by Kayla Oliver
I’d be scared it’s Arlo if there was any threatening gesture. But the fact that they didn’t even stop at the same rest stop I did leaves me aware this is just a weird thing my brain must be doing. Some sense of safety and comradery with a stranger who’s just traveling the same—very common—route I am.
Maybe I’m just weird. This is likely what got me in trouble with Arlo. I found something stupid like this and latched on. And fell into a pit of vipers hell-bent on blood.
Tears sting in my eyes, but I tell myself it’s because I’m tired. Turning the music up to keep my heart thumping and my brain awake, I keep my hands at ten and two on the wheel, trying to tell myself I’m still okay to drive.
The truck behind me lays on the horn and I jerk, pulling the wheel as I realize I’m drifting over the white line and toward the ditch. Glancing in my rearview, I want to wave to the person behind me for keeping me on it. With my heart thundering in my chest, I blink several times and promise myself I’ll stop for coffee soon.
To keep my brain awake, I think about my plans. I’d considered just driving until I felt I was far enough away Arlo couldn’t follow. I grew up in southern Oregon, but I’ve wanted to see the coast of Washington. Or the Puget Sound.
Oh! I want to see the Orcas swimming in the Puget Sound. That would be amazing.
But what am I going to do for a job? Modeling is out of the question. Arlo will be looking for me. Having my face out there would be stupid. So I’ll get a job as a waitress. Something that’s hard work, that’s serious, that I’ll earn my wages for.
I’m not averse to hard work.
The truck behind me flashes their brights once, and I keep at attention, hands at ten and two on the wheel, and slow down a bit, wondering why they’d flash me. A second later, a cop flies past me and smoothly slips between me and the car in front of me. I touch my brakes, breathing a sigh of relief as the cop’s lights flash and he pulls over the guy in front of me.
I drive past saying a silent thanks to the guardian angel in the truck behind me, my heart pounding once more.
So, I’ve got a plan. Now I need to stay focused on the road before something bad happens.
Chapter Four
Cliff
The rust-bucket truck in front of me drives past the cop, and I smile a little. Good thing the driver figured out that I was warning them about the cop and slowed down a bit.
From the back seat, Thomas is awake, trying to talk to me. We’ve reached the bargaining stage. He’s offering me everything from money to his friend’s thirteen-year-old daughter.
My lip curls in disgust. If the law doesn’t lock this piece of shit up, I think I’ll pay him a visit just to get him off the streets for good. He’s trash. A fucking bottom-of-the-barrel scumbag waste of oxygen.
“She’s real pretty too,” he says, his voice strained from the position he’s wedged into. “Skinny, tiny titties, real high and firm.”
“Sit the fuck up,” I bark, and he instantly straightens up, his eyes narrowed as they meet mine in the rearview.
“He’s got a boy, too, only six. I bet that’s more your speed,” he grinds out, and I want to pull over now and put a bullet in his brain.
But I don’t do that shit. I don’t lose control. Ever.
I tune the shitstain out, and my thoughts drift back to the woman in the elevator. What was she running from? I didn’t see any bruises. Her pulse was elevated, though.
That could have been something to do with me having Thomas shoved into the corner with his hands all zip-tied behind him. Maybe she thought I was a cop. People are generally nervous around cops even if they’ve no reason to be. But something tells me that whatever made her cry is also what she was running from.
Why the hell am I so fixated on this?
I continue driving through the day, stopping only when I have to. And each time I pull back onto the I-5, somehow I wind up near or behind the same truck. They almost feel like an old friend now. The kind of friend I like. A silent one.
It’s nearly night when I hit the bridge that connects Oregon to Washington. We’re on the last leg of the journey. The final stretch. I texted Zac to let him know I’ve got this dick waffle in the back seat, and we agreed on a time for me to turn him over.
Zac is the cop I turn offenders like this over to, but he’s also a friend. Unlike Dakin, he doesn’t bother to tell me to stay safe and be careful. He knows I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t do that shit. He’s a goddamned cop—he fucking gets it.
I could take the guy into the station, but I like to keep my contact with cops limited and private. Better for business if not everyone knows what I do and who I am.
In front of me, the truck is driving dutifully, keeping perfectly between the lines, and I breathe a sigh of relief that my driving buddy doesn’t seem to be falling asleep at the wheel. Maybe they changed drivers to someone more alert and able to make the drive.
Whatever makes it so I don’t have to watch brains spilled on the freeway is good for me. I’ve seen enough horrible things happen to good people—usually inflicted by evil people—that I’d like to not see more.
Only when I’m an exit away from our meeting spot do I allow myself to relax a little. And instantly, I tense back up. I can’t let my guard down. That’s how people die.
I pull off the freeway, saying a silent goodbye and happy travels to the rusty truck. The night is loud with the sound of crickets, and I roll down my window, wanting the chilly air to wake me up. The sensation overload is less appealing, but I’ll take it.
The scents of wet trees, damp pavement, rain, and dirt fill my senses, and I blink at the icy bite in the air. I love Washington. But damn that cold can really work deep into a man’s bones.
As my tires crunch over the gravel of the spot Zac and I agreed on, I park and see his cruiser. With careful motions and a gun at the ready, I open the back door and push the button to release the belt on Thomas. All the fight is gone out of him, as is usual when I’ve hauled people such long distances.
He lets me pull him out of the truck and walks on legs that are clearly asleep toward the waiting Zac. Only when Zac has the cuffs in place do I cut free my zip ties.
“Good job,” Zac says, and I nod.
He’s a good man. And his partner, Chase, isn’t bad either. He’s new to the force, and Zac’s complained about him more than he likely should. But he’s already saved Zac’s ass, so he’s all right in my book.
We part ways and I decide to go get some food. Generally on long drives like that with someone in the truck, I don’t stop for food and I only drink water. It was a long-ass drive.
My stomach is grumbling at me, and I’ve got a hankering for an omelet. Something with meat, mushrooms, cheese, onions, hell, the works sounds great. And some red potatoes fried up with rosemary and olive oil.
I get in my truck and drive toward the nearest twenty-four-hour store. Parking my truck, I make a list in my head, knowing my place is pretty light on groceries, as is typical when I’m on a job.
Inside, I blink in the blinding lights. The radios are blaring, and in the deli, there’s a huge flat-screen TV that encourages guests to sit and have a meal in the little sit-in area.
I walk past and pick up the items I need for my breakfast. With a little basket on my arm, I pick and choose, and remember a few other things I need. My basket is half-full when I almost slam into someone. A girl.
A woman. With sunny-blonde hair and brilliant yet sad green eyes. She looks up at me in shock, her pretty lips parting like she’s got something to say and no voice to say it with.
“Long day, huh?” I say, and she freezes, placing me too.
“Yeah. You?” she says, either playing along or answering honestly with my own vague words.
I keep it going, my mind working a million miles a minute. “You could say that.”
She flashes me a wavering smile, and I wonder again what the hell happened to break this girl. Suddenly, her eyes stray over my shoulder and her wh
ole body stiffens.
On the TV, a Twitter feed pops up on the trash news feed. A new trending tag, #ModelMayhem, followed by images of a naked girl with pretty blonde hair and green eyes.
Twitter is blowing up with jokes about how all models are whores, that this girl should be ashamed of herself, but more disturbing are the most retweeted posts about how guys would or should rape her.
In the feed, a video opens with a dark-eyed guy with a huge bruise on his face saying this girl attacked him and to contact police if you see her. He then proceeds to give her last known address and personal information. Her cell phone number.
He fucking doxes her. Right here for the whole world to see.
The TV shuts off, and a voice blares overhead with an apology for the screens and a reminder that guests are not permitted to change the channels of the TV sets in store.
I turn around, but the blonde is gone.
Chapter Five
Addie
Oh my god oh my god oh my god.
I’m going to puke. Oh my god! He put all my information out there! Everything! I take the deep blue-black hair dye out of the bag and put it on the dingy table of the place I’d rented. My hands are shaking.
Oh my god.
My life is over. Everyone in the world is going to have seen naked pictures of me online by morning!
Oh my god!
My mom and dad are going to be so disappointed.
Hot tears stream down my cheeks as I read the directions on the hair dye and follow them carefully. Before I’d left Las Vegas, I’d withdrawn the limit on the emergency credit card Dad had given me.
I feel bad for it, but I was going to call him. As it is, my cell phone is in pieces, battery removed, on the nightstand table.
Oh my god. I knew I shouldn’t have let him take those pictures!
In the bathroom, I bunch my hair up at the base of my neck and squeeze my eyes closed in sadness for a moment. I love my long, thick hair with its hint of a curl that’s so heavy it only curls at the ends. But self-preservation wins out before I can lose my nerve.
I cut through the mass and look in the mirror. It’s crooked, longer on the right, shorter on the left like some lopsided bob. I hate it. It’s too harsh for my face.
Picking up the hair dye, I start at the roots like it says. I soak my head, careful to keep it off my skin and hoping the color isn’t too loud. It’s black—I guess I hoped going polar opposite might make me less conspicuous. Now I wish I’d gone with a natural brown or something quieter.
I let it sit and realize I’m alone with my thoughts and a ticking watch for twenty-five minutes until I can shower and rinse it all out.
He posted naked pictures of me online.
Said I attacked him.
Told everyone to call the cops on me.
My life is fucking over.
Tomorrow, I’ll drop off the truck on a random corner. It’ll get impounded and Dad will have to pick it up. I’ll pay him back. But I need to go underground. And that truck is like a beacon of my presence.
Arlo gave my personal information to the world.
On the bathroom floor with my scalp tingling and my nose stinging with the sharp scent of dye, I bring my legs to my chest and carefully put my forehead on my knees.
Tears roll down my cheeks and dot my pants.
The whole world has seen me naked. I’ve no secrets anymore, no privacy, nothing. Not even a safe place to go or a caring ear to listen. Because I’m sure as fuck not reaching out to anyone.
Not even Mom and Dad.
Especially not Mom and Dad.
My chest aches and I wonder if this is what it feels like to die. I have nothing and no one. And it’s all because of Arlo.
Because I slapped him.
No. Not because I slapped him. Because he’s a bad man. I’ll take responsibility for my part in this; I shouldn’t have slapped him. I shouldn’t have let him take naked photos of me.
But he’s responsible for sharing those—and the rest of my information—with the world. He made that choice. I didn’t make him do it.
Despite feeling weak and broken, I get to my feet and run the shower as the alarm sounds. When the water is hot, I climb in and begin to rinse my hair.
The water runs cold in minutes, and I shiver as it goes icy in an instant. But I keep scrubbing my hair as my tears try to warm my skin. I shampoo with the little bottle the motel so thoughtfully provided. At first I’m certain it’s not enough; then I realize I’ve got less than half as much hair as I had before. The thought aches deep in my soul.
I’ll have to move tomorrow. The clerk here saw me. Maybe he won’t have placed me, by some small miracle, but he will figure it out. I have to find another place that’ll give me a room without an ID.
Arlo has reduced me to a criminal who has to lie and cheat to find a safe place to sleep.
When my hair finally stops running dark water, I’m satisfied it’s clean of the dye. I get out of the shower, naked and shivering, and wrap up in the thin, scratchy towel the place provides. I rub dry until my aching skin stings, trying to bring back feeling and rid myself of the full coat of goose bumps I’m wearing.
I look in the mirror and see someone else. A stranger in my place. Perfect.
So why am I still crying?
Because of the betrayal?
Or because I don’t want to lose who I am because someone else is trying to destroy me? Meeting my green eyes in the mirror, I try to find the good. That’s what Daddy taught me. Try to find the good in everything, even the bad.
This is rock bottom, but I’m trying.
The black makes my eyes look greener, my face sharper. With some dark lipstick and leather, I could pass for a dominatrix.
A laugh bursts from my lips at the thought.
I’ve never even had sex. Arlo kept pushing, but something in me told me not to. And I’m glad now that I didn’t. But part of me wonders if that’s the reason he was so cruel. As evil of a guy as he is, he’s not a rapist. Thank god for small favors.
I sober up quickly as the gravity of the situation presses down on my shoulders. Even though I’m pretty sure I can’t sleep, I decide I should try. I’m on an almost twenty-hour stretch without sleep, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die if I don’t rest.
I fall face-first in the bed and gator roll in the scratchy sheets. It occurs to me that they’re likely dirty, and I consider sleeping in the bathtub instead, but I can’t move.
Now that my body is still, it’s over. Sleep is coming and I can’t fight it.
Before the world fades out, I see the man. The tall one with broad shoulders and navy eyes. The one that I saw in the elevator, then in the store. Is he following me? I doubt it. He seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Doesn’t matter; I’ll never see him again.
Just like that, the world blinks out.
Chapter Six
Cliff
This isn’t the first time I’ve tracked someone who didn’t want to be followed. And this girl is good. Her cell phone is off, likely with the battery out of it. It hasn’t pinged any towers since fifty miles north of Las Vegas.
Her given name is Madeline Ann Bounder, an apt name that makes me smile briefly. She’s known to friends and family as Addie. She’s twenty-three and has had a moderately successful career as a model.
There had been whisperings of her having a part in a popular Netflix drama, but it never panned out. Her parents are Dorothy—Dottie—and William Bounder. An upper-middle-class couple with upstanding reputations.
But all the information doesn’t explain what happened to her. That I can deduce, based on the little I know. This Arlo son of a bitch who doxed her is a photographer. It’s a logical leap that he leaked the pictures of her.
She might have slapped him over the images being posted, but I’m leaning away from that. It makes more sense that she slapped him over something else and ran. Throwing the images to the public is an act of revenge. Revenge for leaving, perhaps
. The kind of garbage human that would do that would do it for control or to bully.
Which also tells me he’s likely an abusive bastard.
On a hunch, I pick up the phone and call Dave. He’s the clerk at a seedy motel a few blocks from the store I’d bumped into Addie at. He picks up on the eighth ring and sounds like he was sleeping.
“Fucking hell, what?”
“Chris,” I say, and instantly there’s a change in his voice.
“Oh, man. Sorry C-man. What can I do for you?” His tone is all kowtowing, and I hate it more than I hate friends telling me to be safe and be careful.
“Did a blonde check in tonight around midnight?” I ask, and he’s quick to answer.
“Yes! Beautiful woman.” He sounds nervous, and it puts me on edge. Nervous people have things to hide. People hiding things can be dangerous.
“Did you ID her?” I know he didn’t, but here’s hoping.
He hesitates. “Uhhhh, let me check…”
He’s stalling. Why? Does he think that he’s fooling me? “You didn’t ID her.” I don’t ask, I state it, and I hear his voice fall.
“Uh, no.”
“Is she still there?” I ask, keeping back a sigh that would reveal too much to Chris.
“Yeah. Her truck is still here. And I haven’t seen her leave.” I hear what sounds like a door opening on his end, and he reaffirms her truck is there.
Her truck. Interesting. Nothing is registered to her name. “What’s the plate number on that truck?” I ask, and he rattles it off as I memorize the string of numbers and letters.
A Las Vegas plate. She’s got to know that’ll give her away in an instant. “Thanks, Chris. Call me if she leaves.”
“Of course,” he says, and I hang up. I run the plate and find it’s registered to none other than William Bounder. Her father. Of course.
Comfortable that I know where she is, I look up everything I can on Arlo. And the more I dig, the more I want to smash his face in. The prick is a Class A asshole who preys on models. Addie isn’t the first. She’s the first he’s gone this far on, but that only tells me she’s the first to stand up to him.
