Kate Fox & The Three Kings Read Free Page A

nowhere in particular. “No money, no car, no job experience, no real education, no family. I wouldn’t even make it to Lexington.”
    “And no matter where ya end up, you’ll never be far enough. I sure know that from experience,” Essie let out a humorless laugh as her fingers gripped the steering wheel harder, creating a low groan from the friction. She managed a reassuring smile before reverting to her original strained expression. Essie was an expert on the topic of running away from Brushy Fork. She could probably write an entire thesis on what not to do.
    “I just wanna start over. I wanna leave this town and never look back,” I whispered and kept my gaze on the dark horizon, realizing the impossibility of my statement as we surrendered to silence for the rest of the drive.
    Finally reaching the edge of the Daniel Boone National Forest, Essie and I unloaded our tattered sleeping bags, boxed wine, and mammoth Mexican feast from the trunk of her rusty red Honda Civic. The two of us trekked down the well-worn path leading to the cherished secret spot . With the Kentucky summer humidity hitting me instantly, I peered down. I should have rethought my outfit: my long and unremarkable, black graduation dress and clunky nun heels were not exactly ideal hiking garb. Of course, the W.H.O.R.E. congregation didn’t advocate dressing fashionably, and flattering clothing wasn’t a priority amongst the clan. As an outsider and certainly not related to anyone within the church, the typical, boyish figure common amongst the majority of W.H.O.R.E. ladies was lost on me. Because of my curvy figure, the church forced me to wear handpicked clothing, courtesy of W.H.O.R.E.’s hand-me-downs, since hitting puberty. Anything with a strangling neckline was given the seal of approval. Most days, I’d prefer a burlap sack, especially during the sweltering summers, when temperatures climbed into the eighties and nineties. Instead, W.H.O.R.E. insisted I wear ankle length-skirts and long sleeve button-ups. Leave no button unbuttoned was the fashion mantra of Brushy Fork.
    On this particular night, my fists clenched and my jaw was tight with envy when I surveyed Essie’s wardrobe: her lacey, white cotton dress brushed the tops of her sparkly gold flats. Her unruly blonde curls restrained by a golden ribbon, in combination with her slight frame, made Essie seem much younger than twenty-one. Essie appeared almost exactly the same as when I unfortunately stumbled into Brushy Fork six years ago. She lacked feminine curvature, resulting in a perpetually youthful aura about her.  
    Surrounded by thick woods and the twinkling night sky above, I contemplated the ominous squirrely path to our destination. Perhaps I should’ve been weary of wandering around in darkness, but instead, I focused on the soft thud of my heart pulsating in my ear and hastened my stride. My body knowingly followed the path ahead, one that I helped etch into the wilderness on many a summer night.
    The little slice of wilderness served as our escape, away from W.H.O.R.E.—away from everything. Essie and I always snuck away with her younger brother to meet out in the secluded, dark woods. During the day, Brushy Fork provided its own horrible memories I never wished to relive, but the woods functioned as a refuge. A couple of yards ahead, into the clearing, was where I took a puff of my first cigarette. Well, my first and last cigarette. Actors in films showcased smoking as elegant and effortless, like inhaling a long drag was the most relaxing and fashionable action ever committed. My short-lived life as a smoker proved anything but enjoyable—I attempted to inhale fumes and then suffered a long, drawn-out coughing fit, followed by smelling like a sixty-year-old ashtray for the rest of the evening and the feeling of soot settling in my chest. Occasionally, I caught glimpses of casual smokers outside, behind restaurants and shops—I imagined probably on their break. I