Charged (2 page)

Stepping out the door of the girl’s dorm into the cool night air, I revel in the silence of yet another crisp September night on campus, not a soul is on the bricks outside. In a college town like this, most students are asleep by four am. Classes had just resumed for the next semester and the students are still at the point of caring about grades. Two months from now it’ll be drinking, getting high to forget classes, and of course fucking anything in sight. Nothing else will matter.  

Wandering back to my truck, I tuck my shirt into the top of my jeans, pull my jacket over to keep out the damp  as I click the remote to open the doors. My dick is still rev’d and wanting a bit more excitement. After all, Kristina didn’t finish what she’d started, but I’m not willing to go find another replacement so late at night. I may have gotten my rocks off a few times between the two girls, and I know they enjoyed what they got from me, but I’ll still have to finish off at home in the shower so I can sleep. 

My devil is a pesky fuck — right now he’s feeling robbed.

Kate

M
y Volkswagen Scirrco has choked and sputtered out its last breath of life. The engine spews white smoke from under the hood, reminding me that I don’t know shit about maintaining a car, and that coolant is crucial. The lights were lit on the dash when I’d left Florida last week and I’d prayed it would hold out just one more time, giving me one more escape. 

I’d planned to go to Kansas — hell, further if possible — and as far from civilization as I could go,
just
to go unnoticed. As the night turned into morning, I’d drove on thru, bypassing a few major cities, hoping to get out and on to the next state without issue. As usual, bad luck wins. 

I’d crossed into the great state of Mississippi overnight, passing through the fetid swamp lands that reminded me of dirty gym socks in a boy’s locker room when Creature — that’s the name of my piece of shit car — fucking died. So now I sit stranded with my blinkers flashing, as I rest back against the fender waiting for a tow.

I’d been staying away from the major cities for close to a year now, hoping to go unnoticed, but this damn accent of mine makes me stick out like a set of sore thumbs in an Xbox convention, during a Call of Duty competition. I’ve tried everything to ditch it, but without fail it’s the stupid letters like ‘r’ and ‘y’ that hangs me out on the line every time.

I’ve done this so many times in my short life, you’d think I could get it right and hide out for good, but it always comes down to my one flaw. I want to blend into the surroundings. I want to become unnoticed, unrecognizable, and above all I just want to disappear. 

Why couldn’t I have been born and raised in rural Oklahoma? Oh no, I had to be blessed with a truly recognizable, distinct state drawl, right out of the Bronx, NY.  

My poor car radio had died back in Alabama, and the weapon of a cell phone I have is too old to have music capacity, so with the windows rolled down, the wildlife became my orchestra. I’d been given a symphony courtesy of the melodic crickets, tutting bullfrogs, and the occasional screeching bird. All of it put me into a melancholic mood.  That was until the car quit.

A little while ago, I swore something was dying out there, and I was glad that it wasn’t me. To be totally honest, it feels creepy standing here on this quiet strip of blacktop. I expect the worst of the worst to pop up, a Dahmer here, a serial rapist there, and or the nastiest grizzly bear — of which don’t live around here — to jump out and take me away, never to be seen again. I don’t like being out in the open, and not because of wildlife. Out here, I’m vulnerable for all to see. I’m terrified I’ll be noticed. 

And it’s not like I can leave Creature here alone either.   Everything I own is in that junker, and I’m afraid of losing the last bits of value that I hold dear. I can’t call on anyone to get me — well I could, but that would be a really long apology, and I don’t think I’m up for the lecture that would follow either. 

The worst part is, I don’t have the money to fix my car properly, so I’ll have to pay for the tow with the few dollars I have left, hoping against hope that maybe I can get a job for a few days to work off the repairs necessary. 

I’d called the tow company a few hours ago and he’d said he’s coming from some little college city called Oxford. That part might not be all that bad. I’m college age — well close to it — and I’m sure I can blend in for a bit if I needed to. I’m
sure I
could
have been a student. I think I would have liked that. I never had the opportunity to go to college. I didn’t get to go to prom, or wear
the
dress. I never got to have the kiss, the drinking or the hangover. Instead I got WITSEC — Witness Protection Program — enjoyable, not so much. 

I’d been in WITSEC since I was ten, going on eleven. I was alone, with no family to lean on or cry to, nor did I have friends. I couldn’t even have a loyal pet. ‘Not allowed,’ they’d always say. No one needed to remind me that I was alone. I was to be invisible. No team sports or anything that might single me out as distinctive, attracting unwanted attention. I’d had to learn early on that WITSEC is —
was
— lonely as hell, and a terribly shit-ass thing to grow up in. 

High school
should
have been fantastic; hell, I would have paid highly just for the chance to be a normal teenager. By the time girls like Marinna, Chloe or Tessa had their first kisses, or their first horrible experience with sex, I had moved to eleven states, had ten new parents and a slew of new and different names. Don’t ask me to name those as I doubt I could remember half of them. 

Sure, I remember
my
real name, but I don’t dare utter it. If one, and I mean ONE person ever heard my name spoken aloud, and it got back to GF,
I
was as good as dead. I’d be on the fastest plane back to New York state, making that pretty little head of theirs spin. Not to mention it would be removed from their shoulders with a breadstick so they couldn’t say they’d even seen me. 

That’s the clean part about GF.  

No witnesses. 

Well, except me. I’m the anomaly. I’m the Moby Dick, ‘
you should’a seen the fish!
’ story. 

I’m the one that got away. 

Trust me, it’s not a good thing to be me.

Kate

“
T
his yer’ car, girl?” the tow truck driver asks after parking directly in front of my car. He has that Gomer Pyle look. Grease stained overalls with one strap hanging loose by his hip, the bib folded down, accentuating his rotund paunch and his thinning hair bald right at the widow’s peak. I don’t think he’s much over thirty, but he looks like it’s been a hard thirty. 

“No, I’m leaning against it for a friend while he takes his jet back to Canada to get my Bentley,” I quip. 

“Smart ass, huh? Tha’ not gonna get ya’ far,” he calls over his shoulder as he turns back towards the tow truck, and my only saving grace. 

“Ya’ know I can jus’ go back to Oxford without yer ass?” He opens the door, about to hop back in.

“Look,” I rush to catch up to him and apologize. “I’m sorry. I’ve been having a bad day, and breaking down didn’t help any. Can we restart? Yes, it’s my car, and I need a tow to the nearest garage.
Please
can you help me? I’m sorry. I’m not used to talking to people. I swear I’ll be nicer.” I feel bad that I was really rude, and I’m sure I’m not the first. I don’t think he’s playing with all the marbles in his Kerplunk game. 

He stops part way to the truck and huffs. “Look I get it kid. Everyone has a hard day, but I’z just doin’ a job.” He grins sideways at me and it lights up his eyes. 

I’m sure the average college kids can be petty and cruel to a guy like him, and I feel really, really bad that I was a total ass right off the bat. He decides my apology works as he reaches for the cables, swinging them away from the coiled up spot on his truck then starts towards my car. 

“Here, let me help,” I say. I take the cables from him uncoiling them apart, then I place each hazard light over to the roof of Creature. They make a loud clunk as the magnets catch against the distressed metal. He continues to work the controls on the back of the truck, letting the sling out that will hold my car in the air. I’m just about to wipe my hands on my jean-shorts, but ‘Gomer’ hands me a relatively clean rag. I clean off as much as I can and stand to the side while he does what he has to. 

“What’s your name?” I ask. 

“Travis. What’s yer’s?” 

Well, I hadn’t picked a new name yet so I think fast. “Kate.” I’m sure I can pass as a Kate.

He lays down on the ground, hooking up the wheels, tightening straps and locking bars in place, all while morning traffic speeds past. They’re all oblivious to our plight. If they got just an inch too close, I’m afraid what would happen to Travis. There’d be no issue for GF to worry about at least. 

“You’re pretty quick about that. How often do you get tows out here?” I ask, leaning as close to the car as possible. A transport speeds alongside us, blowing my hair all over my face. 

“Years a practice. Lot’s a kids break down goin’ to college, or goin’ on vacations in Florida, so I get to do this quite a bit.” He stands up, rubs his hands against his overalls, wipes his forehead with the rag, then returns to the controls on his truck lifting Creature into the air.

“Well, Kate we’re ready to go. Grab yer purse and we’ll be off.” Travis brushes his hands together, opens his truck door and hops in. 

I reach into the front seat of Creature, grab my bag, my phone and my bottle of water from the holder, then jog to catch up to Travis. Before I know it, I’m in and we’re off to Oxford, Miss.

Ryker

“
D
amn kid, get yer’ ass over here!” Jack shouts from across the shop. “This lines blown, n’ I need a hand.” 

The air hose is hissing, flying around like a wild colt avoiding the tether as Jack scrambles around on his hands and knees trying to catch it. Reaching the wall shut-off, I turn off the pressure to the line and laugh at the old goat — not that I’d let him see me do it — all while he shakes and fits over something so easily corrected. 

“I told you we needed a new line over here last week. I wrapped it up with that hundred mile an hour tape you love so much, but it wasn’t a fix, it was just a patch.” I take the red rag from my back pocket and wipe the grease off my hand as I help Jack up off the floor.