1
Yara
The bus hissesas it comes to a stop. Whatisthat noise anyway? It sounds awful, but I don’t care. I’ve arrived at my destination, and I couldn’t be more excited.
Tangerine Forks, New Hampshire. The picturesque, postcard picture-looking town I’ve seen online and been dreaming about coming to for the last five months. I’m doing that thing I do when I get excited where I bounce my right leg and chew the right corner of my lower lip as the bus doors open. Even though I had to take a seat in the back, I’m the third one off and nearly running in the direction of my motel.
It’s a brisk autumn afternoon, with yellows and reds and oranges all around me. Only a few cars pass me on the road as I walk, and none of them honk or shout obscenities at me. This town couldn’t be less like New York City, and I couldn’t be happier about that.
A pickup truck passes with a bumper sticker on the back that readsIf this truck’s a rockin’, I’m in here masturbatin’.
Well, that’s classy, I think as I shoulder my bag higher up onto my back. I’d love to go for a hike and see some foliage, but I really need to get to my motel and get settled in. It’s my first day of work tomorrow at The Tangerine Diner, and I have to make sure I make a good impression on my new boss. That means a good night’s sleep and waking up early so I can spend a good chunk of the early morning making myself look semi-passable as a human being.
The foliage really is gorgeous here this time of year. But tires squealing ahead of me cause me to look away from the hills and back up the road where I see the pickup with the trashy bumper sticker pulling a U-turn and heading back in my direction. I move out of the way to let it go by but feel my whole body go tight as the old Ford creaks to a halt beside me and three men hop out.
“Well, hey there, little sparrow.” The driver grins. “Where’d you fly in from?”
“Excuse me?” I reply.
“My name’s Jacob,” the man beside him says with a drunken bow, his blond hair as greasy as a slab of carnival fried dough. “What’s yurs?”
“Who cares?” the third man laughs. “See the headlights on her?”
“That’s true, Tommy,” Jacob chuckles. “Big enough to signal the space station!”
My body’s starting to tremble now as I back away from the truck, but the driver is already circling around behind me like some kind of wildcat. These men move like predators, and I feel like a prey animal who is definitely not going to escape.
“I…I just want to get to my motel—”
“Don’t worry, little sparrow,” the driver whispers as his hands grip my waist and pull me close. “It is ahellof a lot nicer in my truck. Ain’t it, boys?”
I want to fight back as the three men grab me by the wrists, hips, and ankles and carry me to the truck, but my body simply will not respond. I feel like one big block of ice – like my muscle have been shot through with paralytics.
I want to scream as I’m pushed into the back seat and the men climb in after me and begin to strip out of their shirts, laughing and glaring down at me like hungry hyenas, but my larynx will not move and my tongue feels foreign inside my mouth.
This is really happening, I think as a sense of absolute horror pours through me.
Things like this don’t happen in Tangerine Forks, New Hampshire. That’s why I came here.
I hear the sound of rusty hinges as the door behind my head tears open. The driver cries out and falls backwards out of the truck. Jacob’s eyes go wide, but only for a second before a fist impacts his nose and sends him sprawling unconscious into the passenger side door.
“Holy shit!” Tommy blurts out. I look up to see a man lean into the cab, a hardened look on his face. He reaches past me, dodges Tommy’s flailing punch, and snatches him by the throat.
“Duck,” he tells me, his voice firm and commanding. I do as I’m told as the stranger drags Tommy across the seat and out of the cab into the street. I hear the sound of punches landing and turn around and look out to see Tommy and the driver lying motionless at the man’s feet. I can tell by his face that he’s not a local. He’s been around. Seen some things. “Did they hurt you?”
“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “They…they almost did, but…”
“Come,” he says, extending a hand. I take it, and he helps me from the truck by lifting me into his arms like I don’t weigh a thing and carrying me over the fallen men who lie on the ground like slain soldiers. “I’m Lyle. What’s your name?”
“Y-Yara.”
“You’re new here?” It’s a question, but barely.
“How’d you know?” My tongue is working again. And my larynx. I was just nearly…oh God, I don’t even want to put it into words. This was supposed to be my postcard town. My getaway. And the first thing that happens to me after I step off the bus is this?
Lyle smiles like he’s in on a joke I’m not in on, and it’s the first time I realize just how incredibly handsome he is. High cheek bones, a strong chin,reallygreat almond-colored hair with eyes that match. This man could be a model for a company that sells some kind of rugged men’s fashion. Also, he’s nearly stretching the sleeve of his olive T-shirt beyond its limit around his thick, taut bicep.
“Well, Yara,” he says. “Tangerine Forks isn’t exactly Chicago or New York City. It’s a small town and pretty easy to spot newcomers. On top of that, you were probably walking in from the bus station, and this is probably your bag, right?”