2. Cereal Killer
CEREAL KILLER
Ibreak down not long after crossing the county line, ominous black smoke curling up from under the hood.
Not a surprise, considering I’ve been ignoring a terrifying rattling sound since yesterday afternoon.
I climb out of the car and send up a desperate prayer to whatever higher power might be on duty, and when that gets me nowhere, I give the front tire a sharp kick.
“Fuck you, Charlene,” I hiss, bringing my fist down on the overheated metal and letting out a small, strangled wail.
She doesn’t respond.
I wouldn’t either, being spoken to like that. Not after the stunt I just pulled. She’s already done more for me than I deserve, dragging my sorry ass across the country on pure luck alone. It would have been nice if she hadn’t waited until I’d poured the last of my cash into her gas tank, however.
Now I’m stranded, with literally zero dollars to my name, in the middle of Nowhereville, North Carolina, without anyone to call. I’m not even sure what my plan was once that five bucks’ worth of gas finally burned through. That had been a future-me problem.
“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry,” I all but whimper, petting the small dent I left behind. The poor girl’s covered in them. “I’ll treat you to a nice car wash if you keep going a little longer for me, baby.”
She continues to freeze me out. We both know I’m a rotten liar.
I plop down on the side of the road and watch white clouds roll lazily through a bright blue sky, until I lose track of time.
Cars pass, but none slow down. It’s mid-afternoon by the time I finally drag myself back to my feet and give the engine one last chance.
Charlene sputters, clearly laughing at me, before letting out a loud bang and going completely silent.
So much for my hopes that the problem would fix itself.
Deciding I’d better come up with a plan before the sun sets and this highway turns into a pitch-black death trap, I grab my only bag from the backseat and start cramming as many of my worldly possessions into it as possible.
I’m not sure what’s more pathetic: that I have so little to my name, or that so much of it can be left behind without a second thought.
I swing the bag onto my back, testing it’s not too heavy for my slight frame, and start walking back the way I came. I vaguely remember a truck stop a few miles back. I don’t think that’s what Sinatra had in mind by if I can make it there, I can make it anywhere, but it will have to do.
I haven’t been walking long when tires crunch over the pavement behind me. I step off into the tall grass to avoid being hit, but the vehicle slows to a stop. A door slams, and boots hit gravel.
“Hey, wait up.”
I turn toward the familiar rumble and—because apparently, we’ve now reached the second run-in portion of this rom-com—come face to face with the dark-haired, green-eyed stranger I’d made googly eyes at, and stolen from, this morning.
“Was that your car I passed a mile back?”
He walks toward me, hands shoved into his jean pockets, broad shoulders hunched against the late afternoon chill. Long legs close the distance between us until he stops an arm’s length away. I’m devastated to discover my memory hadn’t accurately captured how breathtaking he is up close.
“Charlene broke down,” I answer with a shrug, trying for casual indifference instead of hopeless desperation. Maybe if I can string more than two words together this time, he’ll give me a ride to the truck stop. It can’t be more than a two-minute drive, but it’s at least another hour on foot.
“You’d have been better off continuing the way you were headed,” he says, like I have any clue where I am. “You weren’t far from the next town over. It’s a good twenty miles if you keep going this way.”
I shift on my feet, repositioning my heavy bag so the straps stop digging into my shoulder, and glance in the direction he’s pointing. Maybe if I squint hard enough, I’ll see this mythical town appear.
The awkward silence from before is back, pressing in around us. I get the feeling he won’t like hearing where I'm going, but if I want to get there before sunset—and lower my chances of ending up as the protagonist in a true crime podcast—he’s all I’ve got.
“There’s a rest stop I passed this morning,” I mutter, scuffing my toe through the gravel and dirt. “Thought I’d be able to hitch a ride from there.”
His head tilts, a soft, puzzled look crossing his face. “What about your car?”
“That thing’s scrap metal at this point. Believe me, this breakdown was long overdue.” The car, or mine, is still to be determined.
He nods toward his truck, parked half on the grass verge. “Come on, then.”
“You’ll drive me the rest of the way?”
“Can’t exactly leave you wandering out here. It’s getting dark. There are coyotes.”
Of course there fucking are.
I hurry after him, not needing to be told twice, jogging to keep up with his long strides.
Now it’s been brought to my attention, I’m probably the perfect prey for a coyote to nibble on: bite-sized, zero defensive skills, all panic, no disco.
For all I know, this man just saved me from what could’ve been a violent animal attack. I can see the headline now:
Half-Eaten Twink Carcass Found on Interstate.
Locals Blame Poor Life Choices.
He takes my bag without asking, tosses it in the back of his truck, then opens the passenger door for me.
It takes several undignified attempts to climb onto the seat, which is basically at eye level.
The “helpful” grab handle might as well be ornamental for all the good it does me.
The warm press of his palm on my lower back nudges me the rest of the way up, and I tumble into the seat, heart skipping, cheeks burning.
The door closes a second later with a soft click.
I’m sure my mother would have plenty to say about me jumping into pickups with strange men.
However, my turning up on the side of the road, bloody and beaten, would give her another excuse to say I told you so, and she’s always looking for one of those.
It’s like you have a death wish, her voice nags in my head.
You have to be more careful if you insist on looking like that.
The problem is, other than the blue hair, I’m not sure I could look any other way.
As a teen, I’d thought my growth spurt was right around the corner.
Puberty seemed to come later for me than for everyone else.
The side effects of Adderall made hitting the weight necessary to launch my body into adolescence almost impossible.
Even when the hormones finally did catch up, I only gained a few more inches before my body decided that was it—five feet was as tall as I’m going to get. Gaining weight never got easier either.
I don’t mind. Being small can have its perks.
I’ve been known to indulge in an illicit kid’s menu mac and cheese from time to time, a discount movie ticket or two.
People also tend to underestimate me. My short, slender stature and pretty features—or dainty, as my mother calls them, not in a good way—make disappointing people harder and impressing them exponentially easier.
“Who are you?” A little voice comes from the back seat, and I whip around, not sure what I’m expecting. I’m met with a head full of dark brown ringlets, tanned freckled skin, and two giant green orbs the exact same shade as the man opening the driver’s side door.
The girl can’t be older than four. She’s wearing the cutest little matching sweatsuit covered in purple and green dinosaurs.
I want to ask her where she got it—and whether it comes in bigger sizes—but she’s looking at me so expectantly that I quickly hold out my hand.
Her tiny fingers stretch out to take it, but the straps of her car seat hold her firmly in place. Our fingertips barely brush.
“I’m Finley,” I answer, as if that explains my sudden appearance in her life.
“Annabelle.”
That’s all I get before she turns to stare out the window, apparently done with our conversation. I can’t tell if I passed the test, or if there even was one. She’s not screaming stranger danger, so that must count for something. I turn to settle into my own seat and find him watching me.
“Finley.” He doesn’t so much say my name as purr it.
It’s a helluva good job I’m not wearing panties, because the way those two syllables roll off his tongue would have melted them clean off.
“You didn’t introduce yourself earlier,” he adds, gifting me the softest of smiles.
Holy crap. Is that a dimple winking at me from his left cheek? The overwhelming urge to press my tongue into the small divot is concerning, and I have to dig my fingers into the leather seat to stop myself from moving.
“It suits you.”
The praise should not light me on fire the way it does. I didn’t have a single drop of influence in picking my own name, yet the warmth of the compliment spreads through me, making my fingers and toes tingle.
“I’m—” he begins. But a banshee war cry erupts from the backseat, cutting him off.
“MCDONALDSSSSSSS.”
Homegirl better be grateful she’s cute like her dad, because it stops me from learning the information I’ve waited a lifetime—okay, fine, half a day—to discover.
“Right.” He chuckles, turning the key in the ignition and pulling back onto the highway. “McDonald’s. How could I forget?”
I was right to think the truck stop wasn’t much further; we pass a sign advertising it a mile away within thirty seconds.
A sinking feeling coils in my gut as we draw closer and closer.
I try to remind myself that this short car ride was bonus time with my mystery stranger.
I’m lucky he bothered to give me a ride at all after the ass I made of myself this morning.
As the turn lane appears and he shifts the truck into a higher gear, it quickly becomes apparent he has no plans to stop.
We blaze past my fleeting hope of freedom, and I spin in my seat, taking in the almost-full parking lot of missed hitchhiking opportunities.
My stomach twists into a painful knot, but I can’t tell if it’s fear or excitement fueling the sudden wave of nausea.
“You drove right past it,” I groan, hiding my face in my hands. “This is how I die, isn’t it? You’re a serial killer. I’ve fallen right into your trap.”
My hands drop in time to catch the wicked grin he throws my way, the smug little curl of his mouth as he says—no joke—“The only cereal I’m killin’ is Captain Crunch.”
What. A. Fucking. Nerd.
Annabelle finds it hilarious, though. Why?
I have no idea. I seriously hope this tiny human doesn’t know what a serial killer is and is just giggling cause her dad made the lamest joke I’ve ever heard.
Her laughter is infectious, and before I can stop myself, a giggle bursts out of me, escalating into a full-on wheezing fit.
It’s really cute. Not.
I manage to pull myself together long enough to choke out, “That’s not even a good cereal. If you’re going to make god-awful dad jokes, at least pick something universally liked.”
He scoffs, as if the idea that Captain Crunch isn’t everyone’s favorite breakfast food is completely unfathomable.
That only gets me and my new bestie Annabelle going again.
By the time we pull ourselves together, the golden arches peek between a break in the trees, and Annabelle is bouncing in her seat, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Finley,” she says. “Are you getting nuggets or a burger? I can’t decide. Burger sauce is so tasty, but I wanna dunk stuff in ketchup too.”
A small, defeated noise escapes her lips, like choosing between the two is a life-or-death decision. God, I wish I could go back to when the worst of my problems revolved around Happy Meal choices.
“Get the burger, and dunk your fries.”
I hope I haven’t overstepped. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of dad who forces his kid to pick apple slices over french fries, but he didn’t seem like the kind of man to tell such terrible jokes either.
“That’s a great idea!” she squeals. “Are you gonna get that, Finley? I want the same thing as you!”
My stomach knots as we pull up to the window.
Any second now, she’s going to notice I’m not ordering and ask the kind of innocent question that will make me want to fling myself into traffic.
Or worse—he’ll ask. I can already feel my face burning at the thought of having to admit, for the second time today, I can’t pay for my damn meal.
This poor, precious angel of a child shouldn’t have to see me flounder like this.
“I had a big lunch,” I lie. Unlike last time, my stomach stays out of it.
A look of complete heartbreak crosses her face.
I swear to God her lower lip actually quivers, and she unleashes the most pitiful sentence I think I’ve heard in my entire life.
“Everyone is hungry enough for McDonald’s.
” She immediately doubles down with a one-two guilt punch.
“Right, Owie? That’s what you said. That’s what you said! ”
I try to shoot him a panicked face that screams I absolutely cannot afford McDonald’s, but he meets my eyes with the same steady, unflinching look he wore back at the cafe.
It washes over me in a wave of calm, bringing my racing thoughts to a stumbling stop.
My pulse eases, and I pull in a deep grounding breath.
He looks pleased.
“That’s exactly right, Princess.” He winks at her reflection in the rearview mirror, and I swear to God I grow a uterus and start ovulating right there in the passenger seat.
Princess. Jesus H. Christ.
The effect is immediate, quieting the anxious toddler, and melting my brain just enough that when he asks, “Burger or nuggets, Finley?” all I can do is nod and mumble, “Burger.”