Willow
I'M LOST. HOPELESSLY, SCARILY LOST.
And not just because I'm running low on peach rings and energy drinks.
I stopped to refuel just south of San Francisco, thinking I'd have more than half a tank of gas by the time I got to my next, and hopefully final, motel of this road trip.
The sugar and caffeine have been keeping me from succumbing to highway hypnosis. Up until now.
I must have missed an exit. Or an onramp. Or the exit to the onramp. Either way, it's been many miles and just as many hours since I've passed a gas station. The Low Fuel light on my car has been on for an alarming amount of time. It hits me that I'm in the middle of nowhere, with no cell service or GPS, no food besides four peach rings and half a bag of pretzels, and no supplies other than what I took to occupy me for a few days "vacation." Something tells me my embroidery hoop and pumpkin spice chapstick is not the bedrock of a good emergency supply kit. Everything will be fine. I'll find Dad coming back from an extended whale-watching tour, or wandering garage sales looking for more of those vintage radios he collects, and he'll realize that he's forgotten to charge his phone again, and that's why he hasn't been returning my texts or calls for the past week. I glance at my GPS. Frozen. The little blue dot refuses to move, as if I'm stuck in place. What a metaphor. My hands tighten around the steering wheel. "Come on," I mutter, tapping the screen. It doesn't respond.
The car begins to slow. I press on the gas pedal. No acceleration.
"No, no, no."
My stomach twists as I pump the pedal, willing the car to make it just a little further.
The engine sputters. Slows. Dies.
A chill that has nothing to do with the cold air creeps along my spine. I grab my phone, holding it up to search for a signal. A single bar would be enough to call for help. Still nothing.
I shove open the door. The cold air bites at my skin as I step out. I wrap my arms around myself, scanning the redwoods. Their massive trunks disappear into the fog, branches shifting in the wind. A shadow moves.
Or did I imagine it? The energy drink that's been giving me life over the past hours of driving curdles in my gut now. I'm alone, miles from any sign of civilization. My phone is useless. My car is dead.
I'm so screwed.
Then comes blinding light.
I flinch, shielding my eyes as a deep rumble cuts through the hush. Headlights slice through the mist, revealing a truck rolling up the road. It pulls to a stop behind my car. It's one of those mean-looking, macho eighties pickup trucks, the kind of vehicle guys obsessively tend to for hours in their garage. The driver's door swings open. A man steps out. With him silhouetted by the headlights, all I can make out is that he's tall and broad-shouldered—much bigger than me, not that it would take even a big man to overpower me. I look at the empty energy drink can. Maybe caffeine and adrenaline will make up for my lack of cardio if I have to run away from this guy. If I can kick him in the groin and buy myself a head start, maybe I have a chance– His black work boots strike the pavement with slow, even thuds.
The glow from the headlights casts him in sharp relief, making him seem even bigger and more intimidating. Even the fog seems to part for him.
I tense. I'm a girl, alone and stranded. And now a strange man has pulled over to the side of the road. My hand goes to the small utility knife I keep in my pocket. I thumb the retractable blade so it extends outward. It's little more than a box cutter, but maybe it can do enough damage to buy me time to escape in his truck.
If he gets hold of me, he'll overcome me. No question. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, willing myself not to panic.
The better I can keep my emotions under control, the better chance I have of taking him by surprise if need be.
He's still completely in silhouette from the headlights behind him. I can't make out his features. "Car trouble?" His voice is deep but a little raspy, like he hasn't spoken all day. I nod, my own throat suddenly dry too. "Yeah. It just… stopped.
Ran out of gas."
Admitting it makes me feel like an idiot. He's going to think I'm easy prey, and he's sadly right. I grip my knife. I will not be a victim. Not without doing some major damage along the way, at least. He steps closer, enough so I can finally catch a clearer look at him. Unfortunately for my sense of self-preservation, this man is gorgeous. As in, leaving-me-dumbstruck, can't-tear-my-eyes away kind of gorgeous. Straight nose, supple mouth, a sharp jawline beneath the shadow of stubble. His black hair is a little long, like he hasn't bothered to cut it in a while, but it works for him. High cheekbones catch the moonlight, giving his face a chiseled severity.
People simply don't look like this in real life. I force myself to try and find some flaw so I can act like a normal person here. My eyes sweep down his strong, tall body. Dark jeans hug his long legs. His shirt—black or grey, it's hard to tell in the darkness— stretches over broad shoulders and thick biceps.
No flaws there.
I focus on his eyes. There's little comfort in them. They're bright and cold as ice chips beneath his black brows. They narrow as he stares at me. As if I'm the one he needs to be suspicious of, instead of the other way around.
Yes, he's handsome. But that doesn't make me feel any safer when he takes a step towards me.