thirty-five

I sit in the motel room and stare at the door. I should go after Jude. He’s in pain, and I should have responded with a little human compassion.

I’ve screwed up. I handled it wrong. I failed to do something.

I failed to do anything.

Jude confessed his worst fears to protect me. And I sat here like he was lecturing me on motorcycle maintenance. No reaction. No empathy. No sympathy. When he wanted to take a break, I kept pushing. I required more data.

Analytical as always.

Cold as always.

I get up and go to the door. I heard the rev of the bike as he took off. Now I step outside and walk across the front lot, but I can’t even see the taillight.

Long gone.

I head back to the motel room. I’ll text him and apologize….

I twist the handle and nothing happens. I try again. I left the key on the nightstand, but I didn’t lock the door. I crouch and peer through the crack. It’s definitely locked.

Because it does that automatically. It’s just been a very long time since you stayed in a motel.

Shit.

I look toward the front office. It’s dark. I could go see if there’s a way to contact the manager, but…

Uh, yeah, sorry for waking you at four a.m. I left my key in the room. It’s not actually mine, though. I think it’s under Jude Hardy. Or maybe Jude Bishop. I can say for sure that the guy who checked in is about six feet tall, late teens, dark curly hair, and drives an old motorcycle. Is that enough?

I shake my head and head for the road. It’s the main highway running through Reeve’s End—Route 11—two lanes of blacktop winding and dipping through the hills and hollers. I’m walking along the dirt shoulder, hunched against the cool night. A couple of cars zoom past. Then one slows, an older male voice saying, “You need a lift, hon?” I don’t look over. There’s no leer in his voice, which probably means it’s a genuine offer, but I can’t take that chance, so I say, “No thank you, sir,” and he continues on.

The next car that stops is a transport truck going the opposite way. The woman driving puts down the passenger window to say, “I hope you’re not hitching a ride, sugar.”

I walk over and shake my head. “No, ma’am. Just got in a fight with my friends.”

“And they left you on the roadside at this hour? Not very good friends. Hop in, and I’ll turn around and give you a lift.”

“I ’preciate the offer, ma’am, but I’m almost home.”

She gives me a hard look. “Well, I won’t argue. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean it’s a safe ride. You got anyone you can call?”

“I got this.” I take out my switchblade.

She chuckles. “All right, then, sugar. Pick up the pace and get yourself home and give those friends shit next time you see them.”

“I will, ma’am. Thank you.”

I think of getting off the road, but there’s nowhere to go. Forest and rock line both sides. I pass a side road—dirt, with far less chance of traffic, but that feels even more dangerous than this dark and empty paved highway.

I’m still considering my options when a pickup squeals around a tight curve without slowing. I get as far on the shoulder as I can. It flies past. Then brakes squeal, and the truck goes into a slide, the stink of rubber filling the air.

It stops. Backs up.

“Well, hey there,” a voice calls as the truck rolls alongside me. Male. Young. Drunk. I don’t need to look to identify all three. I grip my switchblade a little tighter.

“You from round here?” another voice calls, a little farther away—the passenger, I presume.

“Course she ain’t,” the first says. “You see a third eye? A harelip? Definitely not from the local breeding stock. Or, should I say, local in-breeding stock.”

They both laugh, their voices following as I keep walking.

The first says, “Well, actually, judging by those ratty sneakers and the holes in that jacket, I bet she is local. She just got lucky and turned out purty. What are you? Fourteen? Got yourself a husband yet?”

They both snicker and the second says, “She’s checking out her cousins but ain’t ready to commit till she’s fifteen.”

More drunken snickering.

“I bet she’s real keen to meet some boys who ain’t blood relations,” the first says. “How ’bout you slow down, girl. See what’s on offer.”

“How about you boys just keep on driving,” I say.

“Ooh, you hear that, Jerry? She talks like a normal person.”

Which is more than I can say for them. They’re obviously from the area, given that dialect. They’re just from a town with a higher median income than mine, which isn’t hard to manage.

“I’m on my way to work,” I say. “And I’m running late.”

“My, my, you do sound all proper. Bet you think you’re too good for us, huh.”

I try not to give a sigh remarkably like one of Jude’s.

“If you’re looking for some fun, I’m afraid this is a dry county,” I say. “But there’s a bar ’bout five miles down. Not exactly open legally at this hour, but they’ll serve you.”

That seems reasonable, polite and friendly but not overly so.

“We want to have fun with you, girl.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I really do need to get to work—”

The squeal of the brakes cuts me short. The truck stops. I keep going, my breath coming a little harder.

Please don’t. Please—

The truck doors open and slam shut. I turn. It’s two guys, maybe in their midtwenties. One is heavyset, wearing a too-tight T-shirt. The other swaggers like he’s six four, though he’s barely my height and not much heavier.

“Look, guys,” I say. “I’m really just trying to get to work—”

“You want money?” The heavyset one yanks a twenty from his wallet. “What will I get for this?”

“If you continue on to that tavern I mentioned, it’ll buy you four beers easy.”

“You think you’re smart, girl?”

My tone didn’t hold a drop of sarcasm. But he’s made up his mind and he’s drunk. Reasonable isn’t going to cut it.

“My boss is expecting me. He’s at that gas station right down the road. My shift starts at five. He’ll be watching for me.”

“Then go ahead and run. See if you make it. We’ll try to grab you in the truck, but we’re a little loaded. Might hit you by accident.”

I glance toward the forest.

“If you wanna play hide-and-seek, I ain’t gonna stop you.”

I squeeze the switchblade hidden in my hand and size them up.

The smaller guy lunges. I evade his grip as the bigger guy charges. I see him coming, and I hit the switch on the blade and slash. I catch him in the arm, and he staggers back, yowling as if I stabbed him through the heart.

The smaller guy snarls, “You little—” but the rest is drowned by the roar of an engine. A single headlight zooms down the road.

The larger guy takes a swing at me…using the arm I just cut. He yowls again, the strike aborted even as I duck.

I back up, switchblade ready. “Just let me get to my job. That’s all I’m asking. You boys head to that tavern I mentioned—”

“Give me the knife,” the smaller one says.

He makes no move to take it from me, just puts out his hand, like I’m going to shrug and pass it over. His friend edges forward, watching my blade, trying to figure out how to grab me without getting close enough to be cut again.

Jude skids the bike to a halt beside us, his foot going down to stop it as it slides. The helmet is still attached to the back and his hair is wild and dusty. He exhales as he rakes it back and swings off the bike.

“There you are.” He walks over and puts his arm around me, pulling me over for a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’m sorry, babe. I shouldn’t have taken off. I was mad and not thinking straight.” He looks at the two men. “I’m guessing you guys were offering her a lift. Thanks. She shouldn’t have been walking at this hour. Totally my fault. Being an ass.” He gives a wry smile and extends his hand to them. “Thank you.”

They stare like he’s speaking Swahili. I carefully close my blade, pocket it, and say, “They were just asking how far I was going. I was going to let them drive me to the next town. But if you’re not going to kick me off again…”

“I didn’t kick you off, babe. You—” He exhales. “And we’re not going to fight. Just grab the helmet and hop on. Thank you again, guys.”

“That’s a nice bike you got there,” the smaller one says.

Jude laughs. “No, it’s a piece of shit. But it does the job. Now, if you’ll excuse—”

“Nice bike. Nice girl. I bet you get all the nice things, don’t you, city boy? Just come here and start talking fancy and expect us to give you everything you want, including our pretty girls.”

Five minutes ago they were mocking my background, and now we’re kith and kin.

The guy keeps talking. “We’re going to take the girl, and we’re going to take the bike, and you’re going to call your daddy to come get you.”

Jude shakes his head. “No, guys. Just don’t, okay? If I’ve insulted you somehow, I apologize. I just want to get her some breakfast and win back the boyfriend points I lost by being a jackass—”

The smaller guy takes a swing. Jude yanks me out of the way, sidesteps the blow, and grabs the guy by the wrist, and then he’s got the guy twisted around, arm pinned behind his back. In the same amount of time, I get as far as pulling my blade from my pocket. The bigger guy doesn’t even manage to move.

“Let’s not do this,” Jude says, and his tone is so calm that the smaller guy stops struggling and gapes over his shoulder.

“I can break your arm with one twist,” Jude says. “I’d rather not.”

“You smug—” The smaller guy lunges forward to get free. Jude yanks his arm and there’s a crack. An actual crack. The guy screams and stumbles around, cradling his arm.

“That was your wrist,” Jude says, still calm. “You’ll need to get a cast, but it’s not as bad as a broken arm.”

“You—you broke—”

“I warned you.” Annoyance prickles in Jude’s voice, like when I gave him hell for tossing me around in the shack. Attack me, and that’s what you’ll get. Ignore my warning, and that’s what happens. If you start something with me, don’t complain about the consequences. I don’t have time for that shit.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bigger guy run at Jude. I lunge to stop him. The next second, I’m falling, my hand empty, and Jude’s in front of me.

“Stop right there,” he says to the bigger guy.

The guy roars and charges. I see Jude swing. I see the blade flash in the moonlight. I see it go in and fly out and blood flicks from the blade and the guy falls, yowling and gripping his leg, blood soaking through his fingers.

“You’re fine,” Jude says. “It only hit fat and muscle.” He turns to me. “Get on the bike, please. Take the helmet.”

The bigger guy is on the ground now. The smaller one stands there, holding his wrist, saying, “What the hell? You crazy son of a bitch.”

Something flickers in Jude’s eyes, but he only gives this weird nod, like acknowledgment. Then he waves me toward the bike. I take an unsteady step toward it and then another, and I’m nearly there when the smaller guy makes one last attempt—this time running at me. I’m turning fast, ready to defend myself, but Jude’s already sending the guy flying with one perfect punch. It’s then, as he hits, that Jude’s mask cracks and I see rage, honest rage. But he blinks it back, and by the time the guy strikes the ground, Jude’s face is expressionless again.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he says to the two. “You’re not in any shape to fight and trying only makes this worse. We’re leaving now. You’ll want to get to a hospital for a cast and stitches.”

Their eyes flash, as if in insult, but Jude’s only being rational. Still trying to talk them down, to avoid prolonging the altercation even when it’s clear he’d win.

He waves me to the bike. I hesitate. I’m trembling, and there’s part of me screaming to run, just run. But I take the helmet and when he climbs on, I get behind him.

He starts the bike. The guys stay on the ground as we ride off.