All I can do is hope the person headed this way is part of the tiny percentile in this country who would 1) actually stop and 2) really help a girl in need, without trying anything shady, or worse.
The first part of that request is proven right when the red Ford pickup slows, headlights flashing at me in greeting as the driver pulls it off on the shoulder a ways back, and inches closer across the uneven ground.
I wave in possible thanks, possible future regret, before turning around to shut my flashlight off and start recording the encounter, just in case.
Speaking quickly, I give a ten-second recap as an intro to the video, then flip the phone around to take in the surrounding area.
As I film the mountainside, Van Gogh, the sprigs of early wildflowers starting to bloom along the shoulder—everything a detective or internet sleuths would need to figure out exactly where I am—I realize that this would be as beautiful of a place to die as any.
And wouldn’t it just be cosmic karma if I met my end with some slasher right here and now?
The soft slam of a car door warns me that the other driver is out and headed my way, and I turn with the camera in hand to make sure to get them on (digital) film.
“Hey there,” he hollers, arm up in greeting, a smile so charming on his tanned face I myself am feeling—alarmingly—rather disarmed.
Is this just because I missed my chance to get laid on the last few stops? Or is this man actually a walking Greek god out of some mythological fantasy?
I think it might be an age-old question, like, if no one was in the forest to hear, would a tree still make any noise when it fell? This one would be, if I were even somewhat recently sexually satisfied, would this man still be the most gorgeous human I’d ever seen? Or would my ovaries always skip a beat at his confident gait, the playful glint in his eyes, and that freshly mussed dark blond hair.
With my luck, he’s a serial killer. Or worse, an early riser.
He walks closer, near enough now that I can see the striking green of his eyes in the light from my van as they bounce between my face, and the phone in my hand, clearly recording him.
“Name’s Weston Grady,” he says into the camera with another panty-melting smile. “You need some help, darlin’?”
THREE
WESTON
The girl is the size of a pixie—a hot pixie—and her eyes narrow on me with shrewd calculation as I approach.
She’s smart. Clever, to be filming me the way she is.
Clearly not from around here. It’s not just the license plate that’s tipping me off to that. I can feel it on her, even from back here. The aura of adventure. There’s something familiar in it, kindred.
She’s got enough street smarts to be wary of a tall man, significantly larger than she is, who’s got her all alone on a dark road in the middle of nowhere. This is probably the start to a dozen horror movies.
But not in the Heights.
Not even starring two outsiders.
She clearly doesn’t know that though, so it’s my duty—in addition to being a good Samaritan stopping to help her—to disarm her and calm her worries a bit. Poor girl’s probably having a rough fucking day if she’s waving my ass down for help. She doesn’t need to fear for her life while she’s at it.
My ease, my readiness to be upfront about my identity, I think it’s helped smooth a couple of her feathers. Supposing she believes me, that is.
Her dark brown hair, barely past her chin, is full of attitude, just like her face. Wavy, choppy, not quite messy, but fierce all the same. Tiny features, absolutely adorable I’d go so far as to say, if I didn’t think she’d stab me for the compliment, based on the way her face is screwed up as she takes me in. Perfectly straight button nose with a dainty metal ring through the septum. Oversized tan sweatshirt with the logo of a band I love on the front, New York Ave. It’s probably a kid’s size, but it hangs to the tops of her thighs, which are covered only in what looks like tight athletic shorts. Do my best not to be a creep and let my eyes linger beyond the obvious details, like her white sneakers and the stacked necklaces she’s wearing.
It’s her eyes, though, that intrigue me the most. Never seen another pair like ’em. Almost teal in color. A depth to them that is rarer than the shade itself. They call to me more than any other part of her, and that’s saying something with how good the rest of her looks.
When I get close enough she doesn’t have to shout, she responds to my offer of help with the most random three words.
“Van Gogh died.”
Weird pickup line. Dropping hundred-and-fifty-year-old news on a stranger as an opening.
“I heard,” I say dryly. “Someone beat you to giving me that news in, like, fourth grade.”
She pops a hip at me and bites back a chuckle. Taps on her phone to stop the recording, I’m guessing, because then it gets tucked into those tight shorts of hers, and all her attention—all that attitude—is back on me.
