I take off along Main Street, heading south.
Downtown Grotonsville is quiet, illuminated only by the orange glow of the streetlights and the lights of McMahon’s about a block away, but even that is pretty quiet right now.
I walk one block, then two. Grotonsville is even smaller than Sprucevale, the town where I actually live, so I’m already close to the edge of it.
I start to relax a little. It’s a nice night. The stars are out. The two traffic lights on main street change from green to yellow to red and back in a soothing, predictable rhythm.
And I do not think about Eli. Not even a little.
I don’t think about the fact that his stupid smirk is actually hot as hell, about the fact that I want to shut him up by putting his mouth to better use, or the fact that his thick, ropy arms make me want to climb him like a tree.
Of all the people to turn out hot, I think, stomping along the midnight sidewalk. I’d rather it were literally anyone else.
I’m so focused on being irritated at Eli that I don’t hear the engine until it’s right behind me, and then all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my sense instantly whipping into sharp relief.
It’s loud and guttural and someone’s revving it.
Has anything good ever come of loud, revving engines at midnight?
I steel myself, fighting the adrenaline rush and glance over my shoulder. There’s a huge pickup truck about a block away, and it’s got at least four people jammed into the cab and a couple more riding in the bed.
Don’t look scared, I tell myself as a vortex forms in my stomach. They’re probably just gonna shout at you and looking scared will only make it worse.
They’re drunk, hooting and hollering to raise the dead. They’re likely coming back from McMahon’s, the only place besides Le Faisan Rouge that’s open this time of night.
I steer my steps closer to the buildings. I stand up straighter and I act like I’m not scared.
I am.
The truck comes closer. I glance over my shoulder at it, hoping for nonchalant instead of lonely victim.
I’m practically hugging the closed cafe to my left when the truck comes up alongside me and slows.
“Whachu doin’ out here alone like this?” a voice says. “Come on, get in.”
“I’m fine,” I say, still walking. I’m scanning for exits, somewhere that I could go that the truck couldn’t follow, my heart pounding.
“Shit, she ain’t even got shoes on,” one of them says to another. I still don’t look over. “She done got kicked out with no shoes!”
I can smell the alcohol from here, and I scan the buildings faster, looking for any route of brief escape. I see it: up ahead, there’s a narrow passage between two buildings, too narrow for the truck.
“We can give you a ride if you want,” says the first voice.
Drunk men laugh.
“A real good ride,” he goes on. More laughter. I don’t look over.
Then: “Come on, sweetheart.”
“Where you walkin’ barefoot, anyway?”
“Awful late to be out here alone.”
I walk. I don’t look over. I pretend I’m alone, even though I’m trembling, knowing how badly this could end.
I can’t believe I thought this was an okay idea.
“Come on. Come on. Come on, I know you like this.”
I glance over. I don’t even mean to, I just do.
One of them has his dick out. The other three are laughing hysterically, slouched around the bed of the truck as the first guy waves his dick back and forth.
My heartbeat skyrockets, but I force my eyes forward again. I want to run but I don’t. I can’t show any sign of fear.
“Fuck off,” I call.
More laughter. They holler something I can’t even make out, and then the engine throttles. It might be the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard, because a moment later the truck is pulling away, down Main Street, blatantly running a red light.
“Bitch!” I hear one last, high-pitched yelp.
Then, sweet silence.
I stop. I take a deep breath, eyes closed, and get a hold of myself. I lean against a brick wall until I stop shaking and I can trust myself not to cry.
The hell was I thinking, a woman walking alone at night?
New plan: go back. McMahon’s, the sports bar, is at the other end of town but it’s still open, and I’m going to walk there, ask to use their phone, and call everyone I know until someone comes and gives me a ride home. Screw politeness. I don’t give a damn who I wake up.
Before I can turn my steps, I hear the engine behind me again.
Every muscle in my body tenses. The gap between the buildings is still up there, too small for a vehicle, and it probably connects to the alley behind this buildings where I can lose them.