Read Online Text (Take It Off) by Cambria Hebert - Free Book Online
Authors: Cambria Hebert
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took my time, trying to drag out the minutes while trying to formulate some sort of plan. The only plan I could come up with involved not dying.
I guess that meant as soon as my feet touched the ground, I needed to run like hell.
And hide. Hiding might be good.
He got impatient the closer I got and suddenly the rope ladder began to sway as he dragged it upward, bringing me with it. I started to slip and I gripped the rope tighter. The friction between the dirt wall and my fingers ripped open the skin on my knuckles. I bit my lip instead of crying out because I was still standing by my decision of not giving this guy one second of satisfaction.
When I got to the top , he gave the ladder one great yank and I spilled out over the lip, landing hard against my side and sharp pain radiating through my body. I was pretty sure at least a couple of my ribs were broken, and I was staring at the reason why.
Black boots (or shit kickers as some people might say) stepped into my line of vision, and anger swelled within me. It was those boots that nailed me in the ribs; it was those boots that snapped my bones.
I ignored the fierce burning of my scraped knuckles and pushed up onto my knees. He grabbed my hair and yanked me to my feet.
“This isn’t the Stone Age,” I griped. “You aren’t a caveman. Quit pulling my hair.”
Surprisingly , he let go of my ponytail.
Then he backhanded me across the face. I really, really hoped my other eye didn’t swell shut. I kind of needed it to see.
“I’ve had enough of your attitude.”
I’ d had quite enough of his hitting, but I decided against saying so.
He moved to strike me again. My reflexes were faster. I threw my arm up to block the hit and then I kicked him in the shin.
I took off running, not knowing which direction to go, but not caring. Anywhere was better than here.
He tackled me (ha dn’t we played this out before?) and I fell, my face bouncing off the ground. The wind howled around us as my hand closed over a stick, and when he rolled me over, I swung it right at his head.
The tip of the makeshift weapon grazed his cheek and he grunted. Then he grabbed me around the wrist and yanked my arm away. He dug his fingers into my arm until I knew there would be bruises and he bent my wrist until the stick fell out of my grasp.
“What is this?” he asked, leaning down so even in the darkness I could see the wildness in his eyes. “What have you been hiding?”
His hand groped the shape of his phone be neath my sleeve.
I began t o struggle, to kick and hit, to scream and shout. It wasn’t enough to throw him off me, and he forced the phone— his phone —out of my sleeve.
He looked between me and the phone for long, seemingly endless seconds. The weight of his large frame pushed me into the ground, and my breath wheezed in and out of my lungs, every single inhale and exhale hurting.
Slowly , he reached out and unzipped my jacket.
My mind swam with ways I could kill him, with ways I could cause him pain.
“Get off me,” I ground out.
He laughed.
His free hand pushed away the sides of my jacket, baring the white shirt I wore beneath. He made a tsking sound. “So many clothes you wear.”
Then his hand closed over my breast. It was an effort to remain impassive as he roughly kneaded my skin.
He didn’t even seem to notice he was fondling my breasts (thank God I was wearing a shirt and a sports bra) because he was too busy looking at his phone.
Please, Lord, don’t let him look at the call history or the texts.
I knew the second he saw one or the other. His hand gripped my tender flesh and squeezed until I almost cried out. I knocked at his hand, dislodging the worst of his grip.
“You called 9-1-1?” he said, his voice low and flat.
Fear skittered along my nerve endings and the hair on the back of my neck stood tall.
“What did you tell them?” he said, looking at me over the phone.
I remained silent. My hand was lightly feeling around for a rock
I guess that meant as soon as my feet touched the ground, I needed to run like hell.
And hide. Hiding might be good.
He got impatient the closer I got and suddenly the rope ladder began to sway as he dragged it upward, bringing me with it. I started to slip and I gripped the rope tighter. The friction between the dirt wall and my fingers ripped open the skin on my knuckles. I bit my lip instead of crying out because I was still standing by my decision of not giving this guy one second of satisfaction.
When I got to the top , he gave the ladder one great yank and I spilled out over the lip, landing hard against my side and sharp pain radiating through my body. I was pretty sure at least a couple of my ribs were broken, and I was staring at the reason why.
Black boots (or shit kickers as some people might say) stepped into my line of vision, and anger swelled within me. It was those boots that nailed me in the ribs; it was those boots that snapped my bones.
I ignored the fierce burning of my scraped knuckles and pushed up onto my knees. He grabbed my hair and yanked me to my feet.
“This isn’t the Stone Age,” I griped. “You aren’t a caveman. Quit pulling my hair.”
Surprisingly , he let go of my ponytail.
Then he backhanded me across the face. I really, really hoped my other eye didn’t swell shut. I kind of needed it to see.
“I’ve had enough of your attitude.”
I’ d had quite enough of his hitting, but I decided against saying so.
He moved to strike me again. My reflexes were faster. I threw my arm up to block the hit and then I kicked him in the shin.
I took off running, not knowing which direction to go, but not caring. Anywhere was better than here.
He tackled me (ha dn’t we played this out before?) and I fell, my face bouncing off the ground. The wind howled around us as my hand closed over a stick, and when he rolled me over, I swung it right at his head.
The tip of the makeshift weapon grazed his cheek and he grunted. Then he grabbed me around the wrist and yanked my arm away. He dug his fingers into my arm until I knew there would be bruises and he bent my wrist until the stick fell out of my grasp.
“What is this?” he asked, leaning down so even in the darkness I could see the wildness in his eyes. “What have you been hiding?”
His hand groped the shape of his phone be neath my sleeve.
I began t o struggle, to kick and hit, to scream and shout. It wasn’t enough to throw him off me, and he forced the phone— his phone —out of my sleeve.
He looked between me and the phone for long, seemingly endless seconds. The weight of his large frame pushed me into the ground, and my breath wheezed in and out of my lungs, every single inhale and exhale hurting.
Slowly , he reached out and unzipped my jacket.
My mind swam with ways I could kill him, with ways I could cause him pain.
“Get off me,” I ground out.
He laughed.
His free hand pushed away the sides of my jacket, baring the white shirt I wore beneath. He made a tsking sound. “So many clothes you wear.”
Then his hand closed over my breast. It was an effort to remain impassive as he roughly kneaded my skin.
He didn’t even seem to notice he was fondling my breasts (thank God I was wearing a shirt and a sports bra) because he was too busy looking at his phone.
Please, Lord, don’t let him look at the call history or the texts.
I knew the second he saw one or the other. His hand gripped my tender flesh and squeezed until I almost cried out. I knocked at his hand, dislodging the worst of his grip.
“You called 9-1-1?” he said, his voice low and flat.
Fear skittered along my nerve endings and the hair on the back of my neck stood tall.
“What did you tell them?” he said, looking at me over the phone.
I remained silent. My hand was lightly feeling around for a rock
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