Page 16 of Hitch
Even when the monster defends you, the monster is still a monster, and you have to keep both eyes open in the darkness.
Chapter6
Reggie
The next afternoon,I put the key into the ignition and turn, but it clicks, and nothing happens. I huff, my nostrils flaring.
I pull out the key, wait a second, then try again. But my car doesn’t start.
Of course it doesn’t.
I should’ve saved up for a better used car, but I was taught to be careful with money. My carusuallyworks; there’s no reason to spend money on a better one. Not when I can just hitch.
I walk to the main road and text Duane quickly:Car trouble. Be there soon.
He responds instantly:You need a ride?
I scoff to myself, then close the messaging app.
“Not from you,” I mutter. The last time I got into a car with him, I got road rash and corn husks so deep in my hair that I had to wash it six times.
As if that’s the only trouble he gave me.
I stick out my thumb on the side of the road. This early in the day, you’re more likely to get an older woman or a couple, non-threatening types. A handful of cars pass me, and I keep walking on the side, listening for another engine. The crop fields shine in green and gold, and my stomach clenches, thinking of Duane’s hands on my body as he took what he wanted from me in between the corn stalks.
There’s more to this than buying my mom a new car. After years of wondering when I would start living again, maybe Ilikethe way the danger feels.
A dark blue truck, the oversized kind with extra wheels, pulls over to the side of the road. I hold my breath. It’s not Duane’s truck; his truck was older, white, and beat up, while this truck is shiny and new. But for all I know, Duane could have multiple trucks.
But there’s no way Duane could pick me up already. It’s not like he knows where I live.
I ball my fists, then I send my mom my GPS location.Getting a ride from a friend,I text. Her read receipt comes through, but she doesn’t respond.
I open the passenger door. Inside, a tall, thin redhead sits awkwardly in the driver’s seat. The truck rumbles forward before I can buckle my seatbelt.
“Where you headed?” he asks, his voice thin and wiry, with a similar twang to Duane’s accent.
“Grainswept Fields,” I say.
“Are you the new seller?” he asks.
I wait for more information. He doesn’t add anything.
“Seller of what?” I finally ask.
“Are you one of Todd’s hires?”
Is he talking about Todd, the owner of the Double Take?
I lift my shoulders. “I’m just visiting a friend.”
“Duane?”
I nod. “You work with him, then?”
“Something like that,” he mumbles.
He scowls as he stays focused on the road, driving exactly the speed limit. This driver is the opposite of Duane; sinewy and quiet, where Duane is burly and abrasive. It’s hard to imagine the two of them working together, but I don’t know much about farming, except that the farm owners like to come into the Double Take every once in a while. They’re always polite and pay well; that’s all you can ask for in a strip club patron.
