by Eve Langlais
Just before it would have lit me like a firecracker on the Fourth of July, something slammed into me and I hit the ground as the world around me went up in a fiery whoosh.
5
Face down on the dirt and gravel, I had time to reflect on a few things. First, the stupidity of not moving away from a car leaking gasoline.
Second, the fact the ground was hard.
And third, was it me, or had it gotten hot outside?
I didn’t need to see the fire to feel it. The acrid smoke tickled the nose and lungs. The heat warmed the bottoms of my shoes.
As for the body on top of me acting like a shield? Kind of heavy. Whoever it was squashed me into the ground, but considering the alternative? Happy they tackled me.
“Are you injured?” The word rumbled against my ear, penetrating the ringing I’d not even realized muffled my hearing. It was Jace, my neighbor.
“I’m okay. I think.” Pretty sure I shouted the words.
He shifted off of me, and I managed to push myself to my knees and stand up, dirty and a bit bruised but not bleeding from anywhere, nor did I appear to be on fire. Unlike my car.
I stared at it, the dancing flames. The realization that my ride was totaled. How would I go anywhere? Thoughts of shopping for a new vehicle kept my mind from the fact I’d almost died.
“What happened?” Jace asked, surveying the wreck.
“A tree fell on my car, and then it caught fire.” Seemed pretty obvious to me. The part I remained less clear about was my hazy recollection of seeing a flaming projectile flying through the air.
Had someone set the fire on purpose?
Who?
I eyed Jace, who had his thumbs hooked through the loops of his jeans, his quilted lumberjacket open over the chest on a solid color button-up shirt. How coincidental he happened to be in this spot.
“Why are you here?” I blurted out.
“I live down the road. Remember?”
“And you went for a ten-mile walk?” I couldn’t help the suspicion.
“My truck is parked right there.” He pointed to his vehicle. Odd how I’d not spotted it until that moment. “I was on my way into town when I saw your car crushed under that tree. I thought I’d offer a hand.”
“How come I didn’t see your lights?”
“Soon as I saw you were in trouble, I dimmed mine so as to not blind anyone.”
He had a plausible excuse. Even better, he had wheels, meaning I wouldn’t have to walk. Or I could keep acting like a suspicious bitch until he left.
“Thanks for stopping.”
“Have you called the accident in?” he asked, leading me away from the dancing flames.
“No. My phone died.”
“I’ll text the town’s emergency line. Let them know about the accident and fire. They’ll get a crew out here to handle it.”
“Meaning I need to stay and talk to them.” I sighed as exhaustion suddenly dragged me down.
“Not tonight you’re not.” He opened the passenger door to his truck. “It’s an accident with no one hurt. A report can wait.”
Could it? I could have died had the person tossing the firebomb been a few seconds sooner. What if Jace hadn’t shoved me out of the way? Which reminded me, Jace had used himself as a shield. “Are you okay?”
He seemed unharmed, he certainly walked fine, and he wasn’t rolling on the ground smothering flames.
“Probably better than you since I squashed you.”
“You are a tad heavy,” I agreed.
“If it makes you feel better, you make a soft landing.” He shut the door and moved around the truck while I sat there trying to figure out if the statement was said as a compliment or a dig about my extra weight.
I couldn’t tell, and I couldn’t ask as he slid behind the wheel.
He put the truck in drive. “Let’s get you home.”
Nothing more was said as he drove us down a road bereft of life or light. Only when he pulled into my driveway and past the line of trees did the soft glow of home welcome.
I was so happy to see it I hopped out of the truck before Jace could get around to my side. “Thank you for saving my life and the ride.” Even as I said it, I still wondered if he’d been the one to throw the firebomb and then pretend to rescue me. Would Jace do such a thing? And why?
I knew he wanted my property. Was he trying to scare me into leaving?
“If you need a ride into town tomorrow, let me know,” he offered.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thanks.” I swept past him, heading for the front door, which took a bit of doing to unlock because of course my key wouldn’t go in the slot and turn. Shaking hands and all that. Apparently, I wasn’t as calm as I thought.
I glanced over my shoulder as I stepped inside and saw Jace standing sentinel, watching me, a bulky shadow against the headlights of his truck. The brilliance of them so very visible. How had I not seen them on the road? Logic dictated if he saw me, I should have seen him.
Perhaps I’d been facing the wrong way.
Maybe. I was definitely distracted, so it was possible I’d not seen him arrive.
I’d barely shut the door when I had a yowling cat at my feet. Grisou let me know in very vocal terms how inconsiderate I was. Not in real words of course, but meows and rubs against my leg and then a saucy walk to the kitchen with a glance over a shoulder that said, Move faster, human.
My kitten was becoming a cat. And I, his servant.
“Coming, your majesty. I’m fine. Thanks for asking,” I grumbled as I hung up my dusty jacket and purse.
An insistent ring had me eyeing the satchel of doom. It made no sense. The darned thing had died on the road. I dug into the bag and managed to pull the phone out and answer just before it would have gone to voicemail. The first thing to go right today.
“Hey, Trish,” I said, recognizing the number.
“Are you okay?” she yelled. “I just saw a dispatch come in on the city emergency line about a car on fire not far from your place.”
“And immediately assumed it was me.”
“Only two people living on that road are you and Jace. And he drives a truck. Oh shit, was it Winnie? Did her date end early?”
“No, it was my car. A tree fell on it.”
“How?”
“Since there is a lack of wind, I’m going to say beavers.” I meant it as a joke, but Trish ran with it.
“The beavers abandoned this area when the orcs moved in.” Every now and then my best friend said the weirdest things.
“I was joking. I don’t know how the tree fell, only that it did and now my car is toast.”
“Do you need to borrow mine? I can always carpool with JoJo.”
“I don’t know yet. I should probably just go buy one.” Which meant dipping into my stash. Yet what choice did I have? Living in the boonies, I needed my own wheels.
“Might want to buy a tank if they’re going to get brazen about attacking you,” Trish muttered.
“Excuse me? Who’s attacking me?” My voice lilted. I’d not told her I thought someone Molotov-ed me.
“The orcs. I’m going to wager this is their way of coming after your property.”
For a moment, I played into Trish’s delusion. What if the accident was actually a murder attempt? Kill me and, when my kids inherit, pressure them to sell. Only to realize it made no sense.
“Why save me if he wants me gone?”
“Who saved you?”
“Jace. He was the one to find me on the road after the crash and give me a ride.”
“Bah, that man might want your property, but he won’t kill you for it. His brother though…” Trish didn’t like Kane. Very few people did.
“Maybe it really was just an accident because, let’s be honest, if someone wants me dead, there are easier ways.” Like they could set fire to my house while I was inside it.
I glanced at the walls and began looking for smoke detectors. Didn’t find a single one. Another thing t
o buy in town after I purchased a new car. And by new, I meant something probably at least ten years old with a working heater.
The exhaustion hit after I hung up with Trish. I headed up the stairs, glancing only briefly at the pictures hanging on the walls. A pictography of my life, my mother’s short one, and my grandmother’s. I halted mid-step as some new images caught my attention.
There was Wendy as a chubby-cheeked baby. In the first grade with pigtails. Winnie in all the stages of growing up. That morning when I’d left, the only pictures of her included me. Now she had a whole set of them featuring her alone.
Who had done this? Who had access to those images? Not me. All my things had burned in the fire at my old house. I know I had some images saved online, but not the ones on the wall.
Could Martin have done this?
Possible, but this kind of meticulous act didn’t seem like him. When he moved out, he took no photo albums. Not to mention, he had to know coming near me would result in him getting caught and sent back to jail. I still couldn’t believe that he’d managed to escape prison. The man who couldn’t find the jar of jam in the fridge. But Martin was out, considered armed and dangerous, and—according to my lawyer, who warned me about it—he had anger issues where I was concerned.
Me. The person who only ever kowtowed to his every demand. And he dared think I was to blame for all his woes?
I guess there was a chance he might show up and see if he could finish the job. I should have been more worried, but I could still picture the last time I saw Martin. We were in court, and a judge denied his request for bail, citing her belief he posed a danger. Martin lost it, ranting and raving, his face a florid mask of anger. A blustering bully, losing his hair, with a paunch and no real muscle tone.
In that moment, eyeing the man who’d made my life a never-ending tiptoe on eggshells, it hit me that he didn’t scare me anymore. He could yell, threaten, call me all the names he liked. I chose to not be his victim anymore.
Even when he glared at me, I stared right back and said nothing. When they removed him, I smiled and—being a bit more of an asshole than I ever suspected—waved goodbye. He lost his shit again and had to be dragged out. Made me wonder how nuts he might have gone if I’d blown him a kiss.
His cursing and screaming followed me out of that courtroom that day, but with each step, I grew stronger. I’d done it. I’d escaped him. Started over. He couldn’t hurt me anymore.
When my lawyer called to warn me Martin escaped, I did spend those first few nights sleeping in a chair in the living room. Woke up sore, so, after that, I took a butcher knife to bed instead. But it had been five days since his escape, and nothing. It was my belief he’d fled Canada back to the US of A. Good riddance.
Turning from the pictures and the mystery of my daughter suddenly appearing in them, I trudged the rest of the way to my room. For all I knew, Wendy added them. Which seemed most likely once I thought about it. It explained why there were no pictures of her brother. Sibling rivalry was alive and well with my kids.
I stripped out of my clothes and kicked them into a pile by the wall. My laundry basket was downstairs with the clean load I’d yet to put away. In my underwear and nothing else, I padded to the dresser to get a nightgown and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I didn’t look away. I wanted to, but instead I forced myself to examine my body.
The weight loss was drastic enough even I could notice it. My pear shape had returned to a more hourglass form, if large. My breasts hung heavily, more than a handful but the nipples pointing in the wrong direction. When I’d breastfed, they were hard cannons; now they were deflated balloons. Just like my shrunken middle had turned into a bulky tire. It hung over my pubes. I hated it.
Hated my body.
This was why I’d recoiled from the kiss with Darryl. The fear of showing him what I’d become. Of having his rejection or disgust. I didn’t know if I could handle it.
How did anyone do it? Show themselves to someone else. The vulnerability of it scared me. The fear of rejection too strong to overcome.
Maybe dating wasn’t in the cards for me. Surely, I could find fulfillment and happiness on my own.
I covered myself with a voluminous nightgown and crawled into bed. The moment I pulled the covers over me, my cat was there, kneading me through the comforter. Purring. Soothing me with his presence. Who needed a man when I had my kitty?
I drifted to sleep and relived the accident. In slow motion.
This time, I saw the tree before it fell, a towering monolith, and someone standing by it, hooded and indistinct. Because of the frame-by-frame replay, I watched as an axe, its blade glinting, swung and hit the trunk. Thunk. Thunk. Followed by a hard shove, tilting the broken tree toward the road.
No accident.
I closed my eyes, this time before impact. Every single jolt to my body was amplified. The lack of speed somehow made it worse and more prolonged.
When I opened my eyes, the air bag covered my view, smothering me. I shoved at it, and I swear it expanded, as if it meant to crush me.
I needed out.
I pulled at the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Yank. Tug. It refused to open, which was when time chose to snap back.
“Why won’t you open?” I muttered as I frantically tried to escape. It must be locked. I stabbed at the buttons, trying to find the lock.
Click.
The locks disengaged.
Tug. It didn’t work.
I pressed again.
Click.
Still the door wouldn’t open, and the smell of gas proved dizzying. Since I couldn’t get out on my side, I shoved at the airbag and squeezed myself over to the passenger seat. After some maneuvering, I managed to plop myself onto the other side with a grunt.
I grabbed the handle and pulled.
That door wouldn’t budge either.
I pressed unlock and heard the locks disengage.
It still refused to open.
I jabbed the button again and again as I yanked at the handle. It didn’t matter. I was trapped inside the car.
A blink of light had me glancing through the window, and time slowed again as the hooded axe wielder appeared at the edge of the woods, a flaming torch in his hand. I could only gape as he pulled his arm back and launched it, the ball of fire arcing through the air and landing in a puddle of gasoline.
This time Jace wasn’t here to save me. The fuel ignited in a sheet of fire and engulfed the car.
With me inside it!
“No. No!” I pounded on the window, screaming as the person neared, hands lifting to peel back the hood and reveal their face.
Who is it? Who?
The heat blistered my skin, sucked the moisture from me and—
I screamed as I sat bolt upright in bed, the morning sunlight hitting my skin like a burning brand. Unable to stem my panic, I palpated myself, fingers running over my skin, my limbs. Everything appeared intact.
“Meow?” Grisou sat on my nightstand and queried as my breathing calmed.
“I had a bad dream.” Just one in a string of many, although this one did stand out with its particularly gruesome outcome.
A lukewarm shower helped revive me, but I skipped a hot coffee for a cold bottle of water with some flavored electrolytes added to it. As I spotted my spare set of car keys on the rack, it occurred to me how screwed I was.
I had no car. With no wheels to get around, how would I ever manage to go buy one? The buses didn’t run outside the city. A taxi would cost me a fortune.
Perhaps I could borrow Winnie’s wheels. If she were home. Winnie’s bedroom door remained open, with the bed empty. A glimpse outside showed no car by the garage.
I blinked.
Since when did I have a garage?
Slipping on some shoes and a sweater, I went outside and stared from my porch at the detached garage that had appeared overnight. Having taken the spot of my small shed, it appeared weathered compared to the house,
and rather than sporting a rollup door, it had two huge barn-like ones that I had to swing open.
A glance inside showed all the tools that used to be inside the shed, including the lawnmower. What was new—or old, depending on how you looked at it—was the car. A Hyundai Pony that I was pretty sure used to belong to my grandma. She’d named it Betsy. Grandma claimed it was a fine name for a sweet and gentle car.
How had Betsy gotten here? Heck, how did I suddenly gone from a shed to full-sized garage?
I couldn’t help but remember Trish spouting some nonsense that the house would give me what I needed. As if the house had magical powers and could grant wishes. I’d scoffed at the time, and yet it was hard to not believe with the car right in front of me.
Had the house given me a car?
What if it had? It seemed rude to not say something. “Thank you, er, house.” Awkwardly spoken, kind of cheek heating because I felt stupid. However, I couldn’t ignore the fact I’d just had my butt saved.
I had wheels, and I wouldn’t complain about how I got them. Nor would I moan about the fact I got a vintage vehicle that I remember Grandma sometimes having to start by pouring gas into the carburetor. Or the cardboard she put behind the front grill so we wouldn’t freeze in the winter.
Its cream-colored body didn’t show any signs of rust, a miracle at its age, just like the navy blue vinyl seats appeared in mint condition. I remembered those all too well, either hard and cold or hot and sweat inducing.
But where were its keys? The door was unlocked, and I sat in the driver seat, having to adjust because of my grandma’s short legs. It caused a bit of a pang. She’d always joked about how tall I was. A trait I got from my father.
The keys were in the ignition.
It probably wouldn’t start. It had been sitting here for over twenty years. The motor could have seized. The battery would have died. The gas would have gone bad.
I turned the key.
Choke. Choke. Sputter. Gasp. Cough.
Vroom.
A smile tugged at my lips as the little engine that could roared to life.
Guess I was going in to work today after all.