Indisputable
Authors: A. M. Wilson
Indisputable
A.
M. Wilson
Indisputable
Copyright
© 2015 by A. M. Wilson
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Rights Reserved.
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by the author must be granted before any part of this book can be used for
advertising purposes. This includes the right to reproduce, distribute,
or transmit in any form or by any means.
This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.
This
book is dedicated to L and C.
Follow
your dreams, no matter how daunting. You never know where you may end
up. I love you. Always.
Contents
Tatum
For the first Friday in weeks I don’t
have to work. If I’m not working, I’m doing homework, and if my homework
is done, I’ve got a young adult novel in my hands. I like to bury myself
in teenaged angst and live through the emotions I was never allowed time to
feel.
It’s cathartic. And relaxing. One of my
methods to escape life.
Tonight, I’m all out of new books, and I don’t have
any money until I pick up my paycheck on Monday. Each week, I allow
myself to load $15 onto my kindle account to feed my book addiction. By
Friday, I’m always clean out.
Which leaves me with two options. One: waste
away in my apartment while listening to the couple in 308 scream at each other
or fuck. It’s inevitable one or the other will take place, sometimes
both. It happens every night. Or option two: grab some CD’s and go
for a drive. Driving has always been another soothing balm on my
soul. There are few things more calming than driving with no direction
and blasting my favorite tunes. Sometimes singing, sometimes crying,
sometimes laughing, or any combination of the three.
Easy decision to make, really.
Hopping into my beat up Honda I bought for a whopping
$500 when I was sixteen, I speed out of the parking lot heading for direction
Anywhere But Here. Keeping the wheel steady with my knees, I grab one of
my mixed CD’s from the passenger’s seat and slide it into the player.
It’s a compilation of Singer/Songwriters that Emerson and I put together.
Scrawled in black sharpie it reads: Best Friends Forever Mix 19. Our
mixes are as numerous as the Now That’s What I Call Music collection. I
drum my fingers along the steering wheel with the beat, letting my mind drift
into beautiful silence. Absorbing the lyrics without analyzing or
applying the words.
I pull up to the stop sign on the outskirts of town,
letting the car idle longer than necessary. The roads are empty in all
directions. Black ink spreads across the expanse of the sky, pieces of
gold shimmering as if I had blown glitter from the palm of my hand into the
universe. Out here, away from any city lights, the scene is breathtaking,
and I take a second to admire the beauty.
Intent on driving down the highway further into
nothingness, I press down on the accelerator. I get a whole lot of nothing.
No sound, no movement. The engine doesn’t even rev up.
You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.
I press the break, switching the car into park, and
turn the key. Twisting the ignition once more, the car starts up, and I
breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t have the money for car repairs right
now. I hit the accelerator once more, and the car gives a shaky
halfhearted lurch like it’s dry heaving across the pavement. And then
another. It gives a third grunt before it comes to a silent halt.
Shit, shit, shit!
I throw my hands up dramatically. Reaching under
the dash, I pop the hood before climbing out of the vehicle.
No streetlights, no sound; it’s dark as sin out
here. At least I puttered across the intersection, and I’m not stranded
in the middle of the highway about to be sent to my grave by an unsuspecting
driver.
I lift the hood, secure it, and stare blankly into the
dark, dirty engine with my hands braced against the sides. No smoke, no
flames, no weird smells, no thingies hanging out where they shouldn’t be.
There aren’t any obvious signs of why my car suddenly ate shit on the side of
the highway. Not that I actually know what to look for. I sigh,
shaking my head and climb back into the seat, turning on my flashers, and
reaching for my cell. Lucky for me, my one and only hookup is a mechanic
at the only shop in town. They’ve long since closed for the night, but he
might be able to figure out the problem and get my car running again.
Wyatt is a friend I met through a friend last year
about the time my life went from rough to utter shit. He’s twenty three,
works down at the neighborhood car shop, and is the typical hometown boy who’ll
never leave. He’s also the perfect distraction when life gets too
monotonous. Escape number two on the list of How Tatum Deals with Her
Fucked Up Life. We have an unspoken mutual agreement that we use each
other to deal. Fortunately for me, my side of the agreement comes with
things like car repairs and free tows.
Before I can find his name in my contact list,
headlights pool over the car bathing me in intensely bright light through the
windshield. Instinctively, I shield my eyes from sudden
blindness.
“Can you dim your lights?” I holler out my open door,
hoping like crazy this isn’t some rapist-slash-murderer, and I’m about to never
be heard from again.
“Sorry! Sorry,” a deep male voice calls back before
the lights are cast downward. I unsuccessfully blink the stars from my
eyes. My fingers are itching to punch in 9-1-1 just in case, but before I
can, a man wanders cautiously toward my open door.
“Is everything alright?”
“Um, yes—no, I mean,” I stutter, suddenly struck
stupid. I’ve always been a huge wuss. The tough girl exterior is
all an act. Taking a deep breath, I try again. “I’m fine, but my
car broke down.”
“Oh. Do you know what’s wrong with it?
Flat tire? Out of gas?” he asks, still standing a small distance
away. I can’t make out his face with the light glaring behind him.
He’s cast entirely in silhouette. Not being able to see his face makes me
nervous.
“No. The tank is full. It stalled at the
stop sign and then sort of lurched across the road. All I know is it’s
not on fire,” I reply dryly. “I don’t know anything about cars.”
He chuckles a deep rumbling sound, and my nerves
disperse. I like it. It sounds like a distant roll of
thunder. “Unlucky for you, neither do I. But I’d be happy to take a
look anyway.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m going to try
calling my friend. He’s a mechanic in town.” I hook my thumb over
my shoulder and gesture behind me, pointing in the direction I came from.
“I’ll look, you call,” he says, stalking off towards
the hood before I can respond.
I close the driver’s door a bit more to give myself a
little privacy. Scrolling through my contacts once more, I find Wyatt and
press the phone symbol by his name. He answers on the third ring.
“Hey Tatum,” he slurs into the receiver. “Need a
little fix tonight?”
Damnit, he’s been drinking. “Sorry, not
tonight. Look, my car broke down,” I begin, not looking to make
conversation while some stranger is tinkering around under my hood. “Can
you come take a look or get me a tow? I’ll pay you…or something.”
Wyatt doesn’t do anything for free. Knowing our history, he’ll probably
call a favor the next time he wants to get laid, but that’s fine by me.
Like I said, we have a mutual understanding.
“Aw, shit babe. I can’t tonight. I’m out
at Old Willow, and I’m fucking ham-mered! Hey! Why don’t you come meet me
here? I’ll take you back to my place.”
This just keeps getting better.
“Wyatt, my car is broken down right outside
town. I can’t get to you because my Car. Is. Broken. Down.,” I enunciate
for him. “Are any of the other guys available? Cole, maybe?”
“Cole’s with me. Hey, Cole! Say hi to
Tatum!” he shouts into my ear. This conversation is pointless; I’m
getting nowhere.
“Hiiiiii, Tatum,” Cole slurs sounding equally drunk,
if not more so, than Wyatt.
“Hi, Cole. Put Wyatt back on, will you?”
My patience is rapidly shrinking, and I’m trying not to go nuclear on their
drunk asses. I take five deep breaths before the phone shuffles white
noise in my ear, and Wyatt comes back on. I don’t feel any better.
“So are you coming over?” he breathes.
“NO! No,” I say more calmly. I don’t want
to freak out the stranger under my hood. “My car is broken down.
Remember?”
“Oh yeah! Sorry I forgot.”
I’m getting nowhere with this phone call.
“Right. Well I’ll let you go and text you tomorrow so you can send
someone with a tow, yeah?” He won’t remember any of this tomorrow,
but I know once he’s sobered up, he’ll help me out.
“Sure thing, sexy.”
I disconnect without saying goodbye. He won’t
even notice considering how tanked he sounded. Grabbing my purse, I pull
my keys from the ignition and lock the doors. Guess I’ll be hoofing it
back to my apartment.
I attempt to keep my face impassive as I round the
front of my car. In reality, anger and a bit of anxiety are barely
controlled beneath the surface. Damn Wyatt for being drunk, and damn me
for not having more of a support system.
The stranger is still bent over my engine, his hands
braced on either side as he inspect the interior. The sight makes me want
to laugh. He wasn’t kidding when he said he knows nothing about
cars.
My eyes roam over his body while he’s distracted with
my engine. He’s wearing a pair of faded, dark blue jeans that hint at
more than a little bit of lean, muscular thighs. His shirt is a black
button up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. I hate to admit it, but
he’s downright hot. Add that to the fact he doesn’t seem like a creep,
and I just might be in trouble.
I clear my throat so I don’t scare him, and he lifts
his head in my direction.
“Thanks for stopping. I called my friend so it’s
okay for you to go.”
The stranger gazes at my face for a moment before his
brows crease making three small indents between his eyes. Maybe I wasn’t
so skilled at schooling my emotions. He checks the incoming direction of
the road before glancing back behind him. What is he thinking?
“Is your friend on his way?” he asks in a deep, smooth
voice that resonates in my belly like an echo trapped in a cave. His
voice does strange things to my body.
“Umm, well, he’s going to try to send a tow,” I
lie. I watch curiously as his gaze searches my face again, and those
three little creases deepen.
“He’ll try? Did he tell you how long it’ll
be?” God, why does this guy care? I’m trying to let him off the
hook. Do the right thing. Not waste anyone’s time that doesn’t need
to be wasted over me.
“No. But I’m sure he’s coming.”
Mr. Good Samaritan straightens, thrusts his hands in
the pockets of his jeans, and leans a hip against my motorized rust
machine. Although, it’s not so motorized at the moment.
“Then I’ll wait with you.”
“No!” I exclaim quickly. Too quickly.
Shit. “I mean, it’s okay. I can wait by myself. I don’t want
to waste your time.” He waves a hand through the air as if he’s erasing
the words coming out of my mouth.
“It’s no problem. I don’t have anything to do
tonight anyway. I was just on my way back into town.”
I sigh, defeated. I don’t know how to convince
him to go. If I can’t convince him, I’m going to have to tell him I lied and
make myself sound like an idiot. Why can’t he just be an asshole instead
of some chivalrous do-gooder?
I hitch my purse higher on my shoulder. “Look, it’s
late, and I’m fine. I appreciate you stopping to help, really. But
I don’t want to keep you—ˮ
“He’s not coming, is he?”
“What?”
“You’re friend. There isn’t a tow, is
there? He didn’t pick up the phone, or he’s busy.” He searches my
face for evidence of my lie. I’m guessing he found what he was looking
for when he says, “Am I right?”
Heat licks at my cheeks as I mumble, whisper soft, “I
was going to walk back.”
He laughs a quick rumble before he realizes I’m
serious. “You’re not joking? Christ, it’s like ten miles to
town.”
“I could use the exercise,” I fire back.
“Right.” His gaze lazily travels down my body before
slowly climbing back up causing my blush to deepen. “I highly doubt
that.”
I don’t answer. Embarrassment and pride are
keeping my lips sealed tight. Why am I acting like this? I don’t care what
this guy thinks of me.
“Come on then, I’m giving you a lift.” He turns
and crosses the empty highway. I watch in silence until he reaches his
car and opens the driver side door.
“Uh, thanks, but no thanks. I’m not getting in
your car.” He pauses with his body halfway in, half out.
“Why not?”
“Let’s see,” I drawl, ticking each point off my
fingers. “I just met you, it’s dark, and late. Oh, and I just met
you!”
He arches an eyebrow at my tirade. “Well, I’m
not just going to leave you out here. So I guess I’m walking too.”
He hits a button on his key fob, and the lights flash on his car. I watch,
stunned, as he slams the door and begins walking in the opposite direction of
his car. “You coming?”
He’s serious? Who is this guy? Resigned to
being stuck with him either way, I much prefer to not walk back into
town.
“Wait! Fine. You can give me a ride,” I
call to his retreating form.
“Thank god.” He hits his key fob again. “I wasn’t
going to leave you to walk alone, but you’re saving me the pain of walking back
to get my car.” The stranger flashes me an easy grin, soft and playful
and masculine. I can’t remember ever being on the receiving end of such a
smile. It makes me uneasy, and my heart rate speeds up.
