Chapter 178 Neighbour's Plaything (1)

• I woke up that morning like any other, the sun filtering through the thin curtains of my bedroom window, casting a warm glow over the patchwork quilt my grandma had made years ago. Living out in the country meant everything was quiet—too quiet sometimes. No bustling streets, no crowds of kids my age. Just me, my parents on their small farm, and the endless fields stretching out like a green ocean. I was 19 now, technically an adult, but I felt like I was still that little girl who’d never ventured far from home. Homeschooled until high school, I’d only started attending the local public school last year, and even then, I kept to myself. Shy didn’t begin to cover it; I blushed at the slightest attention, my voice barely above a whisper in class. Petite, with long dark hair I always tied back in a ponytail, and a body that hadn’t quite filled out like the other girls—small breasts, narrow hips, and legs that seemed too short for anything adventurous.
• The bus didn’t come out this far, and the drive to school was a long one—an hour and a half each way, winding through empty backroads and sparse farmlands. My dad usually drove me, but he was down with a bad back from hauling hay bales, and Mom was busy with the chickens and the garden. That’s when they suggested Mr. Harlan, our neighbor down the road. He was a big, rough man—40 years old, with calloused hands from his job at the mill, a thick beard streaked with gray, and muscles that strained against his flannel shirts. He’d always been polite enough, waving from his truck when he passed our driveway, but something about him made my stomach twist. He was so… imposing. Like he could crush me without even trying. I knew relying on him was practical, but deep down, a voice whispered warnings—warnings I ignored because what choice did I have?
• When he pulled up in his old pickup truck that first morning, the engine rumbling like a growl, I hesitated at the door. “Hop in, kid,” he called through the open window, his voice gravelly from years of smoking. I climbed into the passenger seat, clutching my backpack like a shield, my skirt—a simple knee-length thing Mom approved of—riding up just a bit on the worn leather. The truck smelled like oil and sawdust, masculine and overwhelming. We drove in silence at first, the radio crackling with some country station. I stared out the window, watching the fence posts blur by, my heart pounding for no reason I could name. The drive felt eternal, the landscape unchanging, giving me too much time to fidget and overthink. This is wrong, I thought fleetingly, being alone with a man like him, but it’s just a ride. What’s the harm?