I hate when you’re driving around for a long period of time, to the point where you feel like you’re going to claw out of your own skin just to get out of your car, and the damn thing breaks down. That happened to me when I was 12. My mom, my sister Danielle, and I were on a road trip to visit my dad on this business retreat, and we were stuck with our 1989 Nissan Skyline GT-R since Dad opted for a rental. I don’t know much about cars, but I know our car was really old. We had to wait five hours for someone to come get us, so Danielle and I were getting antsy; we’d been in the car for 10 hours already and we wanted to go run around or something. Mom kept telling us, “Don’t leave the car if it ever breaks down, and if you do, don’t talk to strangers.” Sometimes I wish I would’ve listened to her.
“How much longer?” I whine as I sit in the front seat of “Slash,” my boyfriend’s BMW 3 Series Gran Turismo that his parents got for him on a trip to America — aptly named after his favorite guitar player — playing with the buttons on his windows.
Evan simply smirks and keeps his eyes on the road.
“Just another hour,” he says, keeping his hands firm on the wheel.
I sigh loudly. We’re on our way to his cousin’s beach house in Coney Island, a gruesome, nearly nine hour drive. I’m ready to hurry up and get there. I’ve never been good with extensive car rides, but neither of us can afford a plane ticket. I fidget with the window buttons for another moment before an idea pops into my head. I know how I’d entertain myself.
I decided I’d wear a sleeveless white button up today because it was perfect for the hot New York weather.
“It’s so hot in here,” I lie, slightly writhing in my seat.
Evan raises an eyebrow. I think he knows what I’m getting at, but I don’t care. I know I can still get him. I slowly unbutton the top of my shirt, exposing my cleavage. The shirt was already in a V-cut, but it hides my cleavage unless that tricky button isn’t in its place.
“Oh,” I gasp slightly. “How did that happen?”
I watch him carefully. His eye twitches as he tries not to look.
“What are you doing, Christine?” he asks. He sounds curious yet bemused at the same time.
I smirk slightly, looking at him through my lashes.
“Nothing,” I lie in a sing song voice. I giggle slightly and unbutton another button. “Oh no!” I exclaim in a faux-surprised voice. “I think my shirt is malfunctioning!”
His fingers twitch, but he still doesn’t look at me. Hmm, he’ll be hard to convince…
“I know what you’re doing, Harris,” he states confidently. I usually think it’s cute when he addresses me by my last name, but I grimace at his determined gaze on the road. “It’s not gonna work on me, not this time.”
“You suck,” I mutter under my breath. I frown slightly.
Then, another idea hits me.
I unbutton my shirt just enough for him to see my white lace bra and lean over. I put my legs in the seat and rub my chest against his arm. I gently kiss his neck.
“Come on,” I urge. “Let’s have some fun!”
“This beat is sick,” he continues with a sly smile. Two points for a lame Lady Gaga lyric.
I smile seductively and slide my hand down his chest, resting it on his belt.
“I wanna take a ride on your disco stick,” I breathe into his ear. I lick the soft skin of his earlobe and my fingers move to his belt buckle.
“Careful, Harris,” he warns with a sick smile. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”
I scoff at him and unbuckle his belt.
“I’m sure I can finish in time,” I say seductively.
I take my chest off his arm and lean over his crotchular area. I quickly undo his belt and unzip his pants. (Confession time: I’ve never seen a boy’s…genitalia. Quite frankly, the thought of just…looking at it scares me. Then again, being a 17-year-old virgin isn’t something to brag about. But my boredom and my curiosity are pushing me to see Evan’s, to taste it, to know what I’ve been missing out on. God, I’m such a pervert! Oh well.)
I gently run my hand over his pants and feel something stirring beneath the fabric. Someone’s getting hard. I try to suppress my giggles and unzip his pants.
Then, his hand covers my hand that’s on his zipper.
“Christine,” he calls in a serious voice.
I look up to him innocently through my lashes.
“Yes?” I ask cutely with a dramatic pout. I feel him getting harder beneath my hand. I smirk. “Don’t say anything else,” I order.
My fingers lace on his skull boxers and I pull them down slightly, just enough to let his now hard member see the sunset. I feel his body stiffen beside me, and I bite my lip. Part of me wonders, “Am I really gonna do this?” The other part keeps yelling at that part to shut the hell up and do it. I quietly take in a deep breath and move my lips toward his…thing. I place one of my hands at the base of it then gently lick the tip.
Evan spazzes a bit, causing Slash to run over something that rattles the entire BMW.
I bounce in my seat a bit and my stomach hits the stick shift. I let out a small noise of pain and sit up.
“Really?” I question with narrowed eyes.
Then, Slash starts making these really bad noises.
“Crap,” Evan mutters under his breath. He pulls Slash over on the side of the road and puts the car in park before returning his penis back to his boxers and fixing his black skinny jeans.
I sigh and fix myself in my seat, crossing my arms. We sit there a moment with Evan’s tense fingers on the wheel. I look to him in disbelief and with a mean scowl.
“Well?” I question in annoyance. He casts a nervous sideways glance to me. “Go out there and see what’s wrong!” I demand. He jumps at the intensity of my voice and opens the car door. He tries to get out without unbuckling his seatbelt and ends up falling on his face on the gravel with a loud “Oof!”
I can’t help it; it’s too funny. I start giggling at him, and it quickly turns to laughter. My smooth, Gothic heartthrob is flustered and clumsy beyond belief. And to think, I did that. Little, virginal Christine Harris rattled the most aloof boy in Canada with her feminine wiles!
He quickly pulls himself back up and sits right in his seat. He unbuckles his seatbelt this time, then tries to get out. He’s walking a little awkwardly though; it must be hard to walk with a boner. He walks around to the front of Slash and pops the hood. For a few minutes, I sit there with my arms and legs crossed, waiting for Evan to finish inspecting his beloved BMW that I’d really like to lose my virginity in the back of.
“I’m gonna go walk to that gas station up there and see if they’ll let me use their phone,” he tells me after dropping the hood with a loud clamor.
I raise an eyebrow in confusion.
“Can’t you call for help on your cell?”
He laughs slightly.
“We’re in America now,” he points out. “I don’t have cell service here and can guarantee you don’t either.”
Wanting to prove him wrong, I pull out my phone to check for a signal. Unfortunately, he’s right.
“Well, don’t be too long,” I plead with my legs still crossed. I start rubbing my arms. With the sun setting, it’s starting to get cold. That’s what I hate about summer; it’s blistering in the day and freezing at night.
Evan sheds his ridiculous leather jacket, opens my door, and hands it to me.
“I won’t be too long,” he assures me as I slip the jacket on.
He said that twenty minutes ago.
I look through the Slash’s windshield in search of my boyfriend. Apparently, he parked on a ramp leading into…somewhere. The sign for the name of the town or whatever is too far to see. From where I’m sitting, I can see a gas station and I think a Burger King a little ways down the road.
But no Evan.
With an annoyed sigh, I pull out my cell phone and speed dial his cell. I get one of those annoying buzz tones followed by the voice that’s basically saying “You can’t make this call, you silly Canadian!” and I hang up. With a loud, annoyed grunt, I unbuckle my seatbelt and button my shirt so I look presentable. I quickly get out of the hearse and shield my eyes from the sunset, holding the jacket closed with my other hand.
“Evan!” I call out.
Then, a car pulls up behind Slash, the first one that’s come our way since we got stranded. It’s a little blue Chevy with American tags on it. The windshield is tinted, so I can’t see who’s inside. When the car shuts off, a tall man steps out and also shields his eyes from the sun.
“Need any help ma’am?” he asks.
I squint, trying to get a better look at his face. All I can see is that he’s got this really shaggy brown hair and he’s freakishly tall, definitely taller than Evan. He wears loose light blue jeans and a skintight teal shirt with three-quarter sleeves. He doesn’t look like he’s going to the beach.
“I’m just waiting for my boyfriend,” I call back to him, keeping my distance.
“He walked up to that gas station and should be back any minute.”
The man takes a small step forward.
“Do you mind if I take a look at your car to see what’s wrong?” he questions.
Nervously, I take a step back.
Don’t talk to strangers, my mother’s number one rule rings in my head.
“Th-that’s okay,” I stutter out. “He should be back any minute with help. Thank you anyway.”
The man pouts slightly. He’s really starting to give me the creeps.
“A pretty lady like you shouldn’t be out here all alone,” he tells me. “There are bad people lurking around these parts. Why don’t you let me see if I can fix your car, and then you can drive it up to the gas station to see your boyfriend? I’m sure he’d be grateful if you picked him up instead of making him walk all the way back here.”
I sigh inside my head; he has a point.
“Okay,” I call out to him.
I get back inside the BMW and lean over to pop the hood. I hear the man’s shoes crunch against the gravel on the side of the road as he comes up on the car. He passes by my open door without looking at me as I sit up, and I see there’s a cut on his left arm just below his elbow. It looks fresh and the fabric of his shirt is ripped and a little red.
“W-what ha-happened to your arm?” I ask nervously. I hate how I stutter when I’m nervous.
“I was helping my wife load some things into the car,” he answers. “It’s really old and there are broken metal pieces all over. Just an accident.”
I turn around to look at his car. There’s someone in the front seat, but I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman. I turn back to the man who’s doing random things to Slash. If I knew what I was doing, I’d tell this creep to beat it and fix him right up.
“How long have you been married?” I call out to the man. Maybe a little small talk will make him seem less creepy.
I hear him chuckle slightly.
“Not long,” he retorts. “We’re going on our honeymoon right now. She saw your car here stranded, and you got out, so she thought we should come help you.” I look back to the man’s car. The person in the front seat wasn’t moving. If she suggested they help, why wasn’t she there with her husband?
I look to my watch. The sun’s gonna be gone in a few minutes and Evan still isn’t back yet. Where is he?
The man lets out a frustrated sigh, and I peek over Slash’s door to look at him. He looks back to me, and I get a glimpse of two bright hazel eyes.
“I know what’s wrong,” he announces, “But I need my wrench. Can you go get it for me? Just tell my wife to pop the trunk.”
With a fretful look, I turn back to his car. I don’t know what, but something about that car terrified me. Maybe it was the color.
“Sure,” I breathe.
I climb out of Slash and make my way to the foreign car. As I progress, the shape of the figure in the front seat grows but doesn’t define itself. I slow a little as I approach the car. For some reason, I’m scared of what I might find in that seat. It’s stupid though; this isn’t some kind of horror movie where something’s going to pop out at me.
I reach the car and tap lightly on the window.
“Excuse me,” I say. The window and the hidden figure doesn’t move. I tap a little louder. “Excuse me,” I say a little louder. Still nothing.
“She probably can’t hear you,” the man calls back to me. “She’s a little hard of hearing and probably doing something on her phone. The door’s unlocked.”
With a shaky hand, I reach down to the car door handle and pull the door open. Evan’s bloody corpse spills out of the car and hits the ground much like earlier. His throat has been slit open, the wound already starting to coagulate. His stunning blue eyes are frozen in terror, a scream forever etched onto his scraped up mouth. Scratches and bruises paint his pale skin.
I scream at the top of my lungs and back away from the scene. I turn around and bump into the strange man. He grabs my arms tightly, and I begin to thrash in his, tears falling down my face.
“Let go of me!” I shout at the top of my lungs.
He looks down at me with a blank face.
“A pretty lady like you shouldn’t be out here all alone,” he tells me.
In my final moments, I’m afraid, but I can’t stop thinking, “Damn, my mom was right.”
“There are bad people lurking around these parts,” he snarls.