CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I wake up wondering who’s spent several hours beating my backbone with a sledgehammer.
It’s dark, but there’s a definite muted red blush to the east. It takes me one or two solid seconds to even remember where I am — not because I was so drunk as to forget, but because it’s all very improbable. I do sleep in a pitch-black room at home, but it’s not on stamped sheet metal with a spare trailer hitch cozied up beneath me. I have one of those foam pillows. Waking up with my head cocked nearly 90 degrees sideways, wedged against a corner, is distinctly different.
Everything hurts.
I sit up, realizing it’s because I’ve been here a lot longer than I thought I would.
When I fell asleep how long I thought I’d be here was maybe a few minutes. Long enough to appease the sense of intense fatigue that overcame me when we were —
I blink in the darkness. I look down.
— when we were done. Done having sex.
Me and Riley James.
Ah, shit.
This isn’t like sneaking out after a one-night stand. She’s just a lump in the darkness right now and is sleeping like the dead, so I’ll bet I could slide off this truck bed and run off into the field. But I’m not trying to leave an apartment; this time, I’m in the middle of a fucking field. A field that’s maybe halfway between the center of Inferno Falls and Cherry Hill.
It’s all coming back as cobwebs depart.
The truck is dead.
As of last night, we couldn’t even get cell service.
There are fifteen or twenty solid seconds wherein I consider leaving anyway. No, this isn’t your typical one-night stand due to location, but all the other hallmarks are there. I feel strange and filled with a deep sense of regret, maybe shame. I try to consider what will happen when she wakes up, and it nearly makes me panic because awkward doesn’t begin to cover what things will be like. If this were my place, I’d want her to leave. If we were at hers, I’d gather my stuff and creep out.
I could do that. After all, the truck’s battery is gone. I can’t call the auto club with my phone or hers unless I find some cell service, and I’m not going to get a ride unless someone practically runs into me. The answer to both dilemmas is the road, a few hundred feet away, behind the corn.
But I can’t do it. I’m going to have to start walking at some point, probably, but I’m not a big enough son of a bitch to leave Riley alone. A young woman, waking up alone in the middle of nowhere, marooned and helpless. She could fall victim to all sorts of things.
I can’t leave, and I sure as hell don’t want to wake her. So I slide to the dirt and fish out my phone.
Jesus. It’s almost five fucking a.m. No wonder I hurt. I slept on a trailer hitch for most of a night.
But more interestingly, my phone has bars.
Specifically, it has one bar.
I try to call directory assistance, but the call keeps glitching out and disconnecting. I text Bridget, and it seems to go through. It’s sternly worded. It manages to remind her that this is her fault and that she owes me one for that money I recently gave her without sounding, I hope, like too much of an asshole. I tell her she owes us not just a jumpstart for the truck, but also a ride home for Riley. Because not only do I have a meeting to prepare for, I can’t stand the thought of spending another half hour or more in a car with her. Not now. No way.
I sit on a big rock by the road. Maybe someone will drive by.
But I get up after a few minutes and head back to the truck because if someone sees me and stops, I’ll have to accept their help. I’ll have to use their battery to jumpstart mine, and then it’ll be up to me, again, to get Riley safely home with the pall of wrongdoing above us like a cloud.
I’m just starting to think Bridget won’t show up when she finally pulls into the lot.
I was afraid my description was too vague, but I’m hiding in the corn, waiting for her winking right headlight, to flag her down. I knew she’d get the text; she’s got a serious tech addiction and sleeps with her phone on her nightstand, ringer on because she’s just that forgetful. And I knew she’d respond and come fast because as much as she messes with me and meddles in my business, she knows when I’m serious. She’s the only person in my life I’ve ever been able to count on, and she’s proving it again now.
I stop her at the road. It’s been less than twenty minutes since I texted, but most of the night is far too long for anyone to sleep in a truck bed. I’m fearfully certain that Riley is going to wake up any second, and I’ve spent the time since sending the text trying to decide what to do if she does. So far, the best option was to hide. Seriously. That was my best option.
Bridget is driving in her pajama shorts and a tank top. Her hair looks hurriedly pulled back, and her smudged makeup tells me she just sort of collapsed at some point last night rather than doing things properly. I’d laugh at her if I was in the mood, but I’m definitely not.
I think she’s going to make fun of me, chastise me, or invoke some painfully misguided species of I told you so, seeing as Riley and I ended up together in the most uncomfortable way possible. Instead, she opens her mouth, and I hear a whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry,” I say.
She shrugs. It’s nice that she paid the lip service. But she’s not sorry. This is the worst turnout of Bridget’s interference in my social life, but it’s definitely not the first time she’s done it. Somehow, she decided that I liked Riley. And somehow, she decided that Riley would be good for me. She’s an idiot, seeing as Bridget’s meddling might have cost me both promotion and current job, but she won’t see those consequences until they occur.
I look back at Riley’s still form, certain that it’s only a matter of time until she does.
“What do you need?”
“You aren’t supposed to talk.”
She shrugs again. I imagine this means it’s been feeling better and that she’s deciding to ignore doctor’s orders, but this isn’t a discussion I want.
“Pull up beside the truck, near the front. We’ll need to jump it.”
She pulls up. I stay where I am, by the road.
As the new vehicle approaches the truck, Riley stirs.
I consider running again.
But when I finally get ahold of myself and walk forward, I see Riley composing herself, huddling as if cold. And she won’t meet my eye.