Wanderlust

My whole body strung up tight. He was sitting in the chair, the one that had been empty when I'd gone into the bathroom. It was him, the man from the diner. Though I hadn't heard his voice before and I couldn’t quite make out his features now, I was sure of it. He had the same blithe arrogance, the same element of command—sure his word would be followed. Besides, how many psycho assholes could there be in a remote truck stop?

His silhouette was long and reclined, as if he were having a relaxing chat instead of breaking and entering. My gaze flicked to the door, but the deadbolt was sideways, unlocked, when I was sure I’d locked it.

Always lock the door, my mother said. I had scoffed. Who would come in?

Here was my answer.

Nausea roiled through me. "How did you get inside?"

It wasn't the most important question, and we both knew it. What was he going to do to me? That was the bottom line, but I couldn't let my mind go there just yet.

His broad shoulders shrugged. "I've been coming around here for years. The owner is a personal friend. I explained I had some unfinished business in this room, and he gave me a key."

So easy, that was all I could think. My safety, my life had been compromised with a shrug.

How could I get out of this? I couldn't. I knew that with the same certainty that I knew my mother would die in that house. But I had to try. I knew what he meant by unfinished business. He was offended by my refusal earlier. It wouldn't help to pretend I didn't know.

"I'm sorry I didn't accept your offer," I said, hating the note of pleading in my voice, the tremble that betrayed me. "I should have. It was rude of me."

"Very pretty," he said. "And you got there so quickly. I'm impressed."

I tried to pretend that was promising. "Please. I wouldn't... I won't do it again. Maybe tomorrow we could try again. We could go on a date, you and I."

"Tomorrow you'll be gone from here and so will I. But you can stop talking about the bill. I would be in this room either way. I knew it as soon as I saw you there."

Any hope of talking my way out of this deflated. He was sitting between me and the door, but even if I got past him, it would take several precious seconds to open the door. Then outside, there was no one around. My room was in the back. All the windows around me had been dark. My car sat alone in the lot.

No one would see me run. No one would hear me scream.

He waited with a smug patience, as if he waited for me to catch up to the forgone conclusion.

"Are you ready to cooperate?" he asked.

Hell no. My lips firmed.

He smiled, white teeth glistening from the shadows. He looked the Cheshire cat, that incorporeal grin, the unapologetic wickedness.

Except he hadn't done anything to me.

So far he'd just sat in my room. Disturbing but not harmful. He’d done nothing illegal, if I didn’t count trespassing. All I had to do was walk out the door and leave. March straight to the office and demand a refund. A laugh wanted to bubble out of me, but I forced it down, knowing it would border on hysterical. This was only the rambling of a terrified mind trying to make sense of things that didn't make sense, desperate to feel safe while so obviously in abject danger.

He hadn't threatened me explicitly, but it was there. In his presence, in his casually arrogant words. If I tried to leave, he would restrain me. He would hurt me tonight, violate me tonight, the only question left up to me was how much. If I cooperated, would he be gentle with me? But it was too soon. I couldn't bring myself to submit to this yet even if it might make my life easier.

I edged toward the phone on the nightstand.

He leaned forward. "What are you doing?"

"Just...just calling the front desk." I forced a challenge in my voice. "If he gave you the key, then it shouldn't be a surprise to him."

It was a long shot, of course. If the manager had given him the key, he was an accomplice to whatever this was. But maybe if he heard my voice...if I seemed more human reaching out over the phone line, more scared, he might do something to help me.

I gingerly lifted the bulky plastic receiver as if it might bite. As if he might spring into action, finally revealing the violence that must be his intent. Instead he watched, eyes glittering while I listened to dead air. The line had been cut. Or maybe it had never worked. He seemed to expect that.

My hand trembled so hard that the phone clattered on the cradle before sliding to the side, useless, broken.

My voice cracked. "Please. I don't know what you want from me."

"Don't you?"