Page 2 of A Dash of You

“Be there in twenty.” He hangs up before I can utter another word. If he’s so easily annoyed by having to come out in the middle of the night, then he should have picked a different career.

If he is a serial killer or rapist, I just handed myself over on a nice silver platter.

I find my best friend’s name in my texts and start typing out why I won’t be showing up at the time I gave her. Though Lana knows me well enough to know I’m never on time for anything. Tonight is different, though. A trip running away to the nextstate wasn’t exactly what I had planned. Yet here I am, and my body is surviving on pure natural adrenaline.

As soon as I go to hit send, my phone goes black.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I fiddle with the power button before accepting that the battery surely died and lay my head back on the seat in frustration.

The first sign of civilization shines in my rear-view mirror and hope hits me. Headlights illuminate the dark area as the truck slows to a stop beside my car. But hope fades, realizing Mr. Grouch could not have made it here that fast. And the random passerby in his big rusty truck is not who I hoped to see.

The man rolls down his window, his white beard hanging low over his dirty overalls. He gestures with a finger for me to do the same. Yeah, okay, buddy. I’ve seen horror movies.

I give him a polite smile and decline by shaking my head no. He tilts his head, seeming offended.

I mentally groan, rolling down my window only about two inches. Enough so he can hear me, but not enough for him to get an arm inside. “I’m good. Tow truck should be hereverysoon,” I call out over the small gap and throw him another friendly, but not too friendly, smile.

“Are you sure, darlin’? Them tow services always take longer than what they say they’ll be.” He spits his chewing tobacco out of his window.

Gross.

“No. Really. I’m fine. Thank you, though.” I put my window back up and let out a shaky breath.

This guy can’t take a hint because when he shuts off his truck and gets out, my stomach plummets. What the actual hell? What is he doing? My heart kicks into overdrive, checking my mirrors for any signs of help, but there’s nothing. Just me and him.

It’s possible he’s the tow truck guy’s accomplice. Helping him with the murder.Oh God.This is it. This is my demise. After everything, this is a shitty way to go.

The stranger walks up to my car, looks at my flat, then at me. When he maliciously smiles, his yellow, rotting teeth make an appearance. Tobacco probably has something to do with that.

I run through all possibilities of what to do in my head.

“Can have that spare put on in about five minutes, sweetheart.” He moves his head to the side and spits out more chew.

Perhaps he’s just a friendly man who wants to help a female out at nearly one thirty in the morning.

I’m calling bullshit.

He reaches for my door handle and when he gives it a tug, I swear I let out a scream.Holy shit.I take it back. He wants to kill me. My whole life rushes back, and suddenly I'm twelve years old in the kitchen with my father. We’re listening to Phil Collins while he explains how important butter consistency is. His genuine smile is so deeply ingrained in my memory that I could never forget how it warmed my soul.

My heart pounds, but a sense of peace runs through me, calming my nerves a little. But this guy's smile is nothing like my father’s, who was kind, serene, and home. This creep’s sneer is vindictive.

I’m about to really tell this guy to fuck off, when another set of lights pulls up behind me and I have never been so relieved. This has to be the tow service because it’s big, rattly, and my bad luck has got to run out at some point.

The creep at my door backs away slowly while keeping watch toward the other vehicle. I don’t know what possesses me to do so, but I leave the safety of my car.

The stranger with the white beard stops to look me up and down. I'm still in the short cocktail dress from the night before. Bolting from a formal dinner party didn’t leave time to change.

The loud creak of a door followed by its slamming diverts both of our attentions away. Then a big, towering man shows himself as he steps into the light that is casting onto the street from the headlights.

Mr. Grump, I assume.

He’s sporting a backward baseball cap, with short, untamed strands of deep brown hair peeking through the sides. His faded, loose hoodie highlights his broad shoulders. He’s also wearing a pair of worn-out jeans with thick thighs that are thundering closer.

He stops directly in my path with strained eyes, causing wrinkles to appear in the corners. I have to look toward the night sky to fully take in his deadpan expression, even with my heels and being five eight. Suddenly the space is smaller, despite being outside near never-ending woods by an open road. His wide shoulders also block my view behind him, though I can still see a hint of shadowy light on his face. His eyes appear to be bright blue like the ocean, and they flick from me to the creepy stranger who I honestly forgot is still here.

When Mr. Grouch peers back at me, we’re locked in a stare off. “Are you the one who called?”

With the light from his truck shining on us, his eyes seem to glisten. Doesn’t match his personality if you were to ask me.

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