stop it from quivering as the lights hit me, and the car rolled to a stop.
It wasn’t actually a car, I realized, but a vintage hot rod pickup with windsurfing boards and sails jutting out over the cherry red tailgate. The radio was blasting AC/DC.
I took a breath as I made eye contact with the two people inside of it. The driver looked friendly enough, a young guy with short, reddish blond hair. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Neither was his wiry, older, and meaner-looking friend, who had a bottle between his knees and a well-endowed-mermaid tattoo on his forearm. I winced as I spotted their glazed red eyes and caught the reek of pot.
Damn, I thought. What have I gotten myself into?
“Hey, punk-rock girl. Need a ride?” said the wasted driver, turning down “Hells Bells.”
His Red Hot Chili Pepper reject of a friend took a swig of Southern Comfort and burped. “Cab’s a little crowded, but let me clear off a seat for you,” the tattooed guy said, wiping at his face.
I knew it, I thought, as icy pinpricks of fear made a path down my spine. I should have waited to hitch until I was at a place with more houses, more lights.
“Actually, guys, I changed my mind,” I said, walking away. “I think I’m going to keep walking. Thanks. My boyfriend will be here any minute anyway.”
I could feel my heart beating madly in my throat as the truck rumbled. I felt like crying as it kept pace alongside me.
The driver called to me, “Honestly. We’re more than happy to give you a ride.”
The truck suddenly shot off the road and did a half doughnut in front of me.
“Yeah, come on and stop being a bitch already,” said the skinny guy with a smile as he opened his door. “We won’t rape you. Promise.”
Chapter 43
I DROPPED MY BAG as I turned and sprinted in the other direction. The skinny bastard laughed and gave a rebel yell as the truck rumbled again. I looked over my shoulder to see the truck reversing.
Were they just trying to scare me? They were doing a damn good job.
I was thinking about heading into the brush to hide when I saw another set of headlights. A car was coming off the bridge to the south. I ran out into the road, waving frantically. It slowed and then stopped ten feet in front of me. It was a dark Mercedes.
“Say, are you OK?” asked the man behind the wheel. He had a British accent. A feisty Jack Russell began barking from the passenger seat behind him.
Before I could answer, the reversing pickup came to asand-raising stop in front of the luxury sedan. The two shirtless men hopped out.
“Beat it, fool. Before we put you in the hospital,” said the mean, wiry guy, brandishing his booze bottle like a club.
Instead of screeching away as I feared he would, the Mercedes driver just leaned out of his window and smiled.
“Oh, I don’t want to go to the hospital,” he said to them in a campy, whimsical Shakespearean voice. “How about if we just stay here and play doctor in the back of that butch truck of yours instead? I call doctor. Who wants to get examined first?”
He was a member of Key West’s vast gay community, I realized.
The wiry guy with the tattoo gave the bottle a deft flip as he stepped over to the driver’s side of the Mercedes.
“The only thing that’s going to get examined is your wallet, queen. After I knock all your teeth down your throat.”
That’s when the Mercedes driver opened his door and my jaw dropped.
The handsome black-haired man was massive, well over six feet, his bodybuilder chest and arms stretching his black polo shirt to the breaking point.
“Forgive me for being so forward, young man,” he said, stepping toward the windsurfing punk with his veined arms crossed over his fifty-inch chest. “But has anyone ever told you how utterly striking those eyes of yours are? Let me guess: you’re a Sagittarius?”
The two windsurfing fools looked at the WWF-sized gay Brit and then at each other in utter horror before racing backto the truck. A boogie
It wasn’t actually a car, I realized, but a vintage hot rod pickup with windsurfing boards and sails jutting out over the cherry red tailgate. The radio was blasting AC/DC.
I took a breath as I made eye contact with the two people inside of it. The driver looked friendly enough, a young guy with short, reddish blond hair. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Neither was his wiry, older, and meaner-looking friend, who had a bottle between his knees and a well-endowed-mermaid tattoo on his forearm. I winced as I spotted their glazed red eyes and caught the reek of pot.
Damn, I thought. What have I gotten myself into?
“Hey, punk-rock girl. Need a ride?” said the wasted driver, turning down “Hells Bells.”
His Red Hot Chili Pepper reject of a friend took a swig of Southern Comfort and burped. “Cab’s a little crowded, but let me clear off a seat for you,” the tattooed guy said, wiping at his face.
I knew it, I thought, as icy pinpricks of fear made a path down my spine. I should have waited to hitch until I was at a place with more houses, more lights.
“Actually, guys, I changed my mind,” I said, walking away. “I think I’m going to keep walking. Thanks. My boyfriend will be here any minute anyway.”
I could feel my heart beating madly in my throat as the truck rumbled. I felt like crying as it kept pace alongside me.
The driver called to me, “Honestly. We’re more than happy to give you a ride.”
The truck suddenly shot off the road and did a half doughnut in front of me.
“Yeah, come on and stop being a bitch already,” said the skinny guy with a smile as he opened his door. “We won’t rape you. Promise.”
Chapter 43
I DROPPED MY BAG as I turned and sprinted in the other direction. The skinny bastard laughed and gave a rebel yell as the truck rumbled again. I looked over my shoulder to see the truck reversing.
Were they just trying to scare me? They were doing a damn good job.
I was thinking about heading into the brush to hide when I saw another set of headlights. A car was coming off the bridge to the south. I ran out into the road, waving frantically. It slowed and then stopped ten feet in front of me. It was a dark Mercedes.
“Say, are you OK?” asked the man behind the wheel. He had a British accent. A feisty Jack Russell began barking from the passenger seat behind him.
Before I could answer, the reversing pickup came to asand-raising stop in front of the luxury sedan. The two shirtless men hopped out.
“Beat it, fool. Before we put you in the hospital,” said the mean, wiry guy, brandishing his booze bottle like a club.
Instead of screeching away as I feared he would, the Mercedes driver just leaned out of his window and smiled.
“Oh, I don’t want to go to the hospital,” he said to them in a campy, whimsical Shakespearean voice. “How about if we just stay here and play doctor in the back of that butch truck of yours instead? I call doctor. Who wants to get examined first?”
He was a member of Key West’s vast gay community, I realized.
The wiry guy with the tattoo gave the bottle a deft flip as he stepped over to the driver’s side of the Mercedes.
“The only thing that’s going to get examined is your wallet, queen. After I knock all your teeth down your throat.”
That’s when the Mercedes driver opened his door and my jaw dropped.
The handsome black-haired man was massive, well over six feet, his bodybuilder chest and arms stretching his black polo shirt to the breaking point.
“Forgive me for being so forward, young man,” he said, stepping toward the windsurfing punk with his veined arms crossed over his fifty-inch chest. “But has anyone ever told you how utterly striking those eyes of yours are? Let me guess: you’re a Sagittarius?”
The two windsurfing fools looked at the WWF-sized gay Brit and then at each other in utter horror before racing backto the truck. A boogie
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