Page 5 of Found By You

The driver of the truck turns on their hazard lights before parking, and the first thing out the driver’s door is a huge black boot. I swallow hard as a broad, tower of a man steps out.

My palm goes clammy as I tighten my hold on the pepper spray that doesn’t seem like enough to put this man down if I need to. Can I even reach his face? He has to be over a foot taller than me, and at my short five-foot-two, I’m not even sure if the stream of toxic spray would phase him.

I take him in as he approaches. He’s got a black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, a strong jaw locked tight with a few days’ worth of chestnut scruff growing on it. Wearing a pair of dark wash jeans, a black hoodie, and a brown Carhartt jacket—all of which do nothing to hide the clear brute strength this man possesses.

He’s tall, broad, clearly strong, and I’m feeling smaller by the second as he comes to stand before me. Gulp.

“Are you hurt, ma’am?” His voice is a deep, deep baritone growl that sends shivers up and down my spine.

“N-No,” I force out, gesturing to the opened hood. “It’s my car. I don’t know what happened. I just lost all power, and I don’t seem to have any cell service. Do you have a phone I could use by chance?”

“This section of the road is a dead zone,” he tells me, shifting his attention to under the hood of my car. He reaches in, messing with…who the heck knows. “Get in and try to start it.”

“O-oh, okay,” I say, unsure before hurrying into the front seat and attempting to start it like he told me to. The car turns over some, and just when I think it might fire up…it goes dead.

“Stop,” he shouts, and I do. He slams the hood closed, and my stomach drops.

Is…that it? Did he fix it?

I get out, holding the door as if my life depends on it. Let this one thing go right, please.

“Your transmission is blown and you’ve got oil pouring out the pan. You’re not going anywhere in this,” he says sternly, my heart sinking lower with every word. “Town is about ten miles north. Phone service kicks back up in another mile or two. I can give you a ride, call a tow, get this taken wherever you want.”

I shiver, and hug into myself, not able in the slightest to stop the tears from flowing. I’m not sure how much more I can take of this—this thing where nothing can go right and everything goes wrong. “Where, um, should I send it?”

He’s silent for a moment. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Is it that obvious?

I shake my head. If the admission gets me chopped into tiny pieces with him wearing my skin as a suit, then so be it. It’d be the cherry on top at this point.

The man sighs heavily, scratching his chin and gesturing over his shoulder. “I own a repair shop in town. I’ll call one of my guys to come out and tow your car in for the night,” he says, giving his chin a jerk toward my car. “Grab what you need and leave the keys on the front seat.”

My eyes widen. “I-I can’t do that. Everything I own is in this car,” I blurt out, then promptly cringe at how that makes me sound homeless—even though I sort of am. I mean, I have a portable storage unit waiting for my call to deliver, but the majority of my belongings that are important to me…yeah, they’re stuffed in the back at the moment.

“You’re living in this car?”

“No, I’m, uh, moving.”

“Moving,” he repeats as he leans down, peering in my car. “Where you movin’ to?”

My eyes narrow, suspicion seeping in. “That’s none of your business, buddy. Now, if you’ll just—”

“Duke,” he grumbles. “My name’s Duke Montgomery, I own Montgomery Repair & Towing.”

Of course, he does. “Well, Duke, I can’t leave my car here with all my belongings for just anyone to come by and take.” Do people around here really leave their cars unlocked like he’s telling me to do now? Surely not.

Duke huffs. “All right, fine, how much shit you got?”

“Excuse me?”

“How much stuff do you have?” he asks again, a bit more condescending than before. “I’ve got room in the backseat; I’ll take you to wherever it is you’re goin’.”

“I’m…” I trail off, not able to stop the tears. I turn away, wiping roughly at my cheeks as I start to cry. Dammit, Maci, you should’ve stopped at that last rest stop.

How do I tell this guy that—I don’t know—I have nowhere to go besides a cheap motel?

“I didn’t mean to upset you, ma’am,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or sorry. “If you’d like to get your purse at least, we can ride up the road for service. I’ll make a call and get the tow out here while we wait.”

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