Under the Midnight Sky
“Do you have everything you need?”
I rest my hand on my little brother’s shoulder.
He nods. “Lexy, I’ve been living on campus for four months now. Don’t worry.”
“Mason, please don’t drink too much, and stay away from drugs. You know how that messes you up and…”
“Lexy.”
He pulls me into a hug, my head barely reaching his chin. When did he get so tall?
“You need to stop worrying about me,” he murmurs into my hair.
“You practically raised me. You worked your ass off on two jobs so I could be here, in college, with a scholarship I could never get on my own. You gave me more than a big sister should ever have to give her little brother. Now it’s time to think about yourself. ”
He pulls back and studies my face like he’s searching for the truth behind the lie I’m wearing.
“How’s the new apartment?”
I keep my expression steady. “Great. I love it.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“You sure it’s in a good neighborhood?”
I hug him again before he can dig deeper. He’s too smart. Too perceptive.
“I promise, little honey bear.”
“Please don’t call me that,” he groans. “It’s bad for my image.”
I smirk. “You love it.”
“No, I loved it when I was seven and you took care of me.”
“You’ll always be my honey bear.” I ruffle his blond hair.
“Alright, I have a two-hour drive back. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.” He smiles.
I take a long breath. After everything life threw at us…I got him out. Out of Boulder Flats. Into the University of Wyoming. Into a future.
“Bye, kid. Call me if you need anything.”
“Bye, big sis.”
I close his dorm room door and let my fake smile fall.
He doesn’t need to know I’m not really living in my own apartment.
I’m stuck at the trailer for at least another month before I can save enough for a down payment.
Mason thinks I already moved in, but I didn’t.
I just sent him some pictures I found online and always check my background when he FaceTimes.
With his classes and football, he hasn’t had time to come visit, and honestly, I’m grateful.I had the money saved.
I was supposed to move the same day he did.
But my mother went to the bank, and some idiot teller believed the forged paper she brought with my signature. She drained everything.
I found out when I tried to pay the down payment and my account was at zero.
I never told Mason. He’d drop out of college in a heartbeat to help me, and I refuse to let him throw away the future I bled for.
The truth of how we got here lives heavy in my bones.
The first ten years of my life were good. Safe.
A small house with a yard. A dad who worked at the pharmacy and a mom who worked at the hospital. Mason arrived when I was four, this tiny, wrinkly thing who always held onto my finger like he knew I’d protect him.
Then came the night everything broke.
My father was killed in an armed robbery when I was ten. Three minutes changed everything. Mom sold the house. We moved into a trailer “for a little while.”
A little while turned into forever.
She met Russel soon after. Harley. Leather. Tattoos. Flowers he gave her when she cried. I was eleven and desperate for her to be happy again, so I ignored the uneasy twist in my stomach.
She married him within a year.
It turns out he was part of a motorcycle club and was sleeping with several of the club girls.
When my mother found out, that was the first time he hit her.
She didn’t leave. She numbed herself, pills first, then alcohol.
I begged her to get out, but she sank deeper and deeper until she was practically a ghost.By twelve, I was the one packing Mason’s lunches.
Making sure he got to school on time. Reading to him at night.
I learned early to make myself small when Russel brought his club brothers home. To stay quiet. To stay out of the way.
But even silence can’t protect you.
When I was fourteen, I forgot to lock our bedroom door.
I woke up to one of Russel’s buddies in my room. Drunk. His hand on my thigh. I screamed, grabbed the baseball bat from under my pillow and swung so hard he dropped like a stone.
Russel got mad and hit me across the face. Then he leaned in close and whispered,
“Next time you fight back, you’ll disappear. And your brother will end up in an orphanage.”
And I believed him.
At sixteen, I got a job, then two, and dropped out of high school so Mason wouldn’t have to. He was bright. Talented. A football star. He had a chance to leave all of this behind.
I wasn’t going to be the reason he stayed trapped.
Now I’m twenty-two. I don’t have a degree or a real place to live. I barely have money left because I poured everything into Mason’s college dream. I’d do it again. A thousand times.
I start my old truck and drive back to Boulder Flats. When I see the trailer and Russel’s bike isn’t there, I feel a tiny flicker of relief.
Inside, Mom is passed out on the couch, an empty bottle hanging from her fingers. I step over her and go to my room. Now that Mason’s gone, the space feels bigger, emptier too.
I pull out my guitar and play softly. Music is the only place I’ve ever felt safe. The vibration against my ribs grounds me. Calms me.
I’m about to put it away when I hear the rumble of a Harley.
Shit.
I rush toward the door, but he’s already there.
Russel fills the doorway, bloodshot eyes, beer breath, unsteady sway.
“Hello, little lady.”
My stomach drops. I know that tone.
“Why don’t you come into the kitchen and make me a sandwich.”
“I have work.”
“No, you don’t.”
I nod quickly. I know better than to argue. I walk into the cramped kitchen and bend to open the mini fridge.
A hand grabs my ass.
I spin around so fast I hit my elbow on the counter. He’s close. Too close.
“Don’t be like that,” he says.
“Get away from me.” My voice shakes.
“No.”
His hand clamps around my throat and shoves me into the wall. Pain shoots through my shoulder. Black spots dance in my vision as he squeezes. His other hand slides toward the waistband of my jeans.
No. No. NO!
My fingers scramble behind me and close around something cold.
The frying pan.
I swing.
The metal cracks against his temple. He stumbles, grip loosening just enough for me to duck away and suck in air that burns.
“You little…”
I run.
I sprint down the hallway, slam my bedroom door shut, shove a chair under the knob. I grab my guitar, backpack, wallet. The door shakes as he slams into it.
“OPEN THE DOOR, ALEXIS!”
He hits it again. The chair splinters.
I shove the window up, climb out, scrape my arms on the way down. His roar follows me.
I run.
To my truck.
Lock the doors.
My hands shake so hard I can barely shove the key in.
Russel bursts out of the trailer, charging toward me.
“Come on. Come on,” I whisper.
The truck coughs once. Twice.
Then roars alive.
I peel out of the driveway as Russel’s shouts fade behind me.
The gas tank is less than half full, but I don’t stop. Not when my throat throbs. Not when the bruises ache. Not when my chest pounds so hard it hurts.
I drive until the needle sinks to empty.
“Shit.”
The engine sputters just as I roll into the parking lot of a bar glowing beneath a flickering neon sign:
Midnight Rodeo.
I shut off the engine and sag against the seat. My throat burns. My hands tremble. My guitar sits in the back seat, my only real possession.
Lungs burning.
Heart still racing.
But for the first time in years…I can breathe.
I’m never going back.
I’m done.