Snowman

by AC Netzel

  “It’s your ass that’ll be sagging,” she warns, her dark brown eyes narrowing.

  “I’ll chance it.”

  “Don’t you want to make Brad take notice of what he lost?”

  “Oh, please. He’s busy,” I air quote, “experiencing life. Which we both know, when translated from the native language of Assholeland, means he’s out screwing half of Manhattan.”

  “I’d love to string him up by his tiny nuts for doing that to you.”

  “After three years, he says he doesn’t know if he loves me anymore. I lived out of a suitcase every other weekend for six months traveling back and forth to Chicago when he had that job transfer. Six months of flying to the point of exhaustion. Then he moves back to New York, and the jerk tells me he doesn’t want to lose me but doesn’t want to date exclusively anymore.”

  “I’ll bet you a million bucks the bastard stopped dating exclusively long before he returned home. The asshole just neglected to inform you of the agreement you had no idea you agreed to.”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe. Probably. I don’t want to think about it. He had the audacity to tell me he didn’t think I should see other people. He thought it would bother him. Can you imagine the gall? He’s out hooking up with who-knows-who, while I’m home alone, twiddling my thumbs until it’s my turn.”

  “Imagine you—a sister-wife,” she laughs. “If it’s any consolation when I blew out my birthday candles last week, I wished for Brad’s dick to fall off.”

  “This was the guy I thought I was going to marry. Now he’s a total stranger. A walking, talking cliché of a pre-mid-life crisis. It’s hard to wrap my mind around that.” I shake my head. “I heard he’s experiencing life with some eighteen-year-old girl from Brooklyn.”

  “That’s so nasty. He’s thirty, and she’s barely legal. Does he leave her off at the daycare center in your office building when he goes to work?”

  I chuckle. “She’s way too young for him. That girl probably dots her I’s with bubble hearts and thinks swallowing watermelon seeds will result in a melon growing in her stomach.”

  “Imagine what she thinks will happen if she swallows semen? No, I’m not fat,” Val says in a high-pitched, whiny shrill. “I have a crop of dicks growing in my belly.”

  I shake my head. “I thought we had a future. It was part of my five-year plan.”

  “Ugh! You and that stupid five-year plan. Retire the clipboard and slut it up.”

  I slip her a quick middle finger salute.

  She shakes her head. “You’re hopeless.”

  “I’m real. And I’ve formulated a new plan—Get that promotion. That’s it. My sole purpose. My writing aspirations didn’t pan out. My second chance career can’t fail too. So I’m staying focused. I have no time for distractions, especially men.”

  “There are two things I know—there’s always time for men and the chiropractor.”

  “Not for this girl,” I say, pointing at myself with my thumb. “My heart is frozen solid. When I dumped Brad, I dumped all men.”

  “For the record—Chiropractors aren’t only men. They’re men and women who possess orgasmic powers in their hands. My chiro manipulates me like no one else. When he puts his strong, skilled hands on me, stretches me out, and cracks my back… good stuff. I’m five-two now, an inch taller than last year.”

  “You are not taller. I swear you’re addicted. You need professional help.”

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Let’s get back to your work predicament. Why do you think you’re going to let Miranda down?”

  “I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out how to approach those people,” I explain. “I have nothing to draw from. My entire life I’ve lived and breathed New York. I know zero about small-town life. I have nothing in common with them. There’s no link I can tie together, nothing to bond over. I’m coming up empty. The straightforward waving a big check in their face approach didn’t work when my company originally made an offer. So, I’m going there and winging it.”

  “Sometimes, the best plan is no plan at all.”

  “It’s all I got. I’m flying out there and hanging around until they’re so tired of me, they’ll sign just to get rid of me. This is my big break, Val. It’s a career changer. I’ll get a raise so I can move to an apartment where the heat actually works. I won’t have to scrape by just to pay off my college loans. And my father might finally be proud of me. I have to make it happen. I just have to.”

  “Look them straight in the eyes. It’s impossible to say no to your baby blues, like that rich old dude who signed his brownstone away.”

  “I’m a phony, and Miranda’s going to figure it out if I don’t make this happen. I didn’t earn that brownstone sale. Chase gave me a career boost because I reminded him of his granddaughter.”

  “Yeah, if ‘granddaughter’ is code for the girl he’d like to bone.”

  “Gross.” I take a quick swig of water. “The poor man was lonely. He misses his family.”

  “Did he pop a Viagra when he told you he was lonely?”

  I hold up my hand. “Please stop. He was a nice man who did a nice thing for me. I hope he finds what he’s looking for.”

  She lowers her treadmill speed, grabs a towel, and wipes the sweat off her forehead. “Look, you have to use everything in your arsenal. We both know you’re wicked smart. People don’t get accepted into Vassar for being pretty. But the fact is, you’re blessed with a gorgeous face. Your body rocks—thanks to me pushing you to go to the gym. Use everything you have to influence them.”

  “That’s sexist.”

  “It is not. Men do it too. Well, the good-looking ones. The ugly ones get rich, so their bank account balance increases their attractiveness.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s the way of the world, baby.” She smirks then shuts off her treadmill. “Let’s get out of here. I think we’ve worked off enough for a drink.”

  “Finally, something you said makes sense.”

  Chapter 3

  After a short flight on a puddle jumper and a forty-minute drive in my rented Mustang, I pass a worn wooden billboard welcoming me to Arid Falls. The paint is peeling and faded by the sun. First impressions are everything—this old, dilapidated sign is the initial perception this town wants to convey?

  Santa is sitting in an oak barrel, waving as he goes over a waterfall. The waterfalls part of the sign, I understand. The town was named after one. But I don’t get the Santa connection. I know it’s December, but this is obviously a year-round sign.

  Then again, why someone would name a waterfall ‘Arid’ is beyond me. Maybe they had a twisted sense of irony. Or the Founding Fathers lost a bet.

  “In one mile, take Exit 10A,” my cell phone’s GPS directs. I’m eternally grateful for it because there’s no way I could navigate this trip on my own.

  The roads—and calling them roads is generous—are downright dangerous. Turning on to Exit 10A, I steer off the main highway. I’m met with a little bit of asphalt and a whole lot of icy, gravelly, messy dirt road.

  Have these people ever heard of a plow? Where do their tax dollars go? It sure isn’t going towards road maintenance. Or updating signs for that matter. I’m not the most experienced driver as it is, considering I take the subway and taxis everywhere, but my rental car fishtailing due to ice and snow every ten feet isn’t my idea of a good time.

  “In a half-mile, stay right at the fork in the road,” my bossy phone’s GPS app spits out another order.

  I take a quick peek to my right. My God, the trees. There are so many damn trees. Dead bodies are buried in thick woods like these. Murderous clowns and hockey-masked serial killers hide in creepy forests like these. Nothing good can come from whatever lurks in nature.

  “In a quarter-mile, turn left on Partridge Road.”

  Ugh. I appreciate the directions, but I’m tired of her feminine monotone voice. She sounds bored. I grab my phone and silence it. I’l
l follow the map on the phone’s screen instead. The arrows tell me everything I need to know. Reaching past the steering wheel, I click on the radio. Music can keep me company instead.

  I frown when Christmas tunes play through the car’s speakers. I know it’s December, but I’m not ready for sleigh bells ding-a-ling-a-linging and Rudolph’s bullying issues just yet. I take my eyes off the road for a split second to change the station, and when I look up, a deer is staring straight at me.

  “Shit!” I swerve to avoid it and slide on a patch of ice. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  And boom! My car lands in a ditch on the side of the road.

  My heart races like it’s about to burst out of my chest. I’m seconds away from a full-on panic attack. Briefly, I close my eyes to regain my composure.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  “You’re okay. You’re okay,” I whisper, touching my arms and face, assuring myself that nothing’s broken. I glance back at the road. The animal is gone. “You’ll be a delicious venison chili for some hunter, you bastard deer,” I yell at the empty space it once occupied.

  I glance in the opposite direction, and my heart jumps again. Crap. Serial Killer woods. I’m surrounded. I need to hightail it out of here.

  Pronto.

  I slam my foot down hard on the gas pedal. The back tires spin while the car goes nowhere. I shift the car in reverse and hit the gas again—more spinning.

  For the next fifteen minutes, I alternate between drive and reverse. First gear, second gear. Any and all combinations. I think I’ve dug myself in deeper. Slamming my hands on the steering wheel, I do the only thing I can—Scream at the top of my lungs. “Craaaaaaaap!”

  Then I remember…

  Serial killers.

  My eyes widen in sheer panic as I purse my lips together and sit in silence. “Okay, Summer,” I reassure myself in a soft whisper. “No need to panic. You need a tow truck, that’s all.” I grab my cell phone off the console and swipe the screen.

  Dead. Damn GPS is a battery sucker. Stupid me, I shouldn’t have watched two hours of YouTube videos of playful puppies on my phone while I waited at the airport. I grab my handbag and rifle through it for my portable charger.

  The one I forgot to pack.

  Three things are certain: I’m never getting out of here. I’m never getting those signatures. And I’m going to die.

  I’ll freeze to death or get abducted by a serial killing cannibal who will wear my skin like a beauty mask, weave my hair into a basket and sauté the rest of me with fava beans in a cast-iron skillet.

  Tearing up, I surrender to my untimely demise.

  Chapter 4

  Frantically rummaging through my handbag for the tenth time, I search for the charger that I’ve already established nine times earlier isn’t there when a knock on my driver side window makes me jump in my seat.

  “Please don’t be a murderer,” I whisper under my breath.

  Flashbacks to grammar school special assemblies pop into my memory. Stranger Danger! Instinctively, I tighten my grip on my handbag and hold it up against my chest, like it’s my protective armor.

  “Are you okay?” a guy in a red and black plaid fleece-collared coat, a black beanie cap, and the bluest of blue eyes shouts through my closed window.

  I nod while my heart pounds furiously in my chest.

  “Do you need help?” he asks.

  I hold up a hand and shake my head. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  Native New Yorkers are born with a unique gene… the gene of suspicion.

  Am I in an unfortunate predicament? Shit, yeah.

  Am I going to open my window to some lumberjack murderer? Not a chance in hell.

  Taking a step back, he walks toward the rear of my car. I keep an eye on him from my side-view mirror. He strolls to the front of the car and crouches down to my window again.

  “Your tire’s stuck in a ditch,” he tells me.

  Thanks, dude. Never would have guessed.

  “You’re gonna need a tow.”

  “No shit,” I mumble under my breath.

  “Do you want me to call someone?”

  Wishing a tow truck will magically appear simply by hoping it will happen, isn’t exactly a concrete plan. My phone is dead, it’s dark outside, and I’m in the middle of nowhere. I have three choices—freeze to death, be a forest cannibal’s main course, or accept this guy’s help.

  “Um. Yes, thank you,” I tell him through my closed window.

  He digs his hand in his front pocket and pulls out his cell phone. I watch as he talks, occasionally laughing with whoever he’s speaking with. I blow a strand of hair off my face as Plaid guy continues his conversation like I’m not here freezing my ass off. Come on, buddy. Stick with the plan and get me a tow.

  He crouches down to my car window. “Where are you headed?”

  “Prancer Lane in Arid Falls,” I shout through the glass.

  He nods, stands, then leans against the car as he continues to shoot the breeze. Seriously? I know he’s doing me a favor, but enough of the chit-chatting. I have things to do, people to persuade, I’s to dot.

  Finally, he straightens out and tucks the phone in his pocket. He crouches down once again, gesturing for me to lower my window. I turn the ignition key and press the window button, watching the glass slide down a safe and comfortable inch.

  “Are they coming?” I ask.

  “Sure are.”

  “Thank,” I begin, but I’m cut off.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Say what?”

  “To. Mor. Row,” he says, slowly pronouncing each syllable like I’m an idiot.

  “I understand English. Why tomorrow?”

  “Driver’s out of town. At a wedding in Dry Hollow, about fifty miles away.”

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “The owner.”

  “The owner can’t drive his own truck?”

  “He can’t drive.”

  My brow furrows. “A tow truck operator who doesn’t drive?”

  “Bad night vision. He’s eighty-five.”

  I roll my eyes. “So call the police. I’m sure they’ll help.”

  “Can’t,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “Why not? Your phone works fine. I’ve just witnessed you bs’ing on it for the past ten minutes.”

  “It’s the police chief’s wedding.”

  “There’s no law enforcement in this entire town because the police chief got married?”

  “One volunteer deputy stayed behind.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “Talking to a lady whose tire is stuck in a ditch.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? This is a joke.”

  “No joke, ma’am.” He slides the fleece collar of his coat to the side, exposing a star-shaped sheriff badge.

  “You mean to tell me there’s not another tow truck driver in this entire town?”

  “Sure there is,” he says with a quick nod.

  “Then call him.”

  “He won’t come.”

  “Why not?”

  “Groomsman.”

  Banging my hands on the steering wheel, I close my eyes tight. “Of course, he is.”

  “I’ll take you where you need to go. Your car will be towed in the afternoon sometime. After Jeb sleeps off the wedding whiskey.”

  Accepting that I have zero options, I nod and press the trunk release button. I close my driver’s side window, grab my handbag and laptop case off the passenger side seat, and let myself out of the car.

  “No one’s going to steal my car, are they?” I ask.

  “Doubt it. Not much crime around here.” He heads towards the back of the car and hoists my knock-off Louis Vuitton suitcase out of the trunk.

  “You don’t need to do that. I can get my own suitcase,” I tell him as I approach the back of the car.

  “It’s no problem. I’d advise you to stay near the front of the vehicle. There are bigger ice patches closer to the woods. Don’t wan
t you to slip, especially with those shoes.”

  I look down at my Jimmy Choo pumps. Maybe not the most sensible shoes to travel in—but they’re gorgeous. And they match my outfit perfectly. Every smart businesswoman knows dressing for success includes shoes and accessories. Anyway, I’ve navigated the snowy sidewalks of New York plenty of times wearing these beauties.

  “I can assure you—I’ve managed fine in ice and snow.”

  He looks at my car, partially swallowed by the earth, then raises a brow in my direction with a smirk plastered across his face. “Looks like you’re a pro.”

  The lumberjerk is mocking me.

  “This,” I point my index finger at the car, “was not my fault. A deer jumped in front of me.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “If that’s your story… sure, I believe you.”

  Bite your tongue, Summer. He’s your only way out of here.

  “Can we go now?” I flash him a fake smile.

  He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “If you’d stop talking and get in, I’ll take you into town.”

  “If I stop talking? You spent the last ten minutes with your ass pressed against my car hood, talking on the phone like a teenaged girl.”

  “You want to get into town?” he asks, sounding slightly amused and mostly annoyed.

  “Yes.”

  He walks in front of me, his six-foot frame towering over my five-foot-five, invading my personal space, and stares down at me.

  “Then I’d advise you be nicer to your ride.” His voice is low and menacing.

  Is he serious? Or is he just messing with me?

  “I am nice,” I insist. I’m one of the nicest people I know.

  “Where are you from?” he asks.

  “New York City.”

  “I don’t know much about New York, but around these parts, folks are respectful to law enforcement.”