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Now.
So I made an emergency appointment with my psychiatrist, and I just have to hope this time the medication works.
My feet shuffle as the line moves, and when it’s my turn, I have to repeat myself twice before the technician makes out my mumble. I snatch my prescription from his hand then hurry out of the pharmacy.
It takes me a half hour to make it through Vegas’s five o’clock traffic, but when I’m finally on the main road headed to the lake house, I relax in my seat and let out a long sigh.
I rip off my hood and push back the sweaty hair on my forehead before clicking on the radio and turning the dial in search of a station I like. Something calm. No rock, no rap.
Country music blares with my finger still on the dial when something bumps my green Explorer, making the vehicle lurch. I slap the steering wheel as my body jerks and eyes dart to the rearview.
It takes me a millisecond to recognize the tall diesel pickup with spotlights perched on the roof and large exhaust pipes mounted one either side.
Creeper.
He bumps me again, and I gasp while gripping the wheel tighter. My eyes flick between the rearview and the road as I stomp on the gas, even though I know it won’t do any good. I’ve ridden in that truck and remember the pride Creeper takes in the souped-up engine.
When he rear ends me hard enough that I hear metal bending, I let out a whine and slap the button for my hazards. He flies around me and turns onto a back road while my chest heaves.
My hands clutching the steering wheel, I slow and turn onto the same road, driving a ways down before coming to a stop behind him.
It’s been only a few weeks since I saw his face. I hadn’t been scared of him then. I don’t know that I’ve ever been truly scared of him.
But now, when his angry, six-four bulky form jumps out of his pickup and slams the door, I’m terrified.
I leave the doors locked but roll the window down as he comes up, my feet itching to hit the gas. It’s hard to look at him, so I face forward instead.
He reaches over me to click off the radio.
“I didn’t know you were a country fan,” he says, his raspy voice a slimy tongue gliding up my neck. I struggle to swallow, my mouth as dry as the Sahara.
“Well? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
I hate you.
I really fucking hate you.
I hope your truck blows up with you in it.
“I know you narced on me, youcunt.” Now his voice bites. I don’t know what he’s thinking or planning. But I know it isn’t good.
“Well?” He grips my hair and yanks me toward him, pulling me halfway out the window. “You gonna say sorry?”
I’m not sorry.
Creeper growls when I still don’t say anything and stabs the unlock button before opening my door and dragging me out by my hair. My scalp protests, but I clamp my lips shut and only cringe when he hurls me to the gravel, sending me rolling twice before my body comes to a stop.
He stomps to me and grabs my hair again while I reach for his hands to try to stop him, but he yanks me to my knees before I have a chance. “You little fucking bitch.Say something!”
When seconds pass, he rears his hand back and slaps me, knocking me back to the ground. Gravel presses against one cheek while the other swells, pain throbbing along my jaw. My eyes clench from the pain, and when he lands a kick to my ribcage, it rips a cry from my throat.
“Still got nothing to say?” He kicks me again, shifting my body a couple inches. “Huh?” Another kick. Another cry.
“I’m sorry,” I whimper, tears clogging my throat. I can feel his satisfied grin. I don’t know how, but it fills the air around me. “I’m so sorry.”
My face twists with pain as I slowly lift onto my knees to face him. “Creeper, please, you have to understand,” I beg, taking in the lust forming in his eyes.
Lust.
