has herpes. I overheard Lisa saying he blamed her.”

Sunny’s mouth drops open, and her face turns red. Yeah bitch, how do you like that shit? Your boyfriend is a whore and sleeps with the entire female population at Pinehaven University. Though Sunny had to know; she is head cheer bitch.

Honestly, I shouldn’t have accepted the room. It was a pity invite because her mother was best friends with mine back when they were in high school. Well, then my mom had me. But she dumped me on my grandmother’s doorstep and Gran raised me until she was sent to an old-age home. I work my ass off to make sure she has what she needs. The woman is a damn saint and deserves the best.

“Eat a dick, Aspen,” Sabrina throws back.

My ass bumps into my Uber. “Shit,” I mumble, before turning and jumping into the back, throwing my bag beside me.

I don’t have many possessions. When I moved in with Sabrina and Sunny, the room came fully furnished, and I was grateful I didn’t have to use my small amount of savings to buy furniture. School and work are all I have ever known. From the time I was old enough, I worked at Mary’s hair salon, sweeping floors and cleaning. I think she felt sorry for me, but from there I picked up as many odd jobs as I could. I now work at the local college bar, The Syllabus. It pays well in tips—from horny rich college guys who think they have a shot with me, whichthey don’t. The last thing I want is to get knocked up and end up like my parents, or more specifically, my mother. I have not heard from her since my sixteenth birthday. I thought she came to see me, but I was dead wrong—she stormed in and yelled at my grandmother and left, without even a “Happy birthday, daughter.” My father? Who knows who he is? She refuses to tell us and I’m probably better off anyway.

For good measure, as the car pulls away from the curb, I rise on the seat and press my ass cheeks to the window. I’m sure that will end up all over social media, and at this point I don’t care. I slump back in my seat and pull the seatbelt on.

Finally looking up, I blink a few times and scream.

This is not my Uber!

Panic sets in, my heart thumps against my chest, and sweat dampens my armpits. It is my worst nightmare come true. This is a Ridez car. They came out last month, a new technological advancement with no fucking driver—that does not sit well with me. The car continues as I hyperventilate. I’m not scared of much in this life, but cars that drive themselves just ain’t right. How the fuck do they know when to stop? Or what if a rogue driver cuts in front? What then?

In front of me is a screen which shows where I’m going and it’s all the way across town—the opposite direction of where I need to be.

Stabbing the emergency button makes a woman’s voice fill the space.

“How may Ihelp you?”

“I—I need you to let me out.”

“I’m sorry, miss. Once the car auto locks you cannot get out until your destination.”

My head is dizzy and I’m on the verge of throwing up. “You don’t understand. I need to get the fuck out of this car NOW. This is not my ride. LET ME OUT!”

“If you would just calm down . . .”

“Calm down. Calm fucking down?! Put me on to someone who can help me, or I will fuck this car up.” Rummaging through my bag, I pull out a pair of nail scissors. They’re not a great weapon, but I can do damage to these leather seats if needed. I won’t do it, or at least I hope it won’t come to that, but I can’t be held responsible for what I will do when in panic mode.

The voice goes quiet.

“Hello,” a male voice says, and his smooth tone momentarily calms my nerves.

His face appears on the screen.

My chest tightens like a steel band is crushing my ribs. I can’t get enough air—each breath comes too fast, too shallow, like I’m drowning. Pins and needles shoot through my fingers as my hands curl in on their own accord. My vision blurs at the edges, dark spots creeping in as the car sways. My throat feels tight, like I’m breathing through a straw. Panic claws at my ribs, pressing harder.

I know I have to slow down my breathing, but my body refuses to listen. The more I gasp for air, the more I feel like I’m suffocating. Fear grips me—am I dying?Is this it?

“If I’m going to die, just lay the truth on me. Eventually, there will be no air left in here and I will suffocate. Fuck, how much air do we get in here?”

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