I readjust the afghan across my body. He’s given me no time to change, so I’m barefoot and still wearing my tiny sleep shorts and a see-through tank. Not that he’s paying any attention to my lack of clothing, especially after he’d retrieved Mama’s afghan from my duffel bag, which he’d tossed in the back bed.
I frown, wondering if he noticed the gun in my bag. He didn’t act surprised. He didn’t act anything but distant. I suppose everyone in Texas, as they do in Oklahoma, carries a weapon. I feel fewer displays of testosterone and more rational discussion would make the world a more peaceful place. Except now I do have a gun . . . though it doesn’t mean I’ll ever use it.
The pickup slows as he turns into a truck-stop parking lot and parks close to the service shop.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?”
“What I’d like to do is take a shower. I feel grimy.”
He looks at me hard. Then his eyes rake across my body, down and downward still to linger on the exposed skin of my thighs. Like he’s searching for proof, mentally cataloguing each and every bit of me. Or at least, this is how he makes me feel.
He doesn’t move. For a second, I feel like there’s a softening in his posture as he continues to eat me up with his eyes. A delicious tension fills the air and my body responds, my pulse quickening and my nipples pebbling up beneath the afghan.
“Jesus,” he mutters, ruining the moment. “Be right back.”
I lightly touch my chin. It feels less swollen but is still painful. Nothing two Advil can’t ease. I climb out of the truck and retrieve my wallet and a pair of flip-flops from my bag. Sliding them on my feet, I hurry inside. According to the clock on the wall, it’s after eight p.m. Fate would have it, the truck stop is nearly empty so no one but the checkout clerk is around to see my afghan shuffle.
I smile at the thought as I quickly find a bottle of Advil on a shelf. I retrieve two cold water bottles from the refrigerated case and head to check out. Mission accomplished in less than two minutes.
Except when I open my wallet, all that greets me is hot air. No cash. My head pounds extra hard in protest.
“Dang card scanner’s not working. This new chip system is defective. Gotta hand it to improved technology,” the older man at the checkout register informs me. “You’ve gotta pay in cash. ATM is over there if y’all need one.”
I leave my items on the counter and head over to the ATM, all the while thinking how, as a precaution, I really, really need to change bank accounts. Up until now, I’ve been careful to pay only with cash, which is why I’m out of money. Do I dare use my card? Is it possible that whoever is after me—if they are still after me—could track my ATM usage? I bite my lip in indecision, my head pounding out in protest.
I shake my head. Headache or not, I decide not to risk it. Twice bitten, a hundred times shy, or so my twisted interpretation of the phrase goes.
“Dat rotten cash machine not working too?” I return to the counter and the friendly man rolls his eyes. “What is the world a-comin’ to?”
With a sigh, I put my wallet on the counter with my bank card on top, and unpack the water bottles and Advil so I can put them back on the shelves. No sense upsetting the old man any further. “Did you unplug the machine, then replug it back in?” I ask him, in an effort to be helpful. “Sometimes machines simply need to be reset.”
He grins, and disconnects the power cord with so much gusto, he knocks a water bottle with his elbow and sends it flying across the store.
I laugh and hurry to retrieve it. But by the time I find my way back to the register, the little black machine is not only lit up, it has a receipt sticking out of it.
Oh no. He didn’t.
“Well if that don’t beat all. I ran your card through too, to make sure things are a-workin’ properly.” He grins at me and hands me back my bank card.
Technology might be ruining the world, yet I pray it doesn’t get me killed.
“I wish you didn’t do that,” I say with a sigh.
The old man looks crestfallen, and I immediately wish I’d bitten my tongue. “But I’m happy your machine is working better. Thank you.” I open the Advil bottle, pour two out into my palm, then unfasten the water-bottle cap.
“A pretty thing like you better be careful, you hear?” Great. I don’t need to look at him to understand he’s spotted my swollen chin and knows the truth, that I’m a victim of violence. Instead of answering “I fell” and becoming the object of even more scrutiny, I toss back the Advil, take a sip of water to wash them down.
Exiting the store, I shove my purchases and wallet into the plastic bag and am deep in thought about the old man’s reaction to my accident. It’s heartwarming to find goodness and caring toward strangers still exists. I head around the pickup and stop. Three men are standing there, and immediately all three sets of eyes fall on me.
“Told you,” one of them says.
“Legs that go on for miles. Bet she’s naked underneath that thing.”
“What’s your price, honey?”
“Price?” Great, they think I’m a truck-stop hooker. “Just waiting for my friend,” I offer, stressing the last word.
I stiffen and straighten my spine. Am I scared? You bet. But my sister always told me never let a bully see you sweat. If she were in my position, all three of these idiots would be on the ground cupping their man-sacks right now. But I’m not Kylie. And violence isn’t my style.
Which leaves me with two choices: convince them to lay off me or . . . run.
“You have a gold ring on your finger.” I nod to the man who seems to be the most amiable of the three. “Think about how your wife would feel if three men mistook her for someone she’s not. Or you”—I wave at the tallest one of them, standing in the middle and licking his lips like he’s just crossed Death Valley on foot—“you should be kinder to a woman alone. What if your mother were watching you now?”
“He ain’t got a mother.”
I ignore him. “I’ve had a long day. My chin hurts, my head aches, and I went inside to buy Advil and some water. That’s it. Now I kindly ask that you leave me alone.”
The married man shifts on his feet. He’s taken what I’ve said to heart.
The tall guy gives his lips another lick. Like showing me his tongue is a come-on?
It’s the third man with a pockmarked face who abruptly steps forward, grabs my plastic bag out of my hand, and tosses it into the pickup’s back bed. Mission accomplished, he reaches out and snatches hold of the afghan. For a second, I think he means to steal it until the tall guy says, “Naked. I saw her stomach.”
The wise thing to do would be to give up the afghan. Release hold of it and run.
“This was my mama’s. She passed away a few months ago. Please. If you have any ounce of kindness inside you, let it go and let me go.”
I almost fall on my bottom when he abruptly relinquishes hold.
“Get out of here,” orders the married man.
“You pussy,” I hear the man with the pockmarked face snap, but I’m running, my brain chanting, “Go, Madelyn, go.”
A strong late-night breeze kicks up, promising to lift me up and sweep me away. The afghan flutters upward along with the tank underneath. If only I’d insisted on changing. If only I’d had a little more faith that I could convince my stranger to wait a few precious seconds while I showered and dressed.