Page 53 of 1st Shock
I peer up at the sun and–yay, me—I’ve timed this just right. At this hour, it’ll shine directly on my rock, splaying its warm rays over me while I sketch.
While I work out myissues.
Demons, really, but that sounds so melodramatic. As if I don't have a great life. Compared to what I see on any given day, I have nothing to be wrecked over.
I climb the small hill leading to my rock and there it is, waiting for me to take my spot.
Leaning over, I pat the top of it, feel the cold, craggy surface against my warm palm. "Hello, old friend. Miss me?"
"I sure did."
I whip around and find a man fifteen feet from me. Good Lord, where the hell did he come from? He's wearing a black beanie hat, one of those plaid button-down jackets over a T-shirt and what looks to be tattered Wrangler jeans. My gaze shoots to his rubber-soled boots where a hole has worn on the right toe.
I don't recognize him, but he could be anyone. Maybe the older sibling of a schoolmate?
"Hello," I say. "Sorry. I didn't realize anyone was here."
He takes a step closer.
One.
Single.
Step.
My stomach burns like acid tearing through the lining and for the first time I realize how stupid I am.
It's the middle of the day and I'm alone in the woods with a man I don't know.
Charlie will ream me for this.
I look at my hands where the only weapons I have are my pad and pencils. And my keys.
Front pocket.
I stand still, refusing to retreat or show any fear. Predators smell it and capitalize on it. And, for all I know, this could be the guy who plays Santa at the drugstore every year.
Creepy Santa, no doubt, but still...
I shift my pencils to my other hand and slide my now free one into my jacket pocket, wrapping my fingers around my keys. Just in case.
He takes another step closer and I square my shoulders. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"
"I think you do," he says. "I know you. Megan Eleanor Schock."
That acid in my gut churns.
Over.
And over.
And over.
I lift my chin, stare him right in the eye making sure he knows I'm not afraid to look straight at him and memorize the features of his face. The small mole below his eye, the veiny redness of broken capillaries on his nose. All of it, committed to memory.
I've never liked games. Particularly ones played by creepy men roaming the woods. I spent my adolescence worrying about guys like him.
"Ah," I say. "You know my name. Now what's yours?"
