I keep telling myself this is just a contract, a way to stay on the road with men who see me. But Pierce's hand on my thigh says otherwise, heavy and sure as he holds that half-eaten pastry to my mouth. My shirt hangs open in the dim light of the sleeper cab, and I know the others are waiting just beyond the door.
Every bite he feeds me will change me, soften me, bind me tighter to this group of hairy truckers who want to keep what they've claimed. The scale at the next stop will show a new number, and I wonder if I'll still have a place here when it does. Pierce's guarded eyes never leave mine as the truck vibrates around us, and I can't decide if I'm more afraid of what happens if I open my mouth or if I don't.
