Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
I stop walking and see him holding my purse and phone.
I reach out for it, but he pulls it back.
“Why can’t you just stop being a jerk and take me home?”
“Suck me off and I will.”
I don’t say anything. Just reach out again. “Give me my stuff.”
He tosses the purse, but he keeps my phone.
“Sean, really?” I ask. “Stop being so immature.”
“Immature is making me stop talking to other girls just for you to lead me on.” He scoffs. “Especially since you just moved to town and I had plenty of other options.”
I roll my eyes. I’m not sure if this is his attempt at gaslighting or guilting, but it’s not working.
“How would you feel if you were me, Emily?”
“I would feel like the asshole I’ve always been.” I glare at him. “Give. Me. My. Phone.”
“Sure thing.” He tosses it out the window and speeds away.
Gasping, I rush over to where it fell, picking it up and noticing that the screen is shattered. The signal is weak and the battery is clinging to life support.
I’m screwed.
I hold back a scream as his car eases onto the highway, as his lights join the red sea of traffic far ahead.
I didn’t think this out far enough, and with every sheet of rain that falls over me, I’m thinking about how I’ll have to write about this in my next poem.
How no other title except “Foolish, Foolish Girl” will fit.
I gave up a night at the writing café for this, a night with a warm latte, my playlist, and words…
Holding onto my umbrella, I start walking and envision Sean getting hit with a Mack truck.
It’s not until I reach an “Upcoming Food and Gas Stations” sign, when I see that they’re all three miles away, that I let out a pent-up scream.
I pull out my phone and it flashes the dead battery icon.
Okay. Now, I’m fucked.
1A
EMILY
The first place I reach is called Fuel-Land—a rest stop with a diner, a gas station, and a stale, burnt coffee smell that hits me the second I walk in. My soaked hoodie clings to me, my socks squish in my shoes, and the lights overhead buzz like they’re seconds from dying.
A row of truckers slouches at the counter, all hunched over their mugs like they’re waiting for the will to live. I head straight to the bathroom, dry my face with sandpaper paper towels, and try not to cry.
When I return, one of the truckers—mid-forties, scruffy, semi-decent smile—gives me a once-over.
“Outlets are over there.” He points behind him to the bar. All taken.
“Here,” he says, handing me a cup. “Get a coffee on the house.”
I nod in thanks and move to the self-serve machine, pretending I’m not shaking. As I add cream, a guy in a green flannel approaches with a long cord.
“Phone looks dead.” He hands me the charger.
“Thanks.” I plug it in, but an alert pops up.
Liquid detected! Dry port before charging.
Of course. “Actually... I could use some help,” I say.
“Where you headed?”
“Teaneck. New Jersey.”
“That’s not far. I’m passing through there now, actually.” He smiles. “I can give you a lift.”
He doesn’t seem threatening, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that means absolutely nothing. Still... I have twenty-six bucks and no working phone. A cab would laugh in my face.
“My truck’s the red Kenworth out front. I’m pulling out in twenty. Get some snacks if you need ’em, and meet me there.”
I nod and murmur a thank you, though his eyes linger on me a beat too long.
As he leaves, I turn back toward the gadget aisle for a mini cloth and power bank. I grab a bag of chips, a Sprite, and make a beeline for the cooler to check for ice cream.
Then I’m grabbed from behind.
I’m slammed gently—but firmly—against the cold glass of the freezer. A hand pins itself beside my head, and my breath catches.
“Are you seriously this naïve?”
The voice is gravel and steel. Low. Rough. Furious. The kind that rips through silence like a knife.
I look up and everything slows.
He’s beautiful.
Not pretty-boy, clean-cut beautiful. No, he’s rugged and sharp—tall and broad-shouldered in a black henley and dark jeans that cling like sin. His jaw is cut from stone, dusted in stubble. A thin scar curves at the corner of his lip like it has a story, and his eyes—
They’re a shade of blue I didn’t know existed. Cold. Wild. Intense.
And they’re locked on me like I’ve committed a crime.
“Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to get into trucks with strangers?” he growls.
“I’m sorry—who the hell are you?” I snap, even though my heart’s about to break a rib.
“Someone trying to keep you from winding up chopped into pieces and dumped behind a dumpster.”
“I don’t need your help.” I try to twist away, but he’s already turning my face toward the window with two fingers under my chin.