Rachel gasped as she bumped into a man.
She fumbled for her backpack zipper to get at her handgun.
She was too slow.
“Apologies,” the man said.
He looked vaguely familiar. Handsome. Sort of. For an older guy. His eyes had none of that bright spark that quickly glazed with lust when men his age realized they were unexpectedly in the presence of a young woman and had her undivided attention, if only for a nanosecond.
Maybe he was gay. He didn’t give off a gay vibe, though.
Why did he look familiar?
“Were you hiking up the hill earlier?” he said.
Rachel did not answer. She needed to get moving. She could not be late for her handgun class.
“I offered you a ride,” he said.
“Oh. Right.”
“You still look in a hurry. I’m heading downhill.” He nodded at the vehicle nearby. “If you care for a lift.”
She did not care for a lift. Not from him. Not from any stranger.
“I understand,” he said and walked toward his old car.
Rachel was running even later now from standing around and talking.
She’d accepted plenty of rides to and from campus when she’d missed the shuttle. Rides from strangers. Most from girls, a few from guys her age, students; though guys her age, in some ways, were worse than older men, their motivations so obvious, their attempts at double entendre coarse and juvenile. Give yah a ride. A lift? Pathetic.
The stranger was opening his car door now, not looking back. Rachel’s fear of Preacher had made her so paranoid she trusted no one; before Preacher, she’d have taken this guy up on his offer. He seemed perfectly normal. And there was something about him. A confidence. Not swagger, just a sort of take it or leave it aura, not flip like young guys whose apathy was just another tired ploy: the more they pretended they didn’t care for her attention, the more desperately they wanted it. This guy. He just was. It seemed he’d asked if she needed a ride simply because he saw she needed a ride. He reminded her of how Felix might be when he was this guy’s age, no ulterior motive. Except, Rachel had to admit, a bit guiltily, this older guy had probably been more handsome than Felix in his day.
“Hey,” Rachel shouted as the guy shut his car door.
Rachel jogged up to the car. The man, startled, cranked his window down a piece. This man was not Preacher. She could not let Preacher inform her every decision, cripple her everyday freedom. Could she? She might as well stay locked inside or flee to Florida.
The ride down the hill would take two minutes, tops, and she had a gun in her backpack. Her fear was misplaced. If she could not accept a normal ride, how could face Preacher?
She unzipped her backpack a bit, slipped her hand inside it to get her fingers around the butt of the revolver.
“Change your mind?” the stranger said.
Rachel considered getting in the car with a frisson of inexplicable high excitement and apprehension, as if she were about to step out onto a high wire.
“It was nice of you to offer,” Rachel said. “But I’ll walk.”
The man nodded amiably.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Rachel said.
“Why should I mind?” the man said, seeming confused by her apology. “Be safe.” He rolled up the window and drove away without a hint of hesitation or regret.