What I Should’ve Said

Bennett

I glance through my windshield and see the woman just standing in the middle of the road, looking at my truck and not moving.

What is she doing?

First, she asked me for a ride by playing a game of chicken with my truck, and now that I’ve agreed and tossed her suitcase in the bed, she’s…not going to take it? S~ᴇaʀᴄh the Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

It’d certainly be the smart thing to do. Hitchhiking a ride from a total stranger isn’t generally touted as safe.

I let out a sigh and reach forward to fiddle with the radio, turning up the volume on the only station available in Red Bridge to drown out my growing irritation.

I don’t know what she’s doing out here, on the outskirts of Red Bridge, but she’s not a local. Her expensive suitcase and designer boots and the T-shirt that molds tightly over her perky tits, and that probably costs more than most people’s entire wardrobes, is proof of that.

I’d say she’s from Boston or Chicago or…New York.

Yeah. I scoff to myself. Definitely a New Yorker.

I should know; I was born and raised there.

And since she doesn’t look a day over midtwenties, I’d guess she’s the worst kind of New Yorker—a trust-fund baby New Yorker. Probably a daughter of some rich asshole who works in tech or makes a living out of stealing people’s money under the guise of investments or some shit.

I glance through the windshield again and note that she’s still giving her best impression of a statue. My eyes scan the black letters on her white T-shirt, J’adore Dior.

Give me a break.

It looks like something my sister Breezy would wear. And she looks like the kind of woman who spends her afternoons on Fifth Avenue, contemplating if she should get the Chanel or the Dior handbag to match the cocktail dress she’s going to wear to some stupid charity function where the money very rarely goes to charity and serves as one hell of a tax write-off for the wealthy attendees.

I know that scene all too well. The posh “I have money, and I can buy anything or anyone I want because of it” scene. I lived in it for most of my life.

But why this woman chose Red Bridge? I haven’t a clue. For all I know, she read Eat Pray Love or some shit, and this is the first leg of her big journey to “find herself.” I guarantee the sushi Earl carries in the only grocery store in town isn’t going to provide any kind of spiritual awakening, but none of that matters to me.

Make up your mind, sweetheart.

The wind blows her wild mane of brunette curls around, and her big brown doe eyes stare back at me. I can’t help myself from taking in the rest of her body again, painfully noting that she has the kind of curves that used to tempt a man like me. Used to being the operative words. I might’ve enjoyed the fun curves like that could bring me when I was still living the superficial high life, but that ship sailed a long-ass time ago.

I’m no longer the kind of man who is easily distracted by shiny, pretty things. The only thing I’m busy with right now is that I have three full kegs of beer in the bed of my truck to drop off before I can get back home to my biggest priority of all.

This girl is wasting my fucking time.

I’m five seconds away from deciding for her and putting my truck in drive and leaving her here when she finally elects to move her ass and hop inside the passenger’s seat.

She shuts the door with a gentle click, and the scent of jasmine mixed with vanilla assaults my nose. It’s a kryptonite mix of shyness and seduction. Innocence and sex. Years ago, this could’ve been my downfall.

Now, though, I simply look toward the road and wait for her to put on her seat belt.

But the only thing she does is start rambling.

“Again, I’m really, really sorry about all this. Oh! Where are my manners? Sheesh. I’m Norah, by the way. Norah Ellis.”

I keep my eyes forward. It’s not that I’m unfriendly; I just don’t need any fucking friends. Plus, the more I think about how she got into a complete stranger’s truck without any concern for her well-being, the more irritated I become.

I could be a psychopath for all she knows, and yet here she is, willingly sitting in my passenger’s seat.

“So…I need to go to my sister’s house. Josie Ellis. I don’t know if you know her? She’s lived in Red Bridge for a long time. She’s past the center of town. Pretty sure the road is called Maple? Or is it Spruce? It’s a tree name. I know that much.”

A tree name? This is Vermont. There’re at least fifteen streets in this town that are named after trees.

“Let me see if I’m getting any service, and I can Google it.” She pulls her cell out of her purse and starts frantically tapping her fingers across the screen.

Frankly, it’s a useless endeavor. Cell service doesn’t get good for another mile and a half.

And I don’t need Google because I know Josie Ellis. She runs CAFFEINE, the only coffee shop in town. Hell, everyone in this town knows who her sister is, but that’s life in Red Bridge for you. Everyone knows everyone because most of them are nosy-as-hell and love to socialize.

Not to mention, she still hasn’t put her seat belt on so I can start driving.

“I know where Josie lives,” I tell her, thinking that’s explanation enough, but she proves me wrong by opening her chatty mouth again.

“You know my sister?” she asks, turning her body in the passenger’s seat to face me. “That’s great news. Well, I hope it’s great news. I mean, I hope you like her.” Her laugh might as well be a woman named Uneasy who is trying to put on a Cool, Calm, and Collected costume. “Because it wouldn’t be great if you, like, hated her and then had to drive her crazy-ass sister into town.”

Her crazy-ass sister who hitchhiked a ride from a damn stranger on a back country road like it’s a completely normal and safe thing to do in this day and age.

If any female in my life pulled this shit, I’d be furious.

But that doesn’t explain why you’re furious for her. A woman you don’t even know…

Clearly, I need to get her out of my truck. The sooner, the better.