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“Hey there,” one of them says, or rather slurs.
“Need a hand with something?” the second one asks, or again, slurs like his friend.
“Because we’d love to give you a hand,” the first one goes, without waiting for my reply.
“Yeah. Our hands are very capable,” the second one tacks on.
“Especially for a pretty girl like you,” the first one finishes.
And then they both laugh.
Like they’ve cracked the most hilarious joke of the century or something.
God, please, I do not need this right now.
Still I paste a patient smile on my lips. “That’s… great. Because I do need a hand with something.” Both their eyes grow wide and shine but before they can start another volley of lame jokes, I continue, “I’d love it if you guys moved away from that vehicle. Because that’s my car and I need to get out of here.”
They both do a slow blink as if confused and then together, they both turn and look at the car behind them. It’s uncanny how their movements are in perfect unison.
Then the first one goes, “This your ride?”
“Yup.”
“You’re fucking with us.”
“Nope.”
Even though I’m a little annoyed right now, I still can’t help but feel a hint of pride at the wonder in his voice. My car tends to do that. It’s a 1967 Chevy Corvette and it’s the prettiest car ever made. And not only because it’s painted cherry red. I’ve had it for about a year now; got it as a present for my eighteenth birthday from my brother.
Who restored it himself at his amazing garage.
“And you want us to move away from it,” he continues, breaking into my pleasant thoughts.
Okay, now they’re back to annoying me. Sighing, I reply, “Yup.”
“So you can get out of here.”
“That’s pretty much the gist of it, yes.”
He opens his mouth again but the second one beats him and goes, “How about we all get out of here?”
My gaze snaps over to him. “I’m sorry?”
He shrugs, and for some reason he doesn’t look as drunk as he did only moments ago. “You wanna get out of here. Turns out, we wanna get out of here too. And you’ve got a killer ride. How about we all slide into it and see where it takes us?”
“Fuck yeah,” the first one says, jumping onboard quickly. “The night’s still young.”
The second one takes a step forward. “And we can have some fun, you and us.”
Right.
I should’ve known.
Even though according to them the night is young, it’s still late. And the parking lot is empty save for the three of us and for some reason, guys think it gives them license to be pushy.
“What kind of fun?” I ask.
The second guy — I’m thinking he’s the bolder of the two of them — replies, “The kind where there’s a happy ending.” Then he leans forward again. “For all of us.”
Even though I don’t like the fact that in the last several seconds this sleazy-looking and drunk-sounding guy has gained several inches between us, I still stand my ground. I still stand tall in my heels and look him in the eyes as I say, “I’m not a happy ending kind of girl.”
“You’re with us now,” he says, “we’ll make you a convert.”
I look at his swaying body up and down. “You sure you’re up for that?”
“More than anything.”
“Because from the way you’re swaying and slurring your words, I don’t think you have it in you to give yourself a happy ending, let alone me and your friend over there.”
He goes still for several seconds along with his friend.
Actually, his friend is still, except he’s blinking really fast. Then, “What the… He didn’t… There’s no fucking happy ending for me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I agree with a mock pout.
He shakes his head. “There’s no fucking happy ending between us. There’s nothing…” He shakes his head again, disgusted. “There’s nothing between us. Not like that.”
I raise my palms up. “Hey, there’s no judgement here, dude. Love is love.”
The first guy sputters some more, unable to form any coherent words. But the second guy comes out of his stupor and advances on me, grabbing one of my raised wrists. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”
My heart jumps to my throat in fear but still, I hold on. I twist my hand in his grip. “Let me go.”
He sneers. “Although not so much right now.” He tightens his grip and gets even more up in my face. “Are you?”
“Listen…”
I trail off because I feel the air change around me.
I feel it become heavy and hot and static.
Electric.
Oh no. No, no, no.
Damn it.
Why’s he here?
Why —
“She’s mine.”
What, no.
Absolutely not.
Why would he say that? Why would he say the exact same words that he said three years ago?
Why is it that we’re in a similar situation as three years ago?
Why?
As angry and irritated as I am right now, his growled words do the job.
