Little Rejects

CHAPTER ONE | CHERRIE

ANYONE WHO HAS EVER worked a minimum wage retail job will tell you, there is a side to Grandma and Grandpa that comes out when they think they can get away with being shitty human beings. It doesn’t seem to process that without some college dropout like me to man the only gas station for three hundred miles, they’d be some cannibal’s supper right now and they should be grateful, not telling me how useless my life actually is.

As right as they might be.

“It must be nice not having anything important to deal with all the way out here,” the short, stump of a woman mutters while her crane of a husband excavates his wallet for loose coins.

He slaps down a whole fifty cents in nickels. “And I bet you think you deserve a raise,” he says, adding his metaphorical two cents. “Twenty-five dollars an hour to sit behind a counter and watch people pump their own gas. Back in my day, you’d get your tank filled, your windows washed, and your tires filled for a quarter.”

I don’t speak right away. Not because I’m too pissed by the unnecessary commentary to find the words, but because I’m contemplating how to broach the fact that his fly is wide open and a fat, red Spiderman face is playing peekaboo with me through the gap.

“Is there anything else I can get for you guys?” I ask sweetly because if I get one more customer complaint, Hahn threatened to dock my pay, and I need that money to get the duck out of Jefferson.

No. I said duck because according to sweet, little ol’ Mrs. Carter living in the apartment under mine, Jesus isn’t going to save my gosh darn soul if I talk like a gutter rat, and there is very little I wouldn’t do for that woman.

“My change would be nice,” Paul Bunyan says.

I glance down at the crumpled twenty and fistful of silver coins. Then at him, gauging his level of seriousness.

He’s serious.

Careful not to let my retail face slip, I reach into the register and pop a whole, shiny penny down on the scuffed glass covering the scratch tickets and slide it over to his side with one finger.

“You get home safe now,” I say.

He swipes it and gives me a smug smirk as if he sure showed me. “You should consider smiling more. You’d get more customers.”

I tried. Jesus saw me. He knows I ducking tried.

“When I want advice, I’ll ask someone not wearing Spiderman briefs.”

The smile slips off his face and both people drop their eyes to his midsection. The wife cries out as if I’d kicked her puppy and the man sputters while fighting with his zipper.

“How dare you!” the wife squawks. “This is not how you treat paying customers. I will be making a formal complaint to your boss.”

Of course you are, I think, but only smile back at them as they hurry to the door. It smacks noisily against the silver bell. I watch them sprint across the icy concrete to their Pontiac Firebird parked at pump two and climb in.

The wife has her phone out and I know Hahn is about to get a call.

Great.

Sure enough, forty minutes later, Hahn is screaming into my ear, a relentless stream of threats we both know he will never carry out because I am the only stupid person in a five-hundred-mile radius who even wants this job. Moreover, I’m the only person willing to do manager work at part time pay. I could still be in town, waitressing and still make more on tips alone, but I learned quickly I possess zero patience and hate people. My little bubble of solitude suits me just fine.

“I’m sorry, Cherrie, but ... you’re fired.”

I blink. That is not how the conversation usually goes.

“What? Are you serious?”

Hahn hesitates just long enough to make me think maybe he’d spoken in haste, but then he sighs and says, “You can’t be mean to customers. It’s bad for business. Close up. Drop off your keys tomorrow, okay?”

Not okay. I’m tempted to point out that they were mean to me first, but he has already hung up.

“Ducks!” I snarl, slamming the phone down on the counter.

I rub the tips of eight fingers into my brow. I should have kept my mouth shut. I knew the risks and I still let a couple of assholes get me worked up.

Now what am I supposed to do? I will talk to Hahn in the morning. That’s what. I will make him change his mind and once he does, I will be on my best behavior. I will watch my mouth and say nothing no matter what.

Taking a breath, I start the closing process. I tell myself this is a blessing in disguise because the weather is supposed to be getting bad by the time I made the forty-five-minute hike back into town a little after midnight, but the weight in my chest won’t loosen.

I’ve never been fired from a job before. Maybe because I kept to myself and did my job, but people tended to leave the poor orphan girl alone and I liked that. Jefferson knew when to mind its own business.

The town of just under eight thousand prides itself on being a family, unless you don’t have one. Then you don’t belong, not that anyone would say that to your face. No. They were too God-fearing for that. Instead, you’re treated as if you just got released from prison and need to be watched closely in case you contaminate the other good folk with your unholiness.

After my parents died, it didn’t matter that both of them were born and raised amongst the good people of Jefferson, nor did it matter that so had my grandma who took me in after. It was only important that none of them had belonged to a holy community and so, no one knew who was supposed to look after me when I was left alone, which is fine because I don’t want them either. Plus, I have every intention of leaving this place as soon as I have enough money to start somewhere else.

That’s why I need to talk to Hahn. Whatever I have to do, I’m going to do it to keep this job.

Tomorrow though. I need to let Hahn cool down.

I leave the front and head into the staff room that doubles as a storage and grab my coat and purse. I bring both to the front and drop them on the counter. I put up a sign on the window to let people know we were closed early due to weather. A lie, but I’m not announcing I’d been fired. I flip off the open sign and shut off the pumps.

I’m in the process of locking up the till when the glass door flies open. It’s so violent and unexpected, I jump. The coins I’d been counting clatter to the counter and spill across the floor. I’m cursing and stepping back to catch the escaped dimes and yelling at the asshole we’re closed when I just catch the dark figure swinging up and over the table from the corner of my eye. I whip around but five fingers are clamped over my mouth and across the back of my head. I can just see the dark hood when the lights snap off and I’m being forcibly wrestled to the ground.

Terror freezes me for all of two seconds before I’m fighting. I’m kicking and clawing at the crisp fabric of his jacket. I can’t see his face, but I know it’s a man just based on the broad width of his shoulders and the strength of his arms as he effortlessly pins me to the icy floor. His body presses into mine, keeping me weighted down as he captures my flailing arms and fixes them over my head with only one, gloved hand around both of my wrists. The other never wavers from my mouth, locking in my screams.

My air.

He stares down at me from a ghastly, white face and thin, black eyes. I’m ready to wet myself with the knowledge that he’s a ghost, a familiar one, granted, when I realize he’s wearing an Anonymous mask like that movie with Natalie Portman .

I buck my hips, trying to get the ducker off. My efforts are met with a solid thigh coming up between my legs. Far up. High enough that I stop breathing with a little whimper I didn’t predict.

“Easy, chérie ,” he murmurs low against my ear. “You’re safe.”

Says the masked asshole pressing miles of hard, toned muscles down on top of me.

I’m panting. He’s not. He’s still and solid, and smelling of winter, cigarettes, and something. Something weirdly familiar.

“Get off me, you prick!” I snarl into the leather, the words garbled in the semi darkness.

“Shhh,” he says calmly. “Just a minute longer. Be a good girl for me.”

My cheeks warm even as my embarrassment at being affected by the low, dusky purr of this guy’s voice prickles my temper.

“I’m not your good girl,” I snap.

His face dips and I think for a horrific moment he’s going to kiss me. “Don’t make me punish you, chérie .”

My eyes widen and I stare up into the dark spots where his eyes watch me. I can feel their amusement and gravity bearing down on me.

Over his head, I can just make out the swing of lights. The raised crunch of boots on snow. There’s someone outside. Possibly help.

“Don’t,” he warns quietly as if reading my thoughts. “They won’t hear you.”

But they might. They could. If I make enough noise...

The knee settled unwaveringly high shifts. Just a nudge. I don’t think it’s intentional. I think he’s trying not to squish me, but the bump makes my entire body stiffen. My lungs hitch. My stomach ... flutters. I should be terrified. This is every woman’s nightmare, but I’m not scared. I’m annoyed ... and hot.

What the hell is wrong with me? No more BookTok for me. No more. I’m uninstalling the app. I’m throwing away my phone. I’m burning every book that was recommended...

He does it again. Intentional this time. So intentional. He presses and grinds, and my ducking throat releases a moan. My body shivers.

Dammit!

“Such a dirty girl.” He chuckles darkly. The cool plastic of the mask grazes my cheek. “If you’re really quiet, I’ll give you exactly what you want.”

No. No! I don’t want. I definitely don’t want.

But I am brutally, painfully aware of that knee. The very heat of it is burning through the thin fabric of my tights. His coiled thigh is right there. I could...

He knows my name.

The realization has me wiggling all over again for freedom. It’s not the smartest idea when it’s only rubbing me harder against him and the harder I squirm, the bigger the bulge nestled against my hip grows. But he’s from Jefferson. He knows me, which means I know him, which means I hate him because I hate everyone in that Godforsaken town.

“Get off me, you sick duck!”

“Shut her up!” someone else in the stillness hisses, and I freeze.

He’s not alone. There are other people. Men. Other men. Now, I am scared because I can’t see them. I don’t know how many there are. I don’t know what they want or what they’ll do to me after.

Tears prickle as hard as I try to fight it.

“Hey, look at me,” he murmurs softly. “You’re safe as long as you stay quiet, okay?”

I have no choice but to nod. His thumb lightly brushes my cheek. Brushes the solitary tear that escapes.

“Not going to hurt you,” he promises.

I believe him. I’m clearly deranged and hit my head too hard, but I believe him.

Something bangs towards the back of the station. I jump and my companion tightens his hold. I’m not sure if he’s trying to keep me from bolting or trying to protect me. Maybe both. But his face is nearly against the side of my neck. His breathing slow, despite the heavy crack of his heart matching mine.

He’s scared.

I don’t know why that bothers me, but I find myself going so still. Like I don’t want to make a single sound to get him caught.

Definitely deranged.

“You’re doing so well,” he says into my ear. “Such a good girl.”

I hate it.

I hate the words. The implication. The way my heart glitters like some magical unicorn on fart crack. I hate that I want to hate it. I hate that I want to be a good girl for him.

Prick. Whoever he is. I hope he gets eaten by geese.

As if sensing my desire to watch him get mauled by feathery demons, he raises his head. Our faces inches apart.

Another bang.

I flinch.

“Is the back door locked?” that other voice barks low from somewhere on the other side of the room.

“Chérie?” my companion says without asking.

I could lie, but I find my stupid head nodding.

His thumb skims my cheek again. “It’s locked,” he calls.

“Go check,” the other voice snaps, and I think he’s talking to my guy when a third, familiar voice responds in the dark.

“On it.”

Just how many were there?

The third slam of something weighty hitting the metal grates blocking the backdoor elicits a whimper from me that my companion shushes gently.

“They won’t get you,” he promises.

Were they not the cops? I had assumed he was on the run from the law, and it was the fuzz trying to get in, but what if he’s running from something worse? Other criminals.

I suck in a shaky breath and inhale him again. The chill threaded in his clothes is nearly all gone, but tobacco and ... God, what is that? I know it.

“It’s locked,” says the second voice coming back to the front. “But they’re trying real hard to get in.”

“Fuck sakes,” the first voice mutters. “Give them a few minutes. Once they round to the front, we’ll slip out the back.”

“What about Cherrie?” the second voice asks, and I’m struck again that I know these people.

“What about her?” the first voice snaps, annoyed.

“We can’t just drag her through this storm,” the second voice retorts.

“She doesn’t have a fucking choice,” the first reminds him sharply. “She can walk out, or we’ll carry her. No matter what, her ass is coming with us.”

“Asshole,” I garble around the leather, and my companion snickers, which almost makes me grin.

“I’ll carry you,” he tells me quietly. “But walking would be easier, okay?”

He’s making it really hard to stay pissed when he’s being so sweet and sexy. I can lie and say I’m not into it, but I’m accepting that there’s something wrong with me and I’m really into it.

God damn masked men of TikTok .

But inner humiliation aside, I’m dying to see his face. Even just his eyes. I know they would be deep and beautiful like his voice. They would be so dark as they pin me in place and call me his good girl.

A shiver rocks through me that I know he feels. My thighs tighten before I realize he’s still between them. Still against my swelling clit.

“Shit,” I moan without thinking, and if I think he doesn’t hear me, his head cocks to the side.

I go so very still. My eyes fix on the curve of his plastic smile. I’m trying hard not to show just how turned on I am.

“Fuck, chérie ,” he growls for my ears only. “You’re killing me.”

Air I’d been holding prisoner in my lungs escapes in a jagged, pathetic whine not at all muffled by his palm. The fingers flex against my cheek. His knee aligns and grinds, and I choke on nothing and everything.

“Shhh, baby. Shhh,” he rasps into the mask. Into my cheek. His breathing is as suffocated as mine. “Cum for me, chérie . I fucking need it.”

This is not at all right. I know it’s not and there is a voice somewhere at the back of my mind sounding the alarm, but he’s moving into me. His thigh is fanning an inferno and mine are pulling apart in encouragement and I’m horribly aware of my spine crunching into the floor and my sweater riding over my waistband. I gasp and rise to meet him, to take the pressure he’s offering, and he shushes me again when I sob and throw my head back.

Am I seriously dry humping a masked stranger holding me hostage on the floor of the gas station? Am I seriously about to cum on his damn leg like some horny Chihuahua?

Fuck yeah I am.

I’m sliding under him, taking his full weight. Taking his cock against my aching core. My knees are wide around his ribs, the heels of my sneakers anchoring into linoleum.

“Fuck!” he snarls and yanks his hand off my face and I can finally breathe. I can scream for help, but I’m biting my lip as he slams us together.

Our fingers intertwining above my head and we’re all but fucking right there behind the register.

“Don’t stop! Please. Don’t,” I beg.

“I won’t. Cum for me, chérie .”

“What the fuck are you doing?” someone snarls from somewhere, but I’m cumming in a shower of dark sparks behind squeezed eyelids and the man taking me over is as loud as I am getting me there, telling me to cum for him and I do because I’m his good girl and he’s growling it into my ear.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants as I whine into his shoulder. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

The scuffed, yellow smiley sticker plastered to the bottom of the counter grins down at me. Judging. Bringing reality curling up over me as realization settles heavy on my chest. What did I just do? Was I out of my mind? What is wrong with me? This whole thing could have been a prank by the local assholes and I just dry fucked one of them like a rabbit on speed.

“ Chérie ...” he murmurs quietly, but I’m ready to die. I want to die.

“Get off me,” I choke out around the ball of glass in my throat.

Someone is hissing loudly in the background, words I can’t make out but they sound furious. All I hear is him lowering his face to whisper, “I’ve wanted to hear you cum for me for so fucking long, mon chérie .”

And that’s when it hits me. I suddenly know exactly who is still cradled between my legs because he’s not saying my name when he says Chérie, and only one person has ever called me mon chérie.

My head snaps up and I think I see just the hint of hazel through the mask’s eye holes. My heart claps in my chest.

“Tieran?”