Fake it until you make it.
Fake it until you make it.
I slap my cheeks to keep myself alert.
Evening’s coming, and I should have accepted the ride to the Greyhound terminal. Now, I’m on a long, lonely road between smooth and treeless rolling hills with miles and miles of road ahead of me.
All because of stupid Mitch Slack.
I’ve had three years to rue the day I let him walk over me with his geeky charm and fake biker vibe. Granted his computer skills are legendary, and he’s a master at back doors and jailbreaking systems, but after I flew cover for him, he let me rot in prison.
Now he’s playing games with me and offering me a steak dinner? As if I’m on death row?
Eff him. Maybe he’s the one on death row with that hoarsely deep voice that sounds nothing like him. I hope he has throat cancer. Serves him right for vaping like a foghorn.
I trudge over the cooling ribbon of asphalt. Thank God, the day is over. This road is so out of the way, I’ve yet to see a passing car. The only ones likely to come my way are the guards getting off their shift.
Will I eat crow when that hooting heifer or the ancient mummy pass my way? One thing’s for sure, I’m too proud to take a ride from either of them.
I raise my chin and march onward, looking like I’ve conquered the barren hills and valleys.
I came.
I saw.
I… have sore feet.
Who am I fooling? Even if I return to San Francisco, whose couch can I sleep on? My cousins are all snobs, and my mother’s gone silent. She’s Asian, and the loss of face was too much for her to stomach.
Plus, she has to keep up the bragging rights in front of her mahjong friends, and she couldn’t hold her head up once it came out that I’m a convicted felon.
I keep marching forward, head held high. I might be alone in the world, but hey, I’m free, and I’ll always land on my feet.
The ants are marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah;
The ants are marching two by two, hurrah, hurrah…
The sound of tires and shining headlight beams knock me back to reality. I hop to the side of the road, but there are no trees or structures of any kind to hide behind. The amber waves of blowing grass shimmer on both sides of me, and I hope whoever is passing by doesn’t stop.
The silver sedan passes me and comes to a smooth stop.
It’s a late model Mercedes.
Damn.
Mitch ditched his Harley for a Benz? I thought he was lying. And then that joke about not being Mitch? Real lame.
If he thinks I’m sleeping with him, I’d rather shank him first.
The passenger door opens, but I skirt it and keep walking.
“It’s getting dark out here, and you’re miles from the nearest town,” a deep, raw voice calls.
Whoever it is, it’s not Mitch. I don’t care what stage throat disease he has, there’s no way his ribcage is large enough to project a booming bass voice that can melt the panties right off me.
“I don’t talk to strangers,” I call back.
The car idles up to me, following me with its door open.
