by J. Saman
Maybe they accept cash bribes in leu of rape and murder? One can hope.
The driver’s side door slams shut with a squeaky protest and I watch through my side mirror as a tall, dark, hooded figure slowly strides up to my car. My heart is racing out of my chest and my breathing is becoming erratic, but I don’t move and I can’t tear my eyes away as the figure gets closer.
He reaches my window, staring down at me through eyes I cannot see. His hood is obscuring his entire face. All I can tell is that he’s tall and broad. He could snap me like a twig in seconds. At first, he just watches me as I stare up at him, completely immobilized by his presence. I’m the goddamn equivalent of a deer in headlights and that thought would have me smiling it wasn’t so spot on.
“Are you okay in there?” he asks and the way his smooth whiskey baritone rolls over me like it’s being poured from crystal onto ice, has me releasing the breath I’ve been holding. “Do you need help?”
And though the last thing I want to do is open the door to this guy, I don’t think I have a choice. Especially since I still haven’t found my voice. He steps back when he hears the click of the door, giving me a wide berth like he’s expecting me to get out. My hands are trembling and I don’t know if my legs could support my weight if I tried to stand. So instead I sit here, pressing my weight into the thin lumpy fabric of the seat, turning slightly in his direction with the door partially ajar.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
“Are you hurt?” he continues at my silence.
“No,” I say softly, but loud enough to be heard over his vociferous engine. The lights are shining on us like a spotlight allowing me to see the grease stains on his tan work boots and old worn jeans. I haven’t made it up past his knees yet.
“Your car, from the smell of it, is burning a lot of oil. Can it turn on?”
“No,” I say again, my arms wrapping around stomach protectively as the empty contents inside swish and sway. I feel way too vulnerable and exposed right now and it’s only adding to my discomfort. I don’t feel at ease around men on the best of days or in the best of situations and this is certainly neither of those.
He mutters something under his breath that I can’t make out and then says, “Come on then.” His gruff directive gives me chills and I can’t decipher if they’re the bad kind or not. But if he was going to hurt me, wouldn’t have done it already? I don’t know. I have no frame of reference on the methodology rapists and killers utilize with their victims.
“Where are we going?” I manage, my voice holding more weight to it than I would have believed myself capable of.
I lean back in my seat, my eyes finally making the trip up. His hands are clean and well kept, unlike his jeans or boots. His face is shrouded in darkness, for which he takes no action to fix even though my intent must be obvious. His reluctance for me to see his face raises my fear factor to an eight. He could be mangled and getting ready to do the same to me. He could be the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
“I’m going to drive you into town,” he says this like it should be obvious to any sane rational person. But I am neither sane nor rational at this point. I’ve been driving for two days, practically non-stop. The only sleep I’ve had was when I pulled into a twenty-four hour Wal-Mart and parked in the back to close my eyes for a few hours.
Town. He’s going to bring me into town. Which town is talking about? Is Las Vegas considered a town or a city? But if he brings me into town, that probably means no brutalization, right? Or he could be lying, the girl in the back of my head reminds me. God, this situation sucks. I have no choice but to trust him.
I certainly can’t stay here.
I’m in the middle of the fucking desert.
“Okay. Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” He steps back further, like he’s just as wary of me as I am of him. I stand, the gravel and dried earth crunching beneath my riding boots. At least I wore appropriate clothing. I look up at him, only able to catch a glimpse of his mouth and stubble lined jaw. Angled lines and smooth full lips for that matter, but the rest? “Can you, um…” I swallow hard. “Would you mind removing your hood?”
He rumbles out a chuckle. “Want to make sure I’m not Leatherface or something?” I laugh too, but it’s awkward and has me shifting my weight, because he just echoed my thoughts exactly. Right down to the creepy horror film. He draws back his hood and my breath catches for an entirely different reason. He’s beautiful, which seems comical given how manly and rugged this guy appears, but it’s the first word that pops into my head even if it’s nonsensical. “Satisfied?”
I just stare at him. Beautiful doesn’t mean safe.
A crooked smile quirks up the corners of his lips, his hands fly up in surrender. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise. But I can’t leave you here twenty miles from the nearest town.” Twenty? “You’re lucky actually. I just so happen to be passing this way after going to the dam. I decided to drive around for a bit and took the very long way home. Good thing too. You could have been out here all night without a car passing.”
What dam? Like the Hoover dam? Where the hell am I?
“Lucky,” I parrot, tasting the sourness of the word on my tongue, because I don’t think I’ve ever uttered it in relation to myself before. It almost makes me want to laugh at the irony. “What’s your name?” I ask, staring up into his eyes. I think they might be brown. I can’t quite tell, but that’s what I’m betting on. His hair is slightly tussled, longer on the top and shorter on the sides. The color, barely decipherable in this light, appears as dark as his eyes. That strong chiseled jaw is lined with a decent layer of stubble. Not quite a beard, more like he hasn’t bothered to shave in a few days.
He’s a lumberjack, I muse. A sexy one at that.
He smiles and his teeth are perfect. White and straight. An interesting and welcome contradiction to his otherwise roughness. And that smile. Holy wow. It makes me relax for some odd reason. Like the quality of his dental hygiene and the fact that he has a gorgeous smile is an indication of character. When did I become this stupid girl?
“Jake,” he says, looking me over slowly, languidly, his eyes sweeping every inch of me, before they find my face again. His expression shifts, becoming skeptical and cautious as they bounce around each feature on my face. I wonder if he recognizes me. I hope not. I doubt it somehow. I can’t imagine I’m known in this part of the world. “What’s yours?”
My name. And this is where I hesitate. Which name do I give him? Certainly not my real one. “Mia,” I say, my eyes skirting his.
“Okay, Mia. Why don’t you grab anything you have in there that you want to keep and follow me. I have a buddy who can tow your car, but it might be expensive.”
I nod, but I don’t get a chance to respond before he stalks off, back to his truck, his impressive silhouette framed in a halo of light. I don’t waste time, diving back into the car, I reach into the passenger seat of my stolen car and grab my purse.
Is there anything else in here I need? Anything that can link me to this car?
Other than where you got it from and your fingerprints?
I growl out a slew of curses under my breath. The moment this car is made, I will be too. But this guy says he knows someone who can tow it and maybe I can offer them cash to dispose of it. No one will be the wiser.
Walking around to the trunk, I open it and lift my suitcases out one by one, setting them onto dusty ground. Jake is already there, waiting on me, his headlights glowing across the back of my car, paving a path for me to see by. My license plate is also visible and I inwardly cringe at that. The word TEXAS in bold caps along with the picture of the state. Too late now, I sigh. I can only hope he’s not the most perceptive of men.
Jake wordlessly grabs one of my suitcases for me. I follow after him, dragging the other behind me, the wheels catching on the cracked earth. We weave in between his truck and my car and then he opens the passenger side for me. Grabbing my suitcase from my hands, he effortlessly p
icks it up and tosses it onto the small backseat behind the passenger side, along with the other one.
His impressively large hand reaches out to touch my arm and instinctively, I jerk back like his fingers are made out of fire.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap.
His hands fly up, dark eyes wide. “I was just going to help you up.”
“I’m sorry. I believe I can manage it, thank you,” I say feeling a small pang of guilt for my outburst.
I hoist myself up into the clean, cool cab and breathe in the scent of woodsy cologne and new car. It’s an enticing combination and I find myself breathing in deeper. This truck is nice. Expensive, if I had to guess given the soft leather of the seats, wood paneling and massive technology filled dashboard.
Then it hits me. The guy who tows my car could look it up before I can even strike a deal with him. I need to get as far away as possible. Maybe it’s better if he doesn’t call anyone. If we just leave it here in the middle of nowhere.
“You don’t have to call your friend. We can leave the car here. I think it’s dead and it’s really old. Is there a place nearby where I can buy a new one?” It’ll be a risk, but what choice do I have? Then again, I have no idea what kind of car I can get with my meager budget. Probably not anything better than what I was just in.
Jake stares at me. Long and hard. Like he’s trying to figure me out. It makes me anxious and impatient to get out of here. It feels as though he can see straight through me with those eyes of his and it takes all of my concerted effort not to shift my position or my gaze. I was right about the brown eyes, but they aren’t just any brown. They’re a warm milk chocolate.
“If we leave your car here, the police will eventually pick it up.” He watches me intently for a reaction and though my heart is pounding wildly in my chest, I’m doing everything I can to maintain my stoic mask. “And nothing will be open until the morning.”
My eyes close as my breath falters. I could take a bus or a train, but that’s a last resort and I doubt I can get one tonight. “I’m stuck here,” I whisper more to myself than to him. “Where am I?” I ask more out of curiosity at this point than anything else.
“Just outside of Henderson or Boulder city, depending on which way you’re headed,” he says and my eyebrows furrow. “Nevada,” he adds.
Henderson, Nevada? I have no idea where that is in reference to Las Vegas, but those were the last signs I remember. Shit. I’m in trouble.
What the hell am I going to do now?