Bring the Rain (3 page)

Wait. What if he
is
trying to drug me?
Holy crap
. While he's focused on the road, I reach for the door handle, trying not to shake. I’m in a truck with a total stranger and his muscles of steel, in the middle of nowhere. What's wrong with me? I’d never let this happen in New York. My heart beats in rhythm with the buzz in my ears. I need an escape plan, like now.

He flips off the headlights. We’re in complete darkness except for the stars. I glance out the window; a light from a lone farm-house is about a mile away. No one will hear me scream.

We’re completely alone.

My fingers rest
on the door’s latch. How can I be so stupid? Over the pasture, a house light twinkles in the distance. The corn is hip high. If I crouch and dart, I might make it. This is my chance. I let the drugged liquid spray out of my mouth, dousing his face. With a tug, the door flies open and I bolt.

“Whoa, girl!” He calls from behind like I’m a freakin’ cow.

I dart but my legs are jelly. I lurch forward in lazy zigzags for a few steps before I crumble to the ground. My ear stings as a blade of grass brushes against it. Every blade feels so intense, like knives slicing into my skin. What type of drug is this? I try to concentrate on the prairie grass before me as I rise. I swear, hating myself for drinking, as I struggle to move where I want to go.

A hand squeezes my shoulder

“Autumn,” he says in a low steady voice. “What’s wrong?”

He picks me up, stabilizing me before I dart again. The ground turns over with a thunk, and my mouth fills with dirt.

“You—rape. No.” I gasp as I clutch grasp to pull me up. Adrenaline surges and the you-tube video I watched on self-defense class flashes through my mind. Step one: kick him in the shin. Step two: jab my fingers into his throat. Step three: push into his rib. Step four: charge the heel of my hand into his nose. Step five: kick him in the balls.

“No, no.” His hands lift me again from the ground as I try to kick. He jumps away. “I’m NOT trying to rape you.”

“For real, Autumn. Honestly.” He takes a few more steps away as he reaches in his back pocket and pulls out a floppy wallet. He thumbs through and tosses a paper to me. It flutters to the ground and after a few seconds of studying him I drag it over with my shoe.

The paper’s thin. The words Gallaber Ranch scrolls across the top line of the pay stub.

“Your Dad background checks all employees, right? He wouldn’t hire me if I was a rapist.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” I say with a glare.

“Crap. I know, I just.” He holds up his hands. “I’m not trying to rape you. I promise.”

“Then why’d you pull over on the road? Turn off your headlights?” He takes a step toward me and I try to take a defensive stance, but the ground spins and I stumble out of it.

 “Okay, let’s take a breath together.” He nods, taking one and acting like I’m crazy enough to repeat him. I puff out my cheeks, holding my breath, but this only makes him smile.

“Autumn, I get how what I did could be interpreted as creepy. I should have thought first before doing that.” He grabs a crusty blade of grass and sticks it in the corner of his mouth like an old fashioned cowboy.

 “I pulled over to give you the chance of sobering up. The headlights had to go because Peggy,” he nods towards the battered red truck, “has a short battery life.”

“Then why’d you try to drug me?”

“Drug you?”

“The beer. It tasted wrong.”

Suddenly, he is laughing. Frickin’ hand slapping his leg type laughing!

“Do you think this is funny?” The crushing panic in my chest's relented, but I’m still compelled to karate chop him in the throat, even if he wasn’t trying to rape me.

He coughs but can’t hide a sly smile. “I gave you water.”

“Water? Water doesn’t taste like that.”

“It's well water, from the house’s tap. I didn’t want you showing up at home drunk on your first night.”

My face burns as my tongue identifies that iron flavor. I don’t remember it tasting so strong when I used to drink out of the hose as a child. His story makes sense, but something still nags at me. “Why do you care if I go home drunk? And how do you know this is my first night here?”

“Your Dad’s been talking you up forever.” He glances at his cell, “Crap. It’s late. I’ve got to get you home.”

“What time is it?”

“Twelve o’ eight. You’re eight minutes late.”

“Wait… Why are you aware of my curfew?”

He sighs as he taps his cell’s screen. “Shoot. Because…” He takes a step closer and again I back away. “Okay, will you at least catch this if I throw it to you?”

I raise my eyebrows as he tosses me his phone. It arcs in the air but my arms don’t move.
Thud
. It lands on the ground right in front of me.

“Oops.” I shrug.

He throws up his hands and groans. “Just read the text.”

I touch the screen, lighting up a message from Chris G at 9:38pm.

Chris G: Autumn is heading out with Gina. Party, I assume. Can you watch out for her? Curfew = Midnight.

My stomach slams into my feet. I haven’t even been home twelve hours and Dad already doesn’t trust me-- or respect me. Hell, he sent a stranger to monitor me. That crosses any decent line of privacy. Who the hell has eyes in so many places? His over-bearing parenting will suffocate me.

Colt kicks a mound of dirt. I toss the phone back to him. What’s the point of me staying? There’s got to be a flight out of Oklahoma soon… or at least a train. He bends to grab his cell. Perfect. With a light hip check, he goes sprawling. Eat dirt, cowboy. The telling thud of his body on the cracked ground is bliss. I cross my fingers, praying he broke his phone.

“Whoa, girl. What’s that for?”

“First off, I’m not a cow so don’t address me as one. Second, that’s for hitting on me at the party when you were supposed to be
babysitting
.”

He chuckles, walking behind me now. “Hmm, I believe you kissed me.
It’s not fun if you won’t play the game.
”

Oh, man. God, why did you invent cowboys
?
I jump in the truck and slide across the pleather into the driver’s seat.

“Sorry, no one drives Peggy but me.” He stands at the passenger door, patting the seat. The silly blade of grass between his lips bobs as he flicks it to the other corner of his lips with a grin.

“No way. You blew it when you went all super creep on me. Keys, please.”

“I wouldn't do anything to you! Come on, you know that now, right?”

“Yup, but that doesn’t make me care. Keys,” I demand with my palm open.

“Not happenin', princess.”

 “How pissed do you think my Dad’ll be?”

“I’ll be able to handle Chris. It’s not worth you drinking and driving. Hell would have to swallow me whole before I’m letting you behind my wheel.” The words roll off his tongue in a thick southern accent. With each minute, he’s becoming more of a cliché cowboy. He pops up his elbow on the hood. “If you want to drive, we have to wait it out.”

“Are you kidding me? What am I going to hit… corn?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” He tips his hat. “That’s not happening.” He taps the truck before sliding down and taking a seat near the tire. “It’s not my curfew we’re violating,” he adds.

I bang the steering wheel. Crap. I know he should drive me but on principal I can’t let him win this. Dad’s probably sleeping anyway since he needs to be up at dawn. Waiting it out won’t kill me.

Knowing I can’t get a Wi-Fi or cell signal out here, I stretch out across the bucket seat and doze. About an hour later, Colt reaches through the window. “Good morning.” He jingles the keys over me. I take them, quick to plunge them into the ignition. Maybe I can get this baby moving before he gets in the passenger seat. The dingy truck chokes to life as I put my foot down on the pedal. She roars louder but nothing happens.

Colt laughs as he opens the passenger door. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“She’s not working,” I grumble.

“Nope, she ain’t.”

I push on the pedal again, receiving a good roar from the engine. We still don’t move an inch though. I try the other pedal in the left corner, getting absolutely nothing.

“Did you ride a lot of subways in Manhattan?”

“Of course.” I pull on a lever and the windshield wipers dart across my view. Foot to the floor, I dig into the accelerator again, I’m determined to not let this broken down truck and cowboy beat me.

He slides closer. “Maybe, for everyone’s sake, I should drive? It’s getting late.”

I punch a button and the cabin dings. Then I go for a red triangle, and the place turns into a disco with the insane blinking. This cannot be happening.

“May I?” His arm rests on mine. “Let’s get home, okay?”

“Fine,” I mumble, hating to admit defeat. He smiles, but it’s not an I told you so type grin. His eyes settle on mine, like he thinks this battle we’re having over driving means something significant or crazy.

I lightly roll my eyes to break his gaze. He may be hot, but this cowboy doesn't need to be reading into things.

“All right,” he says with a wink, snaking his arm around my waist and pulling me over his lap.

“Whoa, handsy!”

“And you weren’t just straddling me a few hours ago?” A second later, he’s switched me over to the passenger seat. “Drink, please.” He nods to the yellow cup. With a few fluid movements, he launches the truck into drive and the wipers disappear. The cup jiggles as we bop down the road. I wouldn’t drink it if I was stranded in a desert… Not if that cowboy gave it to me.

***

I wring my hands in my lap as we pull up to the house. A lone silhouette stands on the top step of the porch. Shit. He checks his phone when we get close, sliding it into his jeans. I dig mine out of my purse, three missed calls. It never occurred to me that he’d try calling. The service is so spotty out here. When Colt cuts the engine, Dad saunters down the steps, totally bypasses my side of the truck. Colt has his window rolled down by the time Dad reaches him.

“Call this midnight, son?” Dad asked.

“No Sir,” Colt says, sitting up straight.

“Autumn?”

“Dad, I’m only a little late.”

“An hour and twenty minutes isn’t a little. That’s not how we do things here, Autumn.” He taps the roof of the truck. “Thank you, Colt. No need to show in the morning.”

Not show up? I glance at Colt. His eyes are wide. Shoot. “No, don’t.” I jump out of the truck and, thank goodness, my footing finds me. “You can’t fire him. It’s my fault.”

Colt climbs out of the truck. “Autumn, you don’t have to”--

Dad holds up his hand, “Hold off, Colt. I’d like to hear this. Go on.”

I have a chance. A foolish chance to save this stupid cowboy’s job. Not that I care about his job. But, I mean, it’s his job. What if his entire living comes from working as a cattle hand? I refuse to be a spoiled brat, getting
daddy 
to fire the guys she doesn’t like.

 “Well, I…” This sucks. A lump develops in my throat. I cough it clear. It’s time to expose the situation. Rip it off like a band-aid, right? “I was drinking.” I look him straight on. “Colt tried to get me home at curfew and I wasn’t on board.”

Dad rolls his lips in, and grasps his belt. He looks toward the sky then back at me. “You drink, Autumn?”

“I’m sixteen. Socially, yes, but I’m always safe about it.”

“Sixteen is far from twenty-one. Is your mother aware you drink?”

“Of course. She knows that it’s part of being a teenager. As long as I’m safe…”

Dad’s chest expands and his face stills while he looks at me. There's something in his eyes, almost a plea. I gulp, remembering the same expression when we pulled away from him in a taxi seven years ago. He reaches out and touches my shoulder.

“There's no drinking this summer. Do you understand?" The softness of his voice startles me. Where’s the yelling match?

“Sure,” I lie. I can’t promise this man anything.

“I’ll have to talk with your mother. And Colt—”

“Don’t fire him. This is my fault.” My gut twists. I’m not used to this raw, upfront honesty. With Mom, we don’t talk into drama or issues. We function best on the “non-issues.”

Colt bites his lip and I catch a small smile. Dad pats him on the back. “I made a deal with Colt. Get you home safe, for the morning off.” He shakes Colt’s hand.

I throw imaginary daggers at Colt. He totally knew that’s what Dad meant! Why didn’t he stop my confession? Vengefulness stings my tongue. I flick my eyebrow up at Colt and purse my lips, reminding him about how he responded to my kiss. With a few uttered words, I’m certain Dad would grab his gun.