Page 19 of The Misfits
You can’t get more cock-thickening than that.
six
CLAUDIA
“Claudia... what the fuck? I told you to run.”
Dexter’s words are slurred, and his face is as white as Bryce’s. When he stumbles forward, I barely catch him before he hits the dirt as rapidly as Bryce did.
With him being a good foot taller than me and at least thirty pounds heavier, it takes all my strength to keep him upright so we can continue into the woods. I wasn’t sure if the bangs ricocheting off the dense tree line were from the thunder clapping above my head or gunshots. Now I know without a doubt.
I shouldn’t have turned around. I should have kept running until my legs gave out from exhaustion, but after hearing the things Lee and Bryce planned to do tonight, I would never truly be free if Dexter didn’t also escape.
I’ve been seeking a way out of this hellhole for years, but with the front doors secured with a pick-proof lock, I could never hatch a suitable escape plan. That’s why I toed the line like a good, obedient girl.
When my mother died, I wanted to fall to my knees and weep. My father would have none of it. She was not to be mourned. She was forgotten, pushed to the back of my mind. I had to act like she never existed, and that’s precisely what I’ve done the past five years. I acted as if I am a ghost.
And what did I get for my efforts?
Another man who wanted to use and abuse me.
The gleam in Lee’s eyes when he told me I was safe was one I had seen many times before. It was the same glimmer my daddy’s eyes got before he punished me. Even his slimy grin was identical. If it weren’t for Dexter, he would have hurt me—possibly in a way I’ve never been touched. The notion alone had me spinning on my feet to ensure Dexter escaped the fiery depths of hell with me.
A few minutes later, a harrowing moan grumbles from Dexter’s mouth. With nearly all his body weight on my shoulders, I assumed he had passed out.
“Right.” He grunts his one word as if it is an entire sentence, and the nudge of his head strengthens his demand.
I take a sharp right, which veers away from the streetlights peeking over the horizon and the sirens howling in the distance. I drop my eyes to Dexter’s, seeking further instructions. Pain fetters his face, but only for a short time. It is in and out in under a second. He doesn’t want to add to the panic misting my skin more effectively than the big drops of moisture falling from the sky.
“In approximately two miles, there’s a cabin. There are clues in the grass to help you find it. It’s hidden by shrubs.” His deep voice is garbled with pain. “They won’t find us there. We can bunker down for a few days.”
We?
I like the sound of that.
I was scared to death about entering the bush alone. It wasn’t the men chasing me causing my throat-pounding response. It was the bats hovering above my head and the occasional scrape across my ankles not caused by fallen tree limbs.
“Can you see the marks? They look like bear prints,” Dexter asks, his words barely audible. My feet skid to a stop as I scan the area. Upon hearing my thrashing heart raging in the silence of the night, Dexter chuckles, “They aren’t real bear prints. Just made-up ones. My father leaves them as clues so he can find his way home.”
I’m glad he can find humor in our situation. I can’t. When I drop my eyes to my shoes, nothing but sludge and mud reflect back at me. I can barely see the ground, much less old marks that have most likely faded with time.
“Trust m-me, Claudia,” Dexter stammers after reading my thoughts with an edge a stranger shouldn’t have. “There’s a cabin here somewhere. You’ve just got to follow the clues.”
Panic rises to my chest when his head flops forward. Within a mere second, his arm clamped around my shoulders triples in weight. I scream his name on repeat inside my head, but he doesn’t wake up. He’s passed out, quite possibly dead, but it’s too dangerous for us to wait here until he regains consciousness, and if he’s wrong about the bear prints being fake, we’re a sitting target.
We have to keep moving, I just don’t know how.
While recalling my daily routine of scaling the stairs of my family home with my drunk dad on my back, I tighten Dexter’s grip around my shoulders before hoisting him off the ground. My knees wobble under the excessive weight, but with my lower back bearing most of the pain, I take a laborious step forward.
Because Dexter is taller than me, his feet drag across the mud with every painstaking step I take. In a way, it’s a godsend. It hides my footprints from anyone seeking them, and any evidence he fails to remove, I’m sure the rain will take care of.
Approximately two hours later, my slug-like steps come to a stop. A cabin is standing roughly twelve feet in front of me. It is canopied by creeping weeds and overgrown grass as Dexter said.
I’m wary to approach. It appears empty, but three shingles on the rickety awning have been newly repaired, announcing someone was here more recently than the unkempt appearance alludes.
“Ugh.” I nudge Dexter with my shoulder, hoping my grunt and bump routine will wake him.
It doesn’t. He continues drooling on my neck, and the flutters of his breath in the blood pooled in the corner of his mouth are the only indication that he’s alive.
