Chapter 4 #2
Peering around, she saw she was in a cramped trailer, on a double bed that occupied the entire width of one end.
Small windows ran down the right wall, curtained with faded yellow fabric strung on a plastic cord.
There was a kitchenette down the far end—a sink, a tiny bar fridge, and a trestle table.
Cupboards lined the other wall. Hanging above the door was the Mexican tricolor.
She tried to remember what had happened last night. In her mind, images flickered like a faulty fluorescent tube. The club downtown. The party in the house. The DJ, Finn. No, Floyd.
Then, with a jolt that felt like being zapped with a cattle prod, she remembered how he’d pushed her up against that cupboard over there. How he’d put his hand up her dress. How he’d almost…
Then, with an even bigger jolt, she remembered what had happened next.
There’d been another man. With a soft, sinister voice. And a gun.
After that, the memories flickered and died out.
She covered her eyes with one hand. God, she felt so stupid. How many times had she heard about girls getting wasted and waking up with no memory and no underwear? How many times had she told herself that would never be her?
Pushing back the covers, she was relieved to find her underwear was still accounted for.
In fact, she was wearing more clothing than she’d had on last night.
Over her dress was a black hoodie. It had white writing running down the sleeves, which were so long they hung off her hands.
She lifted one and sniffed the fabric at her wrist. It smelled of gasoline and smoke.
Underlying those scents was another. The faint whiff of cheap cologne.
She looked around the trailer again. It was empty. Whoever the man with the gun was, he was gone now.
Near the bed, a beer crate served as an improvised nightstand. On it was a glass of clear liquid. She picked it up and gave it a cautious sniff. Discovering it was just water, she gulped it down.
The moment it hit her stomach, it tried to come back up again. She gripped the edge of the mattress, willing herself not to be sick. Slowly, the nausea passed, and she felt strong enough to stand up, bracing one hand against a cupboard to ward off a wave of vertigo.
The exertion made her head pound. It also drew her attention to another source of pain: her neck. She pressed a damp hand to it. It felt tender to the touch. She had a vivid memory of Floyd’s tight grip around her windpipe, and of the white spots dancing across her vision.
Lowering her hand, she discovered her necklace was missing. It must have broken off during the attack.
She cast her eyes across the cracked linoleum floor. Nothing gold glinted up at her. Her spirits sank even lower. The necklace had been a gift from her dad; she hadn’t taken it off since she was a kid.
But she couldn’t stay here any longer to search for it. She had to get out of this trailer before its owner returned.
Her handbag and heels were lying on the floor near the end of the bed. She scooped them up, then tiptoed to the door and cracked it open. Its old hinges squealed.
She paused in the doorway, shielding her eyes against the bright sunlight, and looked around.
The trailer sat in the far corner of a weedy lot. A chain-link fence separated it from the next property. Objects poked above the shin-high grass. An overturned wheelie bin. An old car covered by a blue tarp. A rusted motorcycle that looked like it was returning to the earth.
Still barefoot, she stepped down onto a dirt path. Taking her phone out of her purse, she checked her messages.
None. Nothing from her mom or sister. Not one of her so-called friends had phoned or texted her, wondering where she’d disappeared off to last night. No one had noticed that she hadn’t gone home, or checked that she wasn’t dead in an alley somewhere.
A volley of barking came from her right. She got such a fright that she felt her body cleave from her skeleton.
Whirling around, she saw a white Rottweiler emerge from under the trailer. It was tethered to a piece of metal rebar stuck in the ground. Suddenly, it tested the limits of its chain by launching itself at her legs. It was short by about a yard, but she stumbled backwards anyway.
From behind her, a man called out, “?Tequila! ?Cierra la puta boca!”
Heart pounding, she spun back around.
But there was no one there. Just the old wreck of a car, covered with the tarp and propped up on concrete blocks.
Then she spotted a pair of denim-clad legs sticking out from under it. The man attached to them scooted out on a trolley. He sat up, shielding his eyes against the sun.
It was the man with the gun. She took a few stumbling steps backwards.
He pushed himself to his feet. He was tall. Latino. Dark hair in a high fade. No shirt, just low-slung jeans revealing the top of his white boxer briefs. Tattoos covered his torso and arms.
He had a tool in his hand, some kind of wrench. Both his hands were black with engine oil.
“Don’t worry about her,” he called, gesturing to the dog. “She’s just being friendly.”
Julia looked at the dog’s bared incisors and raised hackles.
Friendly. Right.
She looked back at the guy. He didn’t look friendly either. But he was keeping his distance, so she resisted the urge to bolt.
“You okay?” he called in a soft Spanish accent.
She nodded, not looking at him. “I’m fine.”
He dropped the wrench on the ground, wiped his hands on a rag. She realized they weren’t black with oil, but black with more tattoos.
He slid one hand into his back pocket and pulled out a baggie of white pills. “You sure? You took a shitload of benzos last night.”
She stared at the baggie, feeling sick at just the sight of them. “Those aren’t mine.”
“I know,” he said, shoving them back into his jeans. “They were in that asshole’s pocket. I’m guessing a bunch of them wound up in your drink.”
She swallowed hard and looked away. Part of her brain registered the sinister notion that this guy had gone through her attacker’s pockets. A far larger part realized she didn’t care.
A cool breeze rattled the trees along the fence line and raised goosebumps on the bare skin of her legs. She crossed her arms over her chest in their overlong sleeves.
It occurred to her he must have dressed her in his hoodie after she’d passed out. Then put her in his bed and slept…where? In that old car?
“I’m Daniel, by the way,” he said. He had a small cross tattooed under one eye, and the word ALONE running along his jaw up to his ear.
She hesitated for a long moment, then said, “Julia.”
He didn’t seem fazed by the cold, just stood there, shirtless, with both hands stuck into his back pockets. “Where do you live, Julia?”
“Lake Forest.”
“I can give you a ride home.”
She glanced at the old wreck behind him. It was the only thing resembling a car that she had seen in the yard or on the street. “In that thing?”
His eyebrows shot up in mock offense. “Uh, that ‘thing’, actually, is a 1970 Plymouth Hemi ’Cuda.”
He paused, as if expecting her to be bowled over by that fact.
When she wasn’t, he grinned and added, “Only one of the greatest American muscle cars ever built. Four hundred and twenty-six horsepower. Four-ninety pound feet of torque. Original Tor Red. Incredibly rare.” He was looking at it with what could only be described as a loving expression. “She’s my ride or die.”
Julia looked more closely at the car. Beneath a raised corner of the tarp, she saw a shiny red fender. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a wreck after all. In fact, it looked brand new.
But it was still missing several vital components, even to her untrained eyes.
“You realize it doesn’t have any wheels, right?” she said.
He grinned again, revealing white teeth and a dimple in one cheek. “Minor detail.” He pointed at the motorcycle that looked like it was dying a slow, rusty death. “I actually meant, I’ll take you home on that.”
She raised her eyebrows, thinking he must have been joking. His face appeared serious. “Thanks,” she said. “But I’ll pass.”
He shrugged, like it was her funeral. Which she was pretty sure it would be if she’d said yes.
“Alright then,” he said, bending to pick up his wrench from the ground. “Adiós, Julia.”
He lowered himself onto the trolley and disappeared back under the car.
She turned to go, then spun back, waving her stupidly long sleeves. “Oh, your sweatshirt.”
“Keep it,” came the voice from under the car. “I got others.”
She walked down the dirt track that led to the street. Scrolling through her contacts, she pulled up the number of a car service.
While she waited on the sidewalk for her ride, she turned to look back at the house. It had plywood boards on its windows, rotten siding, and weeds sprouting from its gutters. From the outside, it appeared uninhabited.
There was no sign of last night’s partygoers. It looked so creepily deserted she could almost believe she’d hallucinated the whole thing.
The only thing that reminded her she hadn’t was the dull ache of the hand-shaped bruise around her neck.