by Nikki Chase
“He’s going to hurt you if he knows that you know,” she said.
“Don’t worry about me.” I hugged Nancy tighter and stroked her hair. I couldn’t believe she was concerned about me when she was in way more danger than I was. “I’m not scared of Stan,” I lied. “I’m already planning to quit anyway. I’m going to leave and be a teacher. I don’t need him.”
“He said… He said if I left, he was going to go after my mom.”
Damn it. I’d guessed right. I put my hands on Nancy’s shoulders and pulled away just far enough to look straight into her eyes. “Nance, you need to stop worrying about other people and start looking after yourself.” I took a deep breath. “Look. If you ever decide to leave, I’ll help you make sure your mom is safe. Okay?”
“Okay.” She nodded.
I had no idea what I was going to do, or if there was anything I could do at all. But even without ever talking to Nancy’s mom, I knew she’d want Nancy to be safe and happy, above all else. And that was all that mattered in that moment: making Nancy feel safe enough to do what she had to do.
Only I had no idea what it was going to cost for Nancy to leave her abuser.
The school bell rings, dragging me back to the present. As freshmen start to file into the classroom and take their seats, I force myself to forget about the past and put on my teaching hat.
The circumstances are less than ideal, but I’m going to appreciate the hell out of my dream job. After all, I don’t know when it will be snatched away from me.
Jacob
Present Time
“Excuse me, Sir. Is there a problem here?” I pasted a smile on my face while my eyes shot daggers at the diner whose hand is still resting on Claire’s behind.
“I don’t remember calling you over, waiter,” he said, spitting out the last word like an insult he obviously meant it to be. He squeezed Claire’s ass while he was staring me down.
Fuck this guy.
That’s what I wanted to say. Fuck off, asshole. But it was my workplace and I had to stay professional. Which apparently meant just grinning and bearing it, no matter what kind of shit customers threw at you.
Claire stepped away from the table. She stood behind me and whispered, “It’s okay, Jacob. I’m fine. Let it go.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises, Sir. Claire here has repeatedly asked you to stop touching her and you obviously haven’t been listening.” I balled my fists and dropped them on the table to show him I meant business.
“What are you talking about? You don’t have a problem with me, do you, sweetheart?” He raised his eyebrows at Claire, who was still standing behind me, using me as some sort of a human shield.
“She’s too polite to say it, but we want you to leave, please,” I repeated. I leaned closer and looked straight into his beady eyes, making it clear that there was going to be trouble if he didn’t comply.
He drew back, fear overtaking his features for a few seconds before his face grew red with anger—and perhaps embarrassment, as other diners were starting to cast curious glances toward us.
He knew better than to pick a fight with me. Most people do. I’m bigger and meaner than most people.
He grabbed his coat and gathered his belongings. “Your manager is going to hear about this,” he said in a low voice to avoid attracting even more attention.
I often saw him come in with his family, so it was incredibly stupid of him to try to pull something like this here, if he didn’t want his wife to find out about his wandering hands. There were hundreds of other restaurants in town.
As he made his way toward the door, he looked back over his shoulder and shot me an impotent glare. The door slammed loudly when he left. He didn’t pay, of course. Cheap, dirty fucking bastard.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Claire said as she stacked the plates of half-eaten food on the table. “Now you’re in trouble.”
“He was asking for it,” I said, shrugging.
“I’m used to it, Jacob,” she said. “Dealing with difficult customers is just part of the job.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Well, like it or not, it is. And now you’ve just made things worse. Malcolm isn’t going to be happy to hear from the guy. And you know what kind of a manager he is. He’ll fire you.”
Claire was right, of course.
The very next day, Malcolm, the manager of the diner, approached me with a sour face. Standing behind a tall counter to keep a safe distance between us, he told me to collect my stuff and leave. “The customer is always right,” he said with finality when I tried to explain why I had to do what I did.
Well, good riddance. There’s nothing I hate more than dealing with entitled people who think they can make me do whatever they want, like I’m a fucking puppet on strings.
With that kind of attitude, I don’t know why I ever thought it was a good idea for me to join the Navy. Live and learn, I guess.
To be fair, I don’t regret it. I’m glad I served as a Petty Officer in the Navy SEAL, but I’m also glad that I got out. It’s just that finding my place in civilian society isn’t easy.
At first, I tried working in a garage because I’m pretty good with my hands. The owner told me to stop coming to work because I’d told a particularly entitled customer to leave when he’d started screaming at one of the young part-timers.
After that, there was the hardware store. I got fired for pretty much the same reason.
I thought working in a less testosterone-charged place, like a diner, would mean fewer infuriating incidents, but nope.
No matter where I worked, there were always assholes who’d come in and think they were royalty and I was just some peasant they could kick around.
Not that I ever fit in very well in the Navy either. I got along great with the guys I served with—they were practically my brothers—but my superiors were arrogant, self-righteous dicks.
It was just a matter of time until they kicked me out, so I did a pre-emptive strike and quit as soon as I could. Honorable discharge, they call it.
After my string of failures at shitty, minimum-wage jobs, I met another ex-Navy SEAL guy for a beer. After hearing my story, he taught me some skills I could use to work on my own.
I’m lucky my parents had insisted on me finishing college before enlisting. I’m also pretty comfortable with risks, having spent a few years in the Navy SEAL. Both college and the Navy make me good at what I do now, so I have no regrets.
I quickly realized I could work from anywhere as long as I had a computer and Internet connection. The first thing I did, as soon as I could afford it, was to buy a Harley Davidson Fat Boy to ride across the country, make my childhood dream come true.
Now, with a lot of things, often the reality doesn’t even compare to the dream. But owning this bike totally kicks ass. I love the promising vibrations when it’s at rest, the roar of the powerful engine between my legs when I take it to the road, the wind hitting my skin through my jeans, the utter freedom of being able to go anywhere I want.
I even love it when something goes wrong with the bike and I have to get down and dirty to fix it. It gives me great satisfaction to bring it back to life every single time it breaks down.
I don’t remember every little town I’ve visited, and I have no idea where I’m going either. I’m looking for something, I suppose. I don’t know what it is, but I’ll know it when I find it.
I don’t have much company, which is both the best and the worst part of this lifestyle. I like having the freedom to do whatever I want whenever I feel like it, but it can get lonely on the road.
Every once in a while, a woman takes a liking to me and we spend a passionate, orgasmic night together. Sometimes, I see her for more than one night, but the itch to move on never goes away.
Even though I always make it clear that I’m on the move and I won’t stick around, some of them get it into their heads that they’re different and I’m going to stay this time. T
hen they kick up a fuss when I inevitably leave. It’s not my fault you don’t listen, honey.
According to my map, the next town in my path is called Ashbourne. I’ll grab breakfast there and check out the town, maybe spend a few days there if I can find a good place to stay.
I never make long-term plans these days. Hell, I don’t have what most people would call short-term plans. For now, all I know is where I’m eating my next meal. If there’s nothing interesting in Ashbourne, I’ll move on to the next town.
I’m way off the highway now, with thick woods on either side of the country road. Nobody but locals would normally traverse these roads. It’s a nice morning, with the sun just sleepily getting up, the first rays of light hitting the ground in blotches, filtered by the trees.
I squint my eyes to see through the smoky shield of my helmet. There’s a car stopped by the side of the road. A white sedan. As I get closer, I notice a woman standing in front of it, waving at me. The boot is popped up, the universal sign of car trouble.
I slow down and prepare to pull over. It always feels warmer when my bike comes to a stop because the wind doesn’t pummel into me anymore. But as soon as I can make out the shape of that body, the features of that face, it gets veritably hot.
Could that be her?
She looks different now. No heavy makeup, for one. And her hair is different, too. I remember the way her long, fiery red waves lit up the night, all those years ago, and now she has short, honey brown hair instead.
But it’s her. I’d bet my life on it. She gave me the best night of my life, and I’d recognize her anywhere.
Jessica
I pace around by my car as the robotic female voice on the phone says, “You’ve reached…,” followed by a male human voice that says, “Eddie’s Garage.” Then the automated voice takes over to finish the voicemail message. “Please leave your message after the beep.”
Damn this small town. I hang up and resist the urge to fling my phone at one of the big tree trunks in the woods that’s divided by this road. I don’t want to be stranded in the middle of nowhere and have nothing I can use to contact anyone.
I know it’s a Sunday, but this is ridiculous. Everything is closed, including the only garage in town. Everyone is either at church or hungover in bed. Some poor bastards are even hungover at church.
I don’t have time to wait for Eddie to get back to me tomorrow. I’m stranded right now. I know for a fact there’s not much traffic here even on weekdays. On a Sunday like today? It would take less time for me to walk the ten miles into town than it would for another soul to pass.
I call another number from the list of recent calls on my phone. I doubt he’s awake at this hour, and even if he is, it’s not like he’s any good at fixing cars. That’s why I tried calling the mechanic first.
“Hi, this is Tony. I can’t pick up your call right now, but leave your number after the beep and I’ll call you right back.”
Heh. I know his “right back” doesn’t mean anything. Tony is the worst at calling people back, but I need someone to pick me up so I wait for the beep.
“Hi Tone, while your ass is still in bed, I’m stuck here on the road to Dewhurst. My piece-of-junk car just died on me, like you always said it would. Yeah, I know. You told me so. Go and do your stupid happy dance. I hate you.
“Serves me right for trying to buy something good for the meeting on Wednesday night. I should stop trying to be nice. It’s bad for me.
“Did you know Eddie’s Garage is closed today? That should be illegal. They’re the only one in town that can fix my car. It’s a monopoly!
“Wait, what was I saying? Yeah, um. In summary, my car broke down. Call me when you wake up and come rescue me.”
I hang up and look around.
Luckily the sun is on its way up, because the woods creep me out when it’s dark. The morning sunlight actually looks really pretty streaming through the gaps between tree trunks and leaves. Birds are starting to wake up and sing, perching on tall branches.
I would’ve missed all of this had I just been driving through. Life’s little detours can be a good thing sometimes, I guess.
It’s not so bad. Worst case scenario, I’ll wait here for a few hours until Tony picks me up in his SUV. No doubt I’ll have to leave my car here, but this area is super safe and I’m sure nobody will damage my car. Plus, nobody in their right mind would steal it. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.
I guess I should try to do something, though. I can’t just sit here and play games on my phone. I’ll use up the battery and Tony won’t be able to reach me. Then I’ll be in real trouble.
I look around to check that there’s no traffic before I open the door. It’s completely unnecessary, of course. The lack of traffic is why I’m in trouble in the first place. But I’m a city girl at heart, and old habits die hard.
I walk to the front of the car and pop the boot open. I rest my hands on my waist while I stare at the engine, or whatever they call these things. Jesus. I have no idea what these black and grey pieces of metal are, much less how to make them work.
I run my fingers through my hair. It’s been a few months, but I’m still not totally used to how much shorter my hair is. I had long hair all my life, but I cut it before I moved here.
It was like a scene out of some action movie. On my last day in the city, I stood in my bathroom with a pair of scissors in my hand.
My plan was to lop off a few inches of hair until it was about shoulder length. I didn’t get it all the same length on the first try, of course. So I kept going until I had a stupid, uneven short hair that could maybe pass for a pixie cut if you didn’t look too closely.
And then I opened the box of hair dye that I’d bought from the drugstore. The picture on the box made it seem like I was going to have a pretty shade of chestnut brown after following the illustrated booklet of instructions. Instead, I ended up with a dull shade of mousy brown. Another sucker roped in by false advertising.
It didn’t matter how pretty the haircut or the hair colour looked, though. Funny. That was the first time in my life when hairstyling wasn’t about looking good.
The new hair was all about laying low. My long red hair would’ve stood out too much. Now that my brown hair has grown to shoulder length and has been coloured by an actual hairstylist, I no longer hate it.
Out of nowhere, I hear the roar of an engine in the distance. I perk up my ears. The sound gradually gets louder and deeper, telling me someone’s probably coming, against all odds.
A tiny Harley-Davidson appears in my line of vision as the motorcycle turns the corner in the distance.
“Yeah!” I punch my fist in the air. Finally, something good happens today.
I face the bike and watch it grow in size as it approaches. The guy riding it wears a black leather jacket and a black helmet. I wave at him and he slows down, pulling over to meet me at the side of the road.
I could tell it was a big bike from a distance, but it looks even bigger up close. It just didn’t seem its size before because the rider is a mountain of a man.
Big, broad chest and shoulders with strong arms that bulge and strain the sleeves of his leather jacket. He reminds me of someone from the past, someone I met years ago, who still visits my naughty dreams every now and again.
He grinds to a halt and turns off his engine. When the loud roar suddenly disappears, my ears take a few seconds to adjust to the relative silence of the woods, with the gentle rustling of the leaves and the birdsong in the background.
The man tilts his head and grabs his helmet with his big, masculine hands. For a moment, I wonder how they’d feel roaming all over my body, those long fingers exploring my curves.
It’s been a while since the last time I invited a man to my bed. I’d been too preoccupied with getting myself to safety, too anxious about flying under the radar, to even remember about my womanly urges, aside from solitary moments in the dark before I go to sleep.
Besides, the m
en in the small town of Ashbourne are all taken, gay, or so different in age from me that getting together with them in that way would be completely inappropriate.
For example, sometimes even the teenagers in my class would awkwardly flirt with me. I’m not into younger men, and I’m definitely not interested in getting on the sex offender registry.
As the man in front of me removes his helmet, I watch in fascination to see what he looks like underneath. I already like the way his presence seems to fill the space and the confident way that he moves.
When I finally see his face, I almost gasp. Out of surprise, yes. But also, out of fear.
It’s definitely him. His dark hair is a little longer, but otherwise he looks exactly the same as he did three years ago.
Does he recognize me?
What is this man even doing here?
There’s one possible explanation that comes to mind, and I don’t like it.
Jacob
Her mouth hangs open. I can tell she recognizes me too. There’s shock on her face, and something else… Fear?
Sure, the way she disappeared on me wasn’t very nice. But there’s no reason for her to fear me. Just because I’m a big guy doesn’t mean I’m a violent neanderthal. Of course this common assumption comes in handy sometimes, allowing me to get my way without actually getting into any altercation. But if she’s afraid of me, that would annoy me big time. What does she think I am?
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” I balance my helmet on the Harley while I size her up.
She’s different in many ways, but she’s still as sexy as ever. My eyes roam all over her body. She’s still got that dancer’s body. Lean and tight, with curves in all the right places. Even in a simple pair of skinny jeans and a cotton shirt, she looks like temptation on a stick. And I’m definitely tempted.
I wonder what she’s doing here. Is she traveling like I am? Does she live and work here now? Would a small town like Ashbourne even have a strip joint?
