by Anna Zaires, Pepper Winters, Skye Warren, Lynda Chance, Pam Godwin, Amber Lin
“My car broke down,” she says softly. Her eyes drop from mine, and she looks off towards the dirt road for a second. The muscles in her right hand tighten a little, making her fingers jerk in response.
There is no doubt in my mind she is lying.
“Did it now?” I reply softly.
“Yeah, overheated, I suppose,” she says with a little more conviction. “I thought I was heading back the direction I came from, but obviously I wasn’t.”
“Want to get some water, and I’ll drive you back to it? I’m sure I can take care of a little radiator trouble.”
“Oh!” Her eyes go wide, and her feet begin to shuffle.
That’s right, baby, I’m not buying your shit.
“You don’t have to do that.” She reaches up and fiddles with the poof made by the hair band at the top of her head. “Maybe I could just use your phone? My cell can’t get any reception, and I think it’s dead now anyway.”
“I don’t have one,” I reply.
“Oh.” Her eyes drop back to the ground.
I keep looking at her, but she won’t meet my gaze. I debate calling her out on it directly or letting her dig herself deeper. It doesn’t really matter one way or another, so the decision is based completely on my own desire to see what she says.
“You want to tell me the real reason you’re wandering around out here?”
Her teeth take that moment to bite right into her lip again, and I wonder if she’s going to make herself bleed.
“That obvious, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
“My mom always said not to join any secret societies because I was the worst liar in the world.”
I don’t reply because there’s no reason to respond to that. I just wait and watch. She’s looking at the ground and seems to have become suddenly lost in her own mind, likely in nostalgia about her mom or some other aspect of her childhood. When she doesn’t say anything after a minute, I switch the rifle from one arm to the other and her eyes widen.
At least I have her attention again.
“I had a bit of an…an argument…with my driver,” she finally mumbles. “I was dropped off in the middle of nowhere.”
It’s the truth, but not all of it. I figure it’s all I’m going to get, and since I really don’t care, I decide to move on from this conversation.
“Want some water?” I ask. I move the rifle up to my shoulder, pointing the end at the sky.
“Yes, please.” Her relief is obvious, but she is also understandably cautious in her movements. She follows me tentatively to the door and stands just outside of it. Odin sniffs around at her feet, and she pats his head. He seems undecided about her, likely reflecting my own feelings.
“It’s not particularly cold,” I tell her as I pull a bottle out of what would be a refrigerator if it was turned on, “but it is wet.”
“That’s perfect, really,” she says.
I walk near the door and hold the bottle of water just out of her reach. I’m curious about how she will respond. Will she step inside the spider’s parlor to get the water she needs to survive? Or will her own fears and paranoia make her stay on the rickety porch and refuse to take the risk?
It takes her several seconds until she realizes I’m not going to move, and she slowly takes two steps forward. Our fingers brush against each other’s as she takes the bottle from my hand. There’s a tinge of red on the tops of her cheeks which wasn’t there before. She’s embarrassed, but about what? Is it because she’s taking water from a stranger or because she’s admitting to needing help?
Or maybe it’s because our fingers touched and she realizes she’s alone with some guy she doesn’t know.
I want to laugh at the idea, but I manage to contain myself.
“Thank you,” she says and then clears her throat. She twists open the bottle and tips it up to her lips. She starts to drink way too quickly, and I immediately grab it from her, causing her to startle.
“Not so fast,” I say, “or you’ll make yourself sick. Sip it.”
I place the bottle back in her hand, and she nods slowly at me. She takes a small sip, pauses, and then takes another. I return her nod, convinced she isn’t going to make herself puke on my floor now.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Evan,” I tell her.
“I’m Lia,” she says with a smile. I’m not sure if it is due to her continued nervousness or if she really just wants to be polite. I watch her closely but don’t respond. “Um…Lia Antonio.”
Italian. Figures. I should have known from her features. She doesn’t have any accent, though, so she’s not first gen or anything.
I keep staring at her. I know it’s making her nervous, but I’m not one for small talk and I don’t want her to get the impression that she’s going to stay here and gossip away the evening with me. I consider picking the rifle back up and making it clear she needs to be on her way.
On her way where?
If I kick her out, she’s dead before the sun sets. What am I supposed to do – offer her a fucking ride somewhere? I don’t even know – or care – where she’s going. I’m also supposed to stay right where I am except when I need to go somewhere for supplies.
Getting low on gasoline, I remind myself.
Fuck.
I push the thought from my head. I don’t want to have to spend at least a couple hours in a truck with some chick I don’t know. She’s an idiot for even being here.
I reconsider almost immediately. She is an idiot, but that is for getting herself in the situation at all, not because she is here now. She doesn’t have a choice at this point. Going back out into the desert is suicide.
“Hungry?” I hear myself ask, and I want to slam my head into the wall.
“Um…a little, but really – you don’t have to go to any trouble.”
“Well,” I say, “it’s my dinner time, so I’m going to cook. If you want something, speak up now.”
She steps from one foot to the other a couple of times as she stares at the wood slats that make up the floor.
“I guess,” she finally answers. “I mean, if you are making something already, that would be wonderful.”
Too fucking polite.
Chapter Two
Resolved Tension
We sit at the table, and I serve up what I managed to scrounge for dinner. It’s a better meal than I would have made for myself – definitely. Fried potatoes with peppers and onions mixed in with it, along with canned peaches and a couple bottles of water. It still isn’t much, but the way she tears into it tells me how hungry she really is.
I leave the generator going, and the fan points close to us so we can at least be a little more comfortable while eating. Odin plops himself down next to the fan to reap the benefits as well. He watches Lia pretty closely but backs away when she reaches out her hand. When she asks me if he’s friendly to strangers, I can only shrug. He really hasn’t been around too many people. It’s always been just the two of us.
“This is really good,” Lia says as she takes another bite of the potatoes. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“Camping,” I tell her. It is close enough to accurate. “We did a lot of hiking in the middle of nowhere, so I can make a meal out of most anything as long as I have a fire to cook it.”
“We?” she pushes. “You and your family?”
I hesitate before shaking my head.
“I don’t have one.”
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly as she bows her head. I wonder if she thinks they’re all dead and she’s saying a little prayer for them or something. I decide to take the moment to get a little distance.
“I’m going outside for a few,” I tell her. I need to hook the alarm back up to the truck, which means first running out to the point where she tripped it up and set it off. “I’ll be right back.”
Not sure why I feel the need to tell her that.
“It’s getting dark,” she says softly as she looks out the w
indow.
I don’t reply because it’s such an obvious observation. Will she tell me I’m tall next? After picking up my rifle, I head out and Odin follows at my heels. He sniffs the ground as he keeps pace with my jog. Once I reach the general area, I follow her footprints in the dry ground until I come to the thin, detached wire and twist the metal part of it back together.
Odin and I run back to the truck and clip the whole thing to the truck’s battery. I walk slowly around the house using the scope on the horizon but see nothing of interest. I refill Odin’s water dish, feed him, and head inside again. I leave the front door open, which I do most nights. It doesn’t have an actual lock on it anyway, and it works particularly well this evening since the fan is on and it creates a nice cross-breeze.
Lia is still sitting in the same spot, tearing the label from her water bottle. I look her over, wondering what’s going through her head. I can make a lot of logical guesses, but there are still too many parameters. She could be thinking of her mother, the asshole who ditched her, or what she is going to do now.
“I assume you are staying here tonight,” I say. I don’t know if I’m answering the question she is pondering or not, but it still has to be something on her mind. Besides, I feel resigned to letting her stay.
“Oh, no, no,” she says with a shake of her head. “I couldn’t impose…”
I want to laugh, but she probably wouldn’t appreciate the humor. I go with straightforward instead.
“There really aren’t a lot of options,” I point out to her. “It’s late. I’m tired and going to bed. You can stay or you can go, whatever you want obviously, but I wouldn’t go anywhere until tomorrow.”
“I guess you’re right,” she admits. Her fingers twist around each other on top of the table.
I stand slowly and start collecting the dishes and fill the sink up with water.
“Oh!” she suddenly cries out. “Let me do that!”
She’s beside me a second later, apparently planning on washing the dishes herself. I consider for a moment, and then take a step back.
“By all means.” I’m curious to see if she really intends to do it or if she is just trying to be polite. Her hands go into the sudsy water, and she begins to scrub. There aren’t many, and she’s done quickly and efficiently. When she places the last dish in the drying rack, I realize I’ve been watching her the entire time.
Slowly, I pull the towel from my shoulder and hand it over to her. She mumbles a thank you as she takes it and quickly dries her hands. She looks around the tiny kitchen area and finds the little loop used to hold towels and threads the drying cloth through it before looking back to me.
For a long moment, I only look at her and try to figure her out. Some things are obvious – she’s running from someone. Maybe he dumped her on the side of the road and maybe she ran off, but she’s trying to get away from him. That much is clear. On impulse, I check out her ring finger. No ring, but there’s a clear mark around the skin – she’s worn one until recently.
Interesting.
Is it lying in the dust out there in the road or hidden away in a little pocket of the backpack she left lying next to the still open front door? I tilt my head to one side and feel the brush of the fan’s wind against my neck. I need to turn it – and the generator – off for the night. I do both before walking to the far side of the little room where I live.
It’s still too fucking hot.
Gripping the hem of my shirt, I pull it up over my head and off before tossing it into a basket under the window. I reach down and thumb open the button on my faded blue jeans. I feel my mouth turn up into a half smile as Lia blushes and looks away from me – as if there is anywhere else to really look in the shack. I shake my head and try not to laugh out loud as I dump my jeans around my ankles, bend over to pick them up, and fold them a couple of times before placing them in the nightstand drawer.
Deciding to at least leave my boxers on for her sake, I drop down to the bed and toss the thin sheet back just in case she wants to use it. It is way too warm for a blanket, even a thin one, but who knows? Maybe she is one of those who always needs a blanket.
“Um…where should I sleep?” she asks quietly, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“There’s only one place to sleep,” I say, which should have been pretty fucking obvious. Rolling and scooting to my side to offer her as much room as possible, I gesture to the other side of the twin bed. “Right here.”
She looks around a bit, and I can almost hear her mind contemplating her options. There are the rocking chairs on the porch and the card table in the kitchen, which wouldn’t hold half her weight. Other than that, there is the wood floor to sleep on – that’s it.
I shake my head slowly.
“Just lay down.”
I watch her throat bob as she swallows again, then walks slowly over to the side of my bed. She doesn’t bother taking anything off, which doesn’t surprise me at all. She’ll be way too hot to sleep, but that’s her problem.
Actually, she’s just plain hot.
I’m pretty sure it’s not just because I haven’t seen an actual female for three months that makes me think like this. Her hair is gorgeous and makes me want to run my fingers through it while my cock slides in and out of her mouth. She’s got a perfect build, too. She’s not too skinny, which I fucking hate, but has kind of an athletic build. She isn’t quite muscular enough to remind me of the chicks who served with me, but still well-formed. She’s got a real woman’s hips, which I want to grip while I pound into her pussy. Nice ass, too, which makes me want to roll her over on her stomach and grasp both cheeks while my cock pistons in and out of her backdoor.
There seems to be a theme to my thoughts.
She bites down on her lower lip as she first sits on the bed and then stretches out next to me, which is when it occurs to me that I’d really like to just kiss her, too. I chuckle silently to myself and try to get in the most comfortable position possible. I lie down on my side still facing her and lay my arm across my own body with my hand resting on my thigh so she has enough room to lie down without having to touch me. She also lies down facing me, which I find intriguing. A lot of people would have turned around and faced away from a relative stranger, feeling protected by their own backs. She knows better and realizes she needs to be able to see me so she’s not taken off guard.
She’s also staring at my bare chest.
Her eyes are just a little wider than I would expect from someone contemplating sleep, and her muscles are tight and stiff. She’s not mentally tired at all, but only going through the motions because it’s time to go to sleep, not because she wants to. She may be physically exhausted, but her mind won’t let her relax. She’s too anxious to sleep, and I wonder if her thoughts are more on the strange man whose bed she is in or the one who dumped her on the side of the road without regard for her safety.
That thought pisses me off a bit.
I watch her watch me, and every time I look at her lips I think of either covering them with my own or maybe filling her mouth with my cock. Every time I look lower, I want to find some other warm place to hide my dick for an hour or so.
Yeah, there is definitely a theme.
“You’re making me nervous,” she says.
I glance up from her hip back to her face.
“How?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
“You keep staring at me.”
I try to hold back a laugh, but I can’t help myself.
“You are by far the most interesting thing I have had to look at in a long, long time.”
Her eyes are wary and nervous, and I feel a little bad. My flippant comment probably isn’t going to help her get any sleep, and that really isn’t my intent. I decide to lay it all on the line for her.
“Look…” I start, but then I pause. I’m not sure how to say what I want to say without scaring her, and I don’t want to scare her. I want to fuck her, but I don’t want to scare her. If I pl
ay all of this right – if I read her perfectly – then I just might get the chance. I can’t fuck it up though. If I misread her in any way, I will say or do the wrong thing, and she will just become more agitated. I want to have her quietly moaning my name into the pillow as I come in her, not freaking out on me because I pushed in the exact wrong way.
I finally decide on the direct approach.
“You don’t have to be scared of me. If I was going to hurt you, I would have already. If I was going to kill you, you’d be dead. If I was planning on raping you, you’d be raped, okay?”
I hear her sharp intake of breath.
Okay, maybe that was a little too direct.
She tenses at my last sentence, which doesn’t surprise me. Most chicks are more fearful of being raped than being killed. Something about her posture and expression seem off to me, though. As I look her over I realize that though I have shocked her a bit, she’s thinking about it in a slightly different way. It’s not pure fear, as would be the obvious reaction.
I think about this for a minute and start watching her a little more closely. It does seem to make her…react. Her chest is rising and falling a little faster, her eyes are dilated, and there’s a bit of a tinge to her cheeks that wasn’t there before. I’m not sure nervous is the right word – anxious seems more like it. Maybe even something slightly different. Like maybe she’s thinking about what it would be like, and not in a completely bad way.
I’ve seen chicks get raped – usually right in front of their dad or husband or whatever as a means of punishing him for whatever he fucked up. That shit just goes with the territory in my line of business. I don’t participate – I’m just a killer, not a torturer. That’s an art form I don’t care to learn. My skills are all with the guns, and the closest I ever see my victims is through the scope. With rape, the chick gets damaged, and I know no woman really wants that. That’s not the same as thinking about it, though, and I know the difference between fantasy and reality.
