“Um, first, fuck you? Uh yeah, no pass, and second, yes.”
Pass? On fucking me? Dickhead. But then I look at my reflection. Still healing lip, yellow faded bruising around my eyes and the fresh purple fingerprints around my neck.
And they are only the physical marks.
I shift my glasses to cover my eyes, flick the collar of my shirt up and shrink back into the seat.
Of course he wouldn’t want me, I’m damaged goods.
Fixing my headphones onto my head, I scroll through my playlist until I find the song I want.
Why do I care if he wants me or not? I sure as hell don’t want him. It’s Rhys.
I make the mistake of looking up at the rear vision mirror and I hate that his eyes are filled with pity as they trace every mark on my body.
I flip him off and press play. Artificial Suicide by Bad Omens fill my ears and pushes away the growing anxiety.
Halfway through the drive, I pick up the sketchpad and pencils that Shane insisted on buying for me. I haven’t drawn in, I can’t remember how long. Ethan didn’t like it. He said it took time away from him or the housework.
You can’t even draw.
It’s a waste of time.
Look how shit this is, then he would rip it in half.
I throw the sketchpad to the side.
He has taken everything from me, and I hate him for that. Tears prick my eyes. I try to discreetly wipe them, but unfortunately my new security detail catches it.
His lip curls up, I don’t know why or at what. But I do my best to ignore it.
Two hours, thirty-four minutes later, we’re turning off the highway at a sign saying, ‘The Station’. Original. And onto a gravel road, which I can only assume takes us to the homestead.
The road in is corrugated. Meaning it’s bumpy as all hell and slow. I asked why and he just grunted at me.
Shane has mostly been quiet, and Rhys has just had his music blaring. I just watched the scenery pass us by. Didn’t stop the feeling of eyes on me. Every time I looked up, Rhys was looking in the mirror at me but would quickly look away whenever I looked.
Was he looking at the bruises? Pitying me. Again? Either way, I decided to keep my head down and turn away, so the bruising is obscured.
I fucking hate you, Ethan Whitmore.
After what feels like the longest part of this whole trip, we pull up to what can only be described as a small compound.
To the right there are huge sheds, and they even have their own fuel pump. There’s also beat up small four-wheel drives. What the?—?
To the left there’s what appears to be a small shop. The further we drive in, I can see caravans dotted here and there, and even a row of dongas.
“I thought this was a cattle station?”
“It is, but Brent, the owner, turned it into a caravan park as well. Not to mention the backpackers we get here, so he also threw in the dongas.”
I don’t reply, I just sit back and take in everything as we slowly creep by it all.
Then I see the homestead, and it’s beautiful. Red brick, with large windows, a tin roof, and a wraparound veranda. Unfortunately, we drive past that as well, only to arrive at a smaller house, that is equally beautiful on the outside. Unlike the homestead, this is white brick. Well, it was white. The dust has tinted the bricks a shade of red.
“This is us.” The car comes to a stop, and we all file out and stretch out stiff muscles. Rhys turns to me and says, “I set up one of the rooms for you. Sorry Shane, you’re on the couch, mate.”
“Yeah, no problem. I’m only here for a few days, anyway.”
