Ever have one of those days where it feels like the universe is messing with you?

It seems like that's every day for me lately.

But definitely today.

I take a deep breath and glance at the sky, noticing the sun is about to set, and pray karma will do me just this one little favor. “Come on, car. Start. You can do it girl.”

I turn the key in the ignition as I whisper, hoping and praying my Mini Cooper will pop back on. I've got about six hundred more miles to get to my sister’s wedding, and I’ll be damned if I'm going to get stuck in the middle of wherever the hell I am right now for the night. Besides the tiny town I just passed, there's nothing but cornfields as far as the eye can see.

I rub the dashboard, hoping my soothing touch will convince the engine to start.

“Come on honey. Start for mama.”

The engine makes a sound like a sad dog growling, followed by a thud and a strange, pathetic noise in the front part of the engine.

I sigh, then open my door and step out of the car. Look, I’m a positive thinker. I’m not someone who likes to feel sorry for herself. But it’s plain to see that lately, none of my plans have been working out the way I figured they would.

Four months ago, I had a plan to marry my fiancé. That is, until I walked in on him fucking another woman.

No, I’m not bitter, and yes, I have totally told my family about our breakup.

Okay, maybe I forgot to tell my sister about the breakup. But she’s so OCD, she’ll have an absolute freak out if I tell her I no longer have a date. The seating arrangements, numbers, etc., they’d all be thrown off.

And maybe I just neglected to give my parents that little detail too, since they would of course spill the beans to my sister.

Okay, okay, you got me. I have been sending my family fake updates for the past few weeks. A breakup of this magnitude is an ‘in person conversation’ when you have a family like mine. Trust me.

I’ll figure something out about the wedding. But I have bigger fish to fry at the moment, like my plan to drive through the night until I arrive tomorrow, a few days early for her wedding. Why drive? Well, I have my fear of flying to thank for that.

Did I mention I’m a little OCD?

I walk around to the front of the car and open up the hood. Smoke billows out. I cough and stumble in my heels. For a minute, I stare at the engine and squint like I actually know what the heck I'm looking at beneath the hood. The truth is, I have no freaking clue, outside of the coolant fluid. I check that, and the levels look good.

“Dammit,” I mutter to absolutely no one. My voice reverberates through the emptiness of corn fields on the side of the road.

I pull out my phone and do a google search for mechanics near me. The closest one is over a hundred miles away. I call. No one picks up. I call again. Nothing. I try again. No service.

I run a hand through my hair and throw my head up toward the sky. The sun is already dipping over the horizon, and although it’s not dark yet, it will be soon. There isn’t a single streetlight in sight, not a single car has passed me in two hours, and the world around me is dead silent. If I don't start walking now, I could be totally sleeping in my car.

I bite my lip. About two miles back, I pulled past a sign that said “Blackwell City Limits.”

There has to be a mechanic in Blackwell, right?

I open the door, grab my purse from the car, and start walking.

If I wasn't so angry about my situation, I'd be entranced by the beautiful afterglow of the sunset on the plains of the heartland. The deep orange color meshes together with the purple in a way that pulls at any person's beauty strings.

Instead, all I can think about is how badly my feet hurt. And am I there yet? I pull out my phone and play a Savage Garden spotify mix as I walk.

An hour later, it's pitch black, my feet hurt like hell, and my phone is at fourteen percent battery life.

I pass a barely lit sign, and I have a stroke of luck when a huge billboard says “Dick’s Auto Shop - One Mile.”

I wipe the sweat off my brow and keep going.

When I reach the shop, it looks like something out of a 1950s movie. It has a huge gaudy sign in front of a mostly run-down looking garage that features three bay doors.

Inside the building, I hear music blaring and some kind of grunting that I assume is being made by a human being, but I can’t be sure. I try to peer into the shop through a window, but I can't see a thing, it's so dark and shadowy in there. I hear the grunting again.

I head to the office door and knock loudly. No one answers.

I knock again.

“Hello!?” My voice echoes into the street, reminding me how alone I am in a town where I know absolutely no one. I clench my fists.

Still no answer, so I head over to the garage where the noise is coming from and scream. “Hello?! Is anybody there? Dick? Is this your shop? Answer the door please!” I bang on the door with my fist and it rattles, but there’s no answer.

“Goddamn it! Come on, I can hear you! Why won't anyone answer!?”

I hear the grunting again, and one of the garage doors slide up to my left. I skip over to where the garage door has opened, only to be greeted by a huge cloud of cigarette smoke. I turn away and cough. When the smoke clears, goosebumps run over my skin at the vision in front of me.

The source of the grunting is revealed. It’s a man. He’s tall; maybe six foot three. His jaw is square and his features dark. His jeans hang low around his waist, and other than that he’s shirtless. His upper half is covered in tattoos and the man is so buff I wonder if he was late for NFL tryouts. His body is covered in a layer of sweat that glistens, and smudges of grease are smeared on his body.

He doesn't smile when he makes eye contact with me just a couple of feet away.

“What the fuck do you want, lady?” he booms.

He exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke in my direction. When I'm done coughing, I bare my teeth.

“I didn't walk for an hour and a half to get here and be talked to like that,” I seethe through gritted teeth.

Despite my venomous tone, he barely reacts. He snorts a little, then says, “Listen, I don't know if you can read, but we’re closed lady. See the sign.”

He points to the sign on the door of the office where I just knocked.

I cross my arms. “Maybe it says closed, but you're here. And I need help.”

“Nah sorry. It’s Sunday. The Lord's day. We don't work in Blackwell on Sundays.”

“You're doing work though!” I point to the car he's got elevated inside the shop.

“Nah, that's not work. It's a personal project. For fun.” He takes another puff of his cigarette.

His voice is gruff, his tone harsh. He hasn't budged a millimeter, not physically or verbally. I didn't think it would come to this, but it has.

I examine the man up and down. I know his type. Men like him seem strong and maybe physically he is, but I’ve got his kryptonite right here.

I tilt my head a little and flip my hair. I squint and give him my best wry smile. I'm a cocktail server back in New York City, and I know how this game works. A spoonful of flirting makes the car repairs go down.

“I'm sorry, but I need your assistance.” I plead, my voice soft and flirty. “Please. My car broke down on the side of the road. Sir.”

Smudges of car grease decorate the man’s face, but in spite of that, it’s obvious he's incredibly handsome. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s in his mid to late twenties.

He steps forward and examines me. I must look a little ridiculous in my high heels, black skirt and blue tank top.

“Listen lady.” He pauses to throw his cigarette on the ground, then crosses his arms. I feel my insides tighten. What kind of asshole calls a woman, ‘lady?’

He continues. “I don't know who you are or where you're from, or what sob story you’re coming in here with on a Sunday night. But I'm gonna have to ask you kindly to get the hell out of here. You’re on private property. I’m asking you nicely before I have to call my brother--I mean call the cops on you. You ain’t exactly from around here. That’s clear as day. And we don’t take too kindly to outsiders in Blackwell. I mean, no offense and all that PC bullshit I’m supposed to say when what I really want you to do is leave me the fuck alone.”

He stamps out his cigarette and goes to close the garage door, sliding it down.

”Hey!” I protest, sticking my body underneath the door so he can't close it.

“Hay is for horses, lady.”

“Stop it. You can’t help a person in need? What’s the matter with you?”

As brutish as the man is, something in my gut tells me he’s got a conscience. He can’t be one hundred percent asshole. Can he?

For a moment, I’m wedged under the garage door, stopping him from closing it all the way. As jacked as this man is, he wouldn’t dare close the door on a helpless girl.

We stare each other down, our eyes inches apart. In lieu of our lack of conversation, I examine the man’s eyes. They’re a gorgeous shade of amber, and I get lost in them. They’re the highlight of his gorgeous face. His hair is dark brown, cropped short. I want to put my hands on him, run my fingers through his short hair, like kids do in grade-school when their friend gets the first buzz cut of the summer.

“I don’t know you, and I gotta be honest, I don’t really like the way you came in here all screaming and demanding. It’s not very polite. If you were my woman, you’d have some damn manners.”

I inhale and my chest wells up. A wide range of emotions overtake me all at once—I’m angry, sad, and on the brink of breaking down or flipping out. Maybe both. He has no idea the nerve he’s just touched. My expression turns from calm to angry. I can’t help the word vomit about to come out of my mouth. “You are a fucking asshole! How dare you talk to a stranger like that! I...I…”

I struggle for words. I want to slap this guy in the face for this fucking attitude of his!

“I..I…” He imitates my stuttering. “Spit it out. No, actually, don’t. I got shit to do.”

He pushes my shoulder with his two fingers, and like a bowling pin that’s just been contacted by a well thrown bowling ball, I fall right on my ass on the concrete. He slams the aluminum garage door right in my face. I hear the music turn back on. Heavy metal.

Oh, that’s it.

I bang on the aluminum of the closed door like a crazy woman. Hell, I’m not like a crazy woman at this point, I am crazy.

“You goddamn asshole! My car’s broken down in the middle of the road! I walked five miles in damn heels to get here!”

“Not my fault you’re too dense to take off uncomfortable footwear,” his voice echoes from the other side of the wall.

My blood boils. “You...you’re a fucking asshole!” I scream. “I’m from New York City, and I’ve met bigger assholes than you. And trust me, that’s saying a lot! Your mother should be ashamed of you! I bet she wishes you were never born!”

When I let that last phrase out, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. You know what, fuck it. This guy’s an asshole. A really fucking hot asshole, but still an asshole.

I turn to start marching down the road, but something tells me Blackwell isn’t the type of place that has loads of consumer options when it comes to things such as mechanic shops. Especially on a Sunday night.

A few seconds later, the music stops. I hear the rattling of the aluminum garage door rolling up.

“What the fuck did you just say, lady?”

His voice booms, and there is finally noticeable attitude in his voice.

I definitely struck a nerve with something I said.

“You heard me.” I quip over my shoulder, not fully making eye contact with him as I keep walking.

“Stop right fucking there, lady.”

I freeze. I hear the footsteps of his boots on concrete coming toward me. Suddenly, I’m scared. I realize I’m all alone. In a town I know absolutely no one. I check my phone. Dead.

Stupid Android battery. Why didn’t I go iPhone?

Adrenaline surges through me. This man probably weighs twice as much as I do. He can do anything to me, and no one would ever be the wiser. No one even knows I’m here. I’m frozen in my high heels. I want to move, but I can’t. What does it matter anyway? Not like I’m going to outrun him.

He stands so close to me, I can feel the heat emanating from his tattooed, bare upper body. “Get in my fucking truck, lady.”

I don’t know whether to scream, run, or just do as I’m asked.