“But—”
“Get in. I’ll sit in the back,” Jasmine tells me, and I swallow nervously. I can’t say no to both of them.
I slide into the driver’s seat while Jasmine crawls into the back, and Dillan sits to my right, closing the door. I feel sweat start to bead on my forehead.
“What’s the first thing you do?” he asks me.
Uh … “Start the car?”
“No.” Jasmine scoots to the edge of her seat and pokes her head into the front space. “The first thing a woman does is lock her doors. The moment you shut your door, you lock them.”
I look at Dillan, and he seems as confused as I am at her statement. “Lock the doors?” I question.
She nods once. “There is this thing called sex trafficking.” Dillan stiffens at her response. “And it is very real. I’ve experienced it firsthand.” Before I can ask her what she means exactly, she goes on, “I’ve also heard stories. It’s not just the trafficking industry, but about women being taken in general.” She licks her lips. “This one woman was in Oregon. The surveillance camera showed her walking out to her car from the store. When she got in, she turned around to place her purse in the back seat, and as she did, a guy opened her door and yanked her out. Another car pulled up next to it, and he threw her into the back and drove off with her.” She holds up her pointer finger. “Another was of this woman in Texas. She was driving her boyfriend’s lifted truck. The surveillance camera showed her entering the store. There was a truck parked three spaces over. A guy got out of the passenger seat and followed her inside while the guy who was driving got out and crawled under the truck. When the woman went to get back in the truck, the man underneath it slit her Achilles tendon, then crawled out from under the truck while the one who had followed her inside grabbed her, and they took off.”
“Jesus,” I gasp.
“They found her body three days later in a field. She had been sexually assaulted and murdered. Dental records had to confirm her identity.”
I swallow, and Dillan’s jaw sharpens.
“And never, I mean, never smell something that someone gives you,” Jasmine goes on.
“Why would someone give me something to smell?” I ask wide-eyed.
“Like, I read where men and women hang out in parking lots pretending to sell flowers or having women smell perfume samples. Anyway, the point is that they were laced with some kind of concoction that made their victims pass out almost immediately. Then they would take the women.”
I swallow nervously while staring at Dillan. He’s looking out the windshield, jaw set in a hard line and his arms crossed over his chest.
“And don’t ever let someone borrow your phone to call a loved one,” she states. “It’s a ploy. They come up to you and say ‘oh hey, my phone died; may I use yours to call my husband, sister, mother’ … whatever. Only to call the person who is outside in a shady van. They get your cell and hack into your phone and track you down hours later while you’re sleeping in your bed. I mean, some people would say that God tests you to see if you’re kind. But these days, you can’t afford to be nice. God’s not testing you. I promise you. He’s not sending an angel in disguise to see if you’re worthy for a better afterlife. Be a bitch. Tell them no and save yourself. I’ll chance going to hell any day over being mutilated and left in a ditch.”
“What the fuck, Jasmine?” Dillan barks. “Where did you read all of this shit?”
“The internet. Or on a show of real-life crimes. Don’t you watch TV?” she asks but doesn’t let him answer. “It’s all over the news on any given day. Hell, I was followed around a Target once. I immediately found a manager and told him. He escorted me out.” She begins to dig in her purse and pulls out what looks like metal bunny ears. “You need one of these.” She places her two fingers through the holes and holds it up to Bones’s tatted neck. “If a man puts his hands on you, you jam this into his jugular.” She pretends to demonstrate on Bones. “All the way until your knuckles are in his fucking throat. Then you rip that bitch out. When he falls to the ground, gasping for air, you stand over him and watch the motherfucker bleed to fucking death.” She gives me a bright smile. “And once you know the devil has come to collect his sorry fucking soul, then you call the cops. A dead man can’t sue you for attempted murder. It’s your word against his. And he’ll lie to save his own ass. I am always watching my surroundings. When I’m walking to my car in the daylight, I look at the cars I walk by to see their reflection behind me to make sure I’m not being followed. I always have a gun on me too. Just in case I feel like a bullet will do a better job. But you can’t just walk around with one of those in your hands. Not like you can your keys.”