Stung by Bethany Wiggins Read Free Book Online Page B

of my eye I see a garden hose being pulled from a hook on the cabin.
    Water hits me from behind, and I gasp as a shiver makes its way from my scalp to my feet. I guess I’m taking a shower. In frigid water that sprays so hard against my shoulders I almost fall forward. But I can feel the layers of grit and sewage and blood and Arrin dripping off my skin and clothing, and welcome the cold water. A puddle forms beneath my feet—hazy gray swirled with deep brown.
    Squinting, I slowly turn into the spray, ducking my head into it, letting it drench my thick bangs and squirt them out of my face. Next, I bring my shackled forearms to my face and, coughing and spluttering, scrub my skin.
    By the time the water stops, my entire body is trembling with cold and covered with goose bumps, my clothes are soaked, and the tattoo on my hand is a dark, visible warning. I shake my head from side to side, flinging drops of water from my hair.
    “The bathroom’s on the other side of the cabin,” Bowen says. I nod my understanding, relieved. My bladder is about to burst.
    Blinking water from my eyes, I start walking. Like before, Bowen stays a couple of paces behind, remote always pointing at me.
    When we get to the bathroom, my stomach starts to hurt as a new fear descends. There are no stalls, no toilets, just a trough.
    Three men occupy the bathroom, talking, joking as they stand side by side peeing into the long, narrow trough. One looks over his shoulder, and his eyes meet mine. His pee stops, and he’s out of there before he has his pants zipped. The other two look at each other, and then over their shoulders at me. They’re gone before their pee hits the trough. Bowen, behind me, chuckles under his breath.
    I stand shivering, dripping a puddle onto the bathroom floor, but don’t make a move toward the wet, brown-stained trough.
    “What’s the matter, kid?” Bowen asks from the doorway. I peer over my shoulder and look at his annoyed face through my stringy, sopping bangs. Whipping my bangs aside, I take a closer look at his face. My heart lurches.
    When I was eleven, I fell in love with my neighbor. He was gorgeous, sixteen, drove a motorcycle, lived across the street, and made out with his girlfriend on his porch swing in the summer
.
    I’d climb the tree in my front yard and watch him and his girlfriend through the leaves, fascinated, disgusted, jealous. Sometimes when theywere making out, he’d look across the street without taking his mouth from hers, and our eyes would meet. He’d roll his eyes and then they’d slip shut and I was forgotten
.
    My mom called him an inconsiderate, hormonal teenager who should take his personal affairs where the whole neighborhood didn’t have to see them. When she found out I’d sit in the tree and watch, she called his mom and complained
.
    He didn’t stop making out on the porch swing—started making out more, in fact. And when he caught me spying, he’d yell, “Hey, kid, why don’t you go find someone your own age to spy on?”
    His hair was the color of milk chocolate, and his eyes were somewhere between blue and gray. And his name was…
    “… Duncan?” The word leaves my lips before I can stop it.
    Bowen’s eyes narrow, and his hand, the one that has been pointing the remote at me all morning, drops to his side. He blinks and the remote is aimed at me again. “What did you say?” he asks.
    I bite my tongue and look at the floor. “Uh, I need, you know, like … walls?”
    “You gotta be kidding me, kid. You want privacy?” he grumbles.
    I’m a girl. I can’t pee standing up, especially into a trough. And Arrin said pretending to be a boy is a safety precaution. “Need to take … a dump,” I whisper, trying to sound like a guy. The lie floods my cheeks with warmth. Bowen presses himself against the wall beside the door and groans.
    “Get out,” he snaps, motioning outside.
    “But I—”
    “Just do it, Fec! Out!” His voice is cold and hard. A voice to