ey,” he says, maybe friendly, maybe not. You don't care. You're on a schedule, leaving Florida before the traffic gets heavy.

You glance up from the last suitcase you're struggling to get into your trunk and see the shiny object he's holding. You become rigid.

“It's real,” he informs you of the gun, just like they do in the movies. He speaks with a soft southern drawl.

You drop the suitcase and it just misses your foot. You look into clear hazel eyes. You're trying to place this kid who can't be much younger than you. You're a young woman, alone, at 6 a.m. on a Saturday, and it's not hard to guess why he's chosen you to fuck with.

“We're just going to get into the car, okay?”

Your knees go weak.

He places his free hand on your arm to steady you. You don't shake him off or look into his eyes, knowing he'll be able to see the fear in your own.

There's a slight breeze that causes the palm trees across from the parking lot to sway and the sweat on your body to dry.

He releases your arm and throws the suitcase into the trunk.

He touches you again. His hand is gently resting on your back just below your bra strap, guiding you to the driver's side of your car. And then his hand is gone as it opens the door. He stands blinking at you, your cue to get in.

He leans in after you. “Where're your keys?” His voice is calm, different from the one that's screaming in your head for someone to please help you.

You reach a shaking hand into your purse and fumble around, unable to find your keys. He stands patiently, half stooped inside the car, his open shirttail brushing against your bare thigh.

“Maybe if you dump it...”

You nod and dump the purse, finding the keys among gum wrappers, tissues, and loose change. You avert your eyes from the two condoms.

He takes the keys, and then reaches across you and plucks your cell phone from the pile, his hand grazing the prophylactics.

He shuts the door and leans over, placing his forearms on the open car window. “I'm going to those bushes,” he says, taking his eyes off you for the first time “You have to stay right here.”

You're already nodding. There's something about his coolness that causes you to bite your nails for the first time in years. If he were shouting orders and rough, you'd fight back, but it's his calm control over the situation that makes you wary.

The sun feels too hot. A dog is barking somewhere in the distance. The sky is a beautiful blue. You realize you don't want to die now.

He trots over to the bushes, leans into them, and pulls out a bulging backpack. He comes back, the gun since shoved down into the waistband of his baggy jeans, the handle sticking out from behind a long-sleeved denim shirt he has open over a white, ribbed tank top.

He comes around to the passenger side. You scramble, shoveling everything back into your purse. He slides in next to you and pulls his gun out and rests it in his lap, his index finger relaxed over the trigger. His hands are young looking, kid hands.

You can't be sure his gun isn't fake, like the replicas teenagers his age use to hold up convenience stores. Either way, he's much too comfortable with it. You think he'd probably shoot you in the back as you ran away. Tears come to your eyes, but you fight them, telling yourself you will not let him see you loose all of your control.

He hands you your keys, offering a friendly smile. “Ready?” he asks you as if you are about to go on a ride at a theme park.

You don’t answer, but miss the clasp twice on your seatbelt, then free your braids from in between the seat and your body, and wipe the sweat off your forehead. You turn the key and what's really happening finally sinks in when your usually stubborn engine comes to life: You're being carjacked, or kidnapped, or, both.

You're very aware of him sitting close. His short light-brown hair is disheveled, and has streaks of red dye. When he speaks, a flash of silver shines in his mouth-a tongue ring. He smells of fresh-cut grass and cigarettes.

You reach the stop sign at the end of the street, and speak to him for the first time, “Where...? Which...?”

He looks around. He doesn't know either. “Where're you headed?”

You hesitate, you can't think of a lie and therefore go with the truth. “I'm going to Philadelphia,” you tell him in a timid voice that can't be your own.

“What's up there?”

You shrug. He doesn't need to know you're going to meet with a lawyer who says you might be able to get a settlement from the landlord of your parents' row home. Your parents died a few months ago from carbon monoxide poisoning due to a faulty oil heater. You miss your parents a little, although you weren't very close, but most importantly you hope the settlement will be large enough so you won't have to work anymore. You have decided you are tired of playing cartoon characters at the local theme park.

“So then we're going to Philadelphia,” he says.

You shake your head, not accepting what he's said. “It's going to take a few days to get there.” You were hoping he'd be in the car for only a short while before he got out and left you alone.

“However long it takes. I'd help drive, but I don't have my license yet.” He sounds apologetic. You nod.

 

He keeps looking at you. He suddenly reaches out his hand and touches your hair. He fondles your braids and asks questions about them, wanting to know how they're put in, how long it takes. You answer him as naturally as you can with a gun in your peripheral vision. “I like your hair,” he says as if he’s just decided he likes chocolate ice cream instead of vanilla. He withdraws his hand and you feel his fingertips brush your bare shoulder. You flinch.

 

o you mind?” He holds his pack of cigarettes up for you to see. He's already pulled out the car lighter.

You do mind his smoking, but now is not the time to worry about lingering odors. You shake your head.

He lights up, rolling down the window a little in the air-conditioned car.

“You hungry?”

“No,” you say, your voice barely audible.

“I am. Do you mind stopping at a McDonald's?”

He asks as if you still have the authority to decide. You don't answer, and pull into a McDonald's drive-thru.

“I'm so hungry,” he says, leaning closer to you to see the menu. You're aware of his arm around the back of your seat as he mumbles his choices to himself but in your ear.

You stare at the drive-thru camera as if you can telepathically tell the half-asleep teenager behind the counter that you need help.

“Can you order me two of those sausage biscuit breakfast meals, one with juice, the other with the coffee?”

You do.

“I don't have any money,” he says.

You pay for his breakfast, trying mental telepathy again with the girl who takes your money and hands you the bag. The girl peeks around you and gives your passenger a special smile. He returns it, and you pull away before she falls head-over-heels into your car.

The food smells good. You should have gotten something. He pulls out the gun he shoved into the glove compartment and rests it back on his knee as he digs into his food.

“Thanks,” he says, spewing some of his food as he does.

You nod.

His eating noises are the only sound for a few miles. You suck in the cool air from the a/c, getting a whiff of the cigarette smell on his clothes and now the upholstery of your car, before slowly letting it out.

“What's your name?”

You tell him in a soft voice and hope he won't want more personal information. You're surprised your credit cards are still in your wallet.

“Name's Devon.”

You say nothing and sit silently as he finishes his second meal. He gulps down his orange juice and puts the coffee in your cup holder. “You sure you don't want that?”

The coffee smells good.

He picks up the cup. “You can have it. Cream and sugar?” he asks, digging into the bag.

“Yes.”

He lifts the lid. “How many?”

“Two sugars, one cream.” Your voice is still a whisper.

He stirs your coffee and carefully hands it to you, your fingers grazing his. You register they are soft.

You take a sip. “Thanks.”

He smiles a pleasant smile. “You're welcome.”

You keep driving, feeling a little better.

“So how old are you?” he asks, settling back into the seat.

“Twenty-one.” Again, you hope he does not hear you.

“Twenty-one. That's what I would've guessed. Twenty or twenty-one. At first when I saw you I thought you were my age, seventeen.”

You shudder. He'd been watching you, just waiting for the right moment to move in. The coffee in your stomach rumbles.

 

ou ever think about death?”

You glance down at the gun and back at the road. “Yes,” you whisper.

“You think about it a lot?”

You say nothing, thinking he must know you have, especially now with his gun pointed at you. You will not tell him you swallowed a couple of handfuls of pills six months ago after the married guy in the apartment upstairs broke off his affair with you because he was moving to California to start a family. You will not tell him how lost and unwanted and desperate you felt during that time.

The speedometer rises as you think of this. Maybe sensing something, he reaches over, touches you on the leg briefly, before retracting his hand. Your leg tingles where he's touched. He says, “I think about dying too.”

 

e have to stop,” you say, pleading with him. “I don't think I can drive anymore.” It's nighttime and your neck and arms are stiff.

He's quiet for a moment, thinking. “Okay.”

He follows you to check-in at the motel, giving the owner the impression you're a couple. The man behind the counter isn't pleased with seeing the two of you there. He likely believes you're two kids shacking up for the night, and an interracial couple at that.

“You both aren't to leave your “little packages” lyin' around all over the place,” he warns before handing you the key to the only vacant room. You don't try the mental telepathy thing with him.

“You need anything from your suitcases?” your passenger asks when you're back outside. The night is clear and you look up at the stars, something you haven't done in years.

He follows your gaze. “I remember when I was a kid I used to reach up to see if I could touch one of them.”

You quickly lower you head, feeling odd about sharing such an intimate moment with him. To change the subject, you say, “Yes, I'll take one of my suitcases.”

He opens the trunk. You point to the heaviest suitcase, and he carries it to the room along with his backpack.

You enter the hot, stale smelling room first and flick on the light. You stop inside the doorway. He bumps into you. You feel the heat from his body. He kicks the door shut. He rests his hand on the small of your back. He holds the gun by his side.

A faucet drips. The brown rug has dark stains every few feet. The walls are puke green. There is only one bed.

“I guess we're sharing a bed.” He sounds pleased.

Your stomach tightens. You wish you hadn't worn such short shorts, or such a tight tank top stretched across your breasts.

He steps around you, sliding his hands to your front, and presses a palm into your breasts.

You gasp and look into his calm eyes. He is about your height.

“I just want to touch them,” he murmurs.

You stand rigid as he squeezes your breast; first one and then the other.

“Can you lift up your shirt?” he asks, taking his hand away.

Trembling, you do, holding your elbows down and just barely exposing your white bra.

He slips his hand up under your shirt and squeezes you again. He removes his hand. “Take off your shirt and bra?”

You shake your head, feeling your lip tremble.

“Please?”

You shake your head again, certain he will shoot you now.

“Then can I kiss you?”

The tears come. You don't know what to say or do, only know what he can make you do with his gun.

He places his hands on your shoulder and you jump, the metal from the gun too cold on your skin.

“It's okay,” he says, inches from your face.

You stop crying, giving into what will come.

He kisses you softly and pulls back before you can. He sits on the creaky bed. He leans forward, elbows on knees, and places his head in his hands. A small gold cross slips forward. “I'm a daddy,” he says suddenly, his drawl stretching out the syllables in 'daddy.' He speaks as if he doesn't quite believe it.

Your thoughts flash to the condoms in your purse. You stand there, still feeling his hand on your breast.

“Kirsten's my daughter's name. I just met her two days ago. She's a month old.”

You wipe your face with the palms of your hands. Your voice is thick with mucus and shaking when you say, “Is that why you're running?” You ask this out of habit of wanting to get to know guys you'll be sleeping with, consensual or not.

He shakes his head. “No.” He pauses. “Maybe.”

You remain by the bed, only half-listening and eyeing the gun he holds on his knee. He abruptly puts it down on the bed beside him. “It's so friggin' hot,” he says, tugging at the sleeve of his long shirt.

You move before you are able to think. You grab the gun while his hand is caught-up in his sleeve. Your heart is beating in your ears. You point the gun at his head, more specifically at the middle of his forehead right below where the sweat beads up at his hairline before it tracks down either side of his face. The gun's heavier than you thought, cool against your moist palm. A smile twitches at the corner of your mouth. You are finally in control.

His breathing, like yours, picks up.

The faucet drips.

You avoid his eyes and focus on his right arm that is scarred with red rake marks up and down it.

He pulls a cigarette pack from his pocket, bangs one down, and lights it. He talks as if he's reading directions from your map of the East coast, though it has gotten soft like yours was in the car. “My baby's mama, Belinda, did that,” he says, pointing his chin down at his arm.

“She was mad at me for what I'd done. I was the one who should've been mad though. I had this baby and didn't even know it. And then she pops up out of nowhere and expects me to help take care of it.”

You tune him out and eye the telephone on the nightstand. You pick up the receiver, cradle it between your ear and shoulder, gun still pointed at him. You feel him watching you. There's no dial tone. You drop the receiver, blink back tears.

The faucet drips.

His hand trembles as he takes another drag from his cigarette. His voice is calm. “It wasn't my fault. My parents made me go over and baby-sit Kirsten for Belinda. She had to go to work after school and said she'd be back at the end of her shift. It was only four hours, but still...” He drops his head and the cigarette burns low in between his fingers.

You can’t help but listen to him, though you also want him to stop talking.

“I never babysat before in my whole life. Kirsten wouldn't stop crying. I called home and my dad answered. He said to feed and change her. And after that to just rock her a little. I did all those things the best I could.”

You think about running back to the check-in guy, but convincing him to call the police might be difficult.

He stubs out his cigarette on the night stand. There's no ashtray. “Belinda came back from work, and I guess that's when I knew something was wrong. She was standing over the crib, her hands gripping the sides, but wouldn't touch Kirsten, as if she was a little afraid to. She kept saying, 'something's wrong, something's wrong.'

“And then she fixed her eyes on me and asked, 'what did you do?' She said Kirsten was dead. How could she tell anyway? She wouldn't even reach her hand in there to touch her. I told her to shut up, Kirsten wasn't dead, she was just sleeping, was all. I went to the crib to lift her out and wake her up, to show Belinda.

“But Belinda started screaming for me not to touch her baby. She tried to pull me away from the crib and scratched the shit out of my arm. I did manage to put my hand on Kirsten's head. She was so still and cold when I touched her. Belinda finally picked her up, I guess to keep me away from her.” He squeezes his trembling hands between his legs. “I must have shaken her too hard.”

He pauses and rubs his marked arm. You shift the gun to your other hand.

“I ran out of there then. When I went back home, I told my parents everything went fine with Kirsten, then packed up my stuff, grabbed my dad's gun, and snuck out my bedroom window. I didn't tell them Kirsten was dead.”

He sounds as tired as you feel. You could just leave. Take the keys and drive away. Forget about him and his story and any of this ever happened.

“Kirsten was a pretty baby. She looked a lot like Belinda.”

The faucet drips.

He jumps up and grabs the gun. There's no scuffle; he merely snatches it back as if it’s a baseball cap you swiped from him one too many times.

Your heart stops.

The faucet drips

You lock eyes.

His mouth is set in a hard straight line, and then an 'o' before he snaps up the gun, inserts it in his mouth, and squeezes.

The faucet drips

You suck in your breath and take a step backward toward the door.

 

[END]

© 2003 Jennifer Gatewood - Contributor's Bio