Good Samaritan

I kick the car in frustration.  Not five miles from the train station and freedom.  The job was mine if I could be at their house by eight tomorrow morning.  The second kick hurts me a lot more than the car.  “Damn it!”  I set about the business of getting myself moving.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.  Fan-fucking-tastic.  Because life didn’t already suck, Mother Nature throws in a spring shower.  I get in the car before the sky opened up.  Not that it mattered.  The passenger window was stuck three-quarters of the way up.  I sighed.  Maybe if I sat here long enough the car would fill with water and I would drown. 

I get out of the car, prepared to do what no self-respecting teenage girl should do – hitch a ride.  Way my luck was going, I’d flag down some serial killing pervert.  That made me laugh.  The queen of tragedy, my mom calls me. 

Ten minutes later I see one.  “Hey, hey!”  Miracle of miracles the truck stops.  I do a quick once over – not too old or too young, looked reasonably clean.  You can’t always see crazy.  But it’s a damn good place to start.

“I need a ride to the train station,” I shouted to be heard over the wind.  “Mind if I take along some of my bags?”  By now I had missed the train.  But there’s a phone at the station. 

He gives me the same quick once-over.  I look a fright, mascara running, the shirt plastered to my skin, my nipples on display like a freak show, the jeans shredded and full of holes.  Hopefully my appearance would move him to pity.  He came over to my car and motioned that I should lift the hood.  As if he would be able to fix anything.  Especially in this rain.  But this being the only Good Samaritan around, I let him have his jollies.  Sure enough, he came up two minutes later, having reached the same conclusion I did.  “It’s dead, the battery,” he says.  I tell him where I’m heading.  “Come on then, I’ll give you a ride.”

I can’t help but wonder.  In this day and age, who stops for a girl with car troubles?  What if I’d been a plant?  I mean, I could’ve had an entire posse waiting for him on the side of the road.  Not that I look menacing.  I am too skinny to be either scary or attractive, all elbows and knees.  People consistently think I’m fifteen.  Real flattering when you’re nineteen going on seventy.  He’d taken one look and dismissed me. 

My mother, now there’s a stunner.  Lush and curvy.  A little rough around the edges, maybe, but that’s what hard living will do.  Back when she was talking to me, she’d tell me not to worry, she’d also had an awkward phase.  She grew out of it.  Well, five years into puberty and I’m still waiting.  I’d bet money I look like my father.  The bastard. 

I have to resist the urge to kick something again.  I know I’m too damn old to kick things but I’ve always had a temper.  Maybe if I’d kept my mouth shut about Fred I wouldn’t be in this mess.  But fuck that.  He should’ve kept his hands to himself, or at least to my mom.

Doesn’t matter now.  The facts are simple.  If I didn’t call the Lawsons, I didn’t have a job.  Ergo, I needed this guy, I needed this ride, and I couldn’t afford to be choosy.  Why waste my time wondering why he stopped.  It’d just freak me out.  Then I’d be even worse off than I was now.  And that’s saying something.

Thinking about things you can’t change, well, that’s a recipe for misery.  I got enough on my plate as is. 

Sometimes, I hate my life.  I definitely hate rainy days.  Thing is, you gotta let things roll off your back.  Otherwise, I’d become my mother.  Calm is a state of mind, right?  So I try to let the raindrops spluttering on the windshield soothe me.  One in particular draws my eye, dancing on the end of the windshield wiper.  Sigh.  As a distraction technique, watching the rain left something to be desired. 

At least my shirt wasn’t soaked anymore, although it feels itchy, that chafing kind of damp.  And wet jeans?  Let me tell you, fewer things in this world more uncomfortable than wet jeans.  I shrink into the seat, trying to keep warm.

“You cold?”  It’s the first time he’s spoken since I climbed into the cab.  Who knew he was paying attention?  I’d been starting to think he’d forgotten about me.  He hadn’t glanced in my direction once the entire time. 

“Just wet.”  He has a nice voice.  Nice everything, if I’m being honest.  Too old for me for sure, but there’s no crime in looking.  There’s nothing else to do with the world drowning in raindrops. 

He turns the heat on.  It might have had something to do with my imitation of those mechanical chattering teeth.  I smile at him.  “Thank you.” 

“You should’ve said something.”  He sounds stern.  I sneak a peek and he is not only looking at me, but smiling to boot.  Wow.  I thought he looked alright when he was doing his stoic farmer impression.  Why couldn’t he have been average looking, one of those old, squat mushroom types?  That makes me laugh.

“What’s so funny?”  He’s gone back to grim, staring straight out at the road.  Good.  Last thing I need is a crush on a potential serial killer, no matter how good looking. 

“I was just imagining you as a mushroom.”

I almost hear him do a double take.  All he says is, “You’re a strange one.”  We pass the welcome sign.  The station can’t be more than fifteen minutes away, even in this rain.  I want to bite my thumb out of habit.  I don’t because I’m trying to make a good impression.  Nothing says mature like thumb-sucking. 

I’m not real great with silence so I proceed to talk his ear off.  He nods in the right places, making occasional grunts to let me know he’s listening.  A real chatty Cathy, he was.  “Good thing she heard from her neighbors they needed someone.  Otherwise I’d be SOL.  They’re putting me in charge of the children, can you imagine that?”  Now he’s probably the one worrying whether or not I was a nutcase.  My hands are twitching nervously.  I fold them under my head like a pillow and lean against the frame. 

He laughs.  Absolute dynamite.  “Imagine that indeed.  You even old enough to work?”  That rankles.  I feel dismissed in a way that’s got nothing to do with age.  I keep my mouth shut.  Not his business anyhow.  I have to remind myself that he didn’t mean anything by it.  I’m just a mite touchy.  Part of the anger-management issues. 

When we pull up to the station parking lot it’s almost eight-fifteen.  I’ve definitely missed the last train.  Damn.  I guess I was still hoping otherwise.  But if wishes were horses, as my mother would say, we’d all be racing thoroughbreds. 

He pulls an umbrella out from the backseat and comes around to the passenger side to open the door.  It’s a classy move.  Most of the guys I know are short in the etiquette department.  I climb out gracelessly, deliberately ignoring his outstretched hand.  A quizzical sideways glance is the only indication he noticed.  Feeling guilty, I dredge up some manners.

“Thank you.  I’m glad you stopped.  And that you didn’t murder me.”  I say it with sass because, well, I’m not above flirting, even if he is on the wrong side of thirty.

When he laughs again, my stomach starts fluttering.  You can tell he’s not the kind to laugh a whole lot.  I’m flattered silly he finds me amusing.  I’m not delusional, mind you.  He’s definitely laughing at me as much as with me.  Probably more.

“Come on, let’s get you inside before I change my mind,” he quips. 

He grabs my elbow and oh lord have mercy.  Something in me sparks like a firecracker.  We haven’t even touched skin to skin, only his hand on my elbow branding me through the shirt.  At this rate, a handshake will kill me.  Damned inconvenient timing.  And I was just starting to feel comfortable around him.  He drops his hand and steps back so fast you’d thin he was bee-stung.  Whatever it is, least it isn’t one-sided. 

“I’ll wait here,” he says softly.  From the way he avoids looking at me, he hasn’t pulled himself together yet.

“You don’t have to wait until they pick me up.  Let me get in touch with them and you can be on your way.”  I put on my ‘everything-is-ok’ smile.  It’d gotten me through more than one interview with nosy social workers.  I hate owing people favors.  He’d already done me a huge one.  No sense in tacking on.  Besides, way things were, it was definitely time to move on.

“Not going anywhere until you’re settled.  Don’t waste time arguing,” he added, when he saw I was raring to do just that.  “Didn’t rescue you to have you killed by somebody else.”  That startles a laugh out of me.  Always loved a man with a dry sense of humor.   

Soon as I walk into the station I know I’m in trouble.  I can see the receiver dangling lifelessly from the booth from across the damn hall.  It’s a bad sign.  I’m hoping against hope.  No change there.  So I walk across the lobby to confirm what I already knew.  No dice.  Or more to the point, no dial tone.  Fuck.  Now what?  Time to regroup. 

I stick my head through the window and call out.  Give him a Stetson, a horse, and a sunset, and you got yourself the Marlboro man.  He ambles over slowly, giving me time to admire.  I want me one of those when I grow up, that’s for sure. 

Right now I’m relieved he’s the one that stopped.  Decent men don’t come along everyday.  I should know.  I’ve seen the parade of losers my mother has cycled through.  Maybe she’s doing the world a favor, keeping all those men occupied and away from discriminating women. 

“Phone busted?” he asks.  I nod, fighting tears.  What a stupid time to get upset.  “You got a charger?”  I could kiss him.  It never even occurred to me.  Muttering to myself, I get excited until I realize I have no minutes and no money.  I guess I could call my employers collect, but that’d make a mighty horrible first impression.  They’re already taking me in on a wing and a prayer as is.  I lean my head against the open window.  Today has been exhausting. 

“What’s the matter?”  He moves to cup my chin but thinks better of it.  He’s got teenage nieces, I’d bet, not too much younger than me.  I can tell by the way he takes my mood swings in stride.  He’s too young – or maybe not, but I’m assuming – to have teenagers of his own.  I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved to fall under that category.  Probably both.  It’s not a good time to complicate my life. 

All that’s not enough of a distraction from the fact that I’m broke as a joke.  Ass over teakettle.  I got no place to call home and less than twenty dollars in my pocket.  Pride can only get a body so far.  Self-pity is a bitch.  I try to think of rainbows and ice cream sandwiches.  But the tears fall. 

He touches me then, softly wiping them away with the back of his hand. 

“Give me their address, I’ll drive you there myself.”  I blink rapidly to clear my eyes.  No way I’d heard him right.  Did I look stupid?  And after all that congratulations I had given myself.  My judgment sucked.  Not sure why I expected any different.

“In return for what?”  Angrily, I step away from the window and walk towards the door.  “No thanks.  Get me my things.  I’ll walk into town and find another phone booth.” 

I’d wanted him to be one of the good guys.  But no man alive is going to drive four hours across state lines for a perfect stranger without something in return.  I’ve never been desperate enough for that.

Faster than lightning he’s at the door, wrapping me in a hug.  There’s nothing sexual in it at all.  Whatever he meant, he didn’t mean that.  I feel like an ass.  Mostly, I’m too relieved to care.  He doesn’t take me to task for my uncharitable thoughts.  Instead, he rubs my back and lets me cry it out. 

When I get the sobbing under control I pull away, embarrassed as all get out.  I’m not a pretty crier.  His rich indigo eyes, dark now with worry, stare back at me.  He makes no move to come closer, content to stand there and take his cues from me.  I can’t remember the last time anyone just held me.  Pretty sorry state of affairs. 

That makes me more aware of how terrible I look.  Maybe in low lighting, from far away, I could pass but this up close and personal?  I don’t show well.  And after a crying jag?  Forget it. 

“I’m not a crier.  It’s been a rough week, that’s all.”  I sound defensive.  No girl wants to be at such a disadvantage.

“My name’s Tristan.”  Tristan?  I would have pegged him as a James or a Robert.

Oh brother.  “Cassandra.  Everybody calls me Cass.  Not Cassie, I hate that.”

He laughs.  “A prophetess?”  I roll my eyes.  Of course he’d be well read. 

My name is another one of those things I’m touchy about.  Too much of a name for too little a girl, my mother used to say.  But she gave it to me anyways.  Maybe she thought I’d grow into it.  Just as well I didn’t.  Her story doesn’t end well.

“It was my grandmother’s name.  Maybe she was.”  I’m not sure why I bother to explain.

“At least you can shorten it.”  He had a point.  No good way to shorten Tristan.  “Now that everybody knows each other, let’s try again.  You need a ride somewhere?”  Most men hate a crying woman.  It sets them running for the hills.  But he stuck around while I bawled my eyes out. 

“I would love a ride but it’s about four hours in the other direction.  I know we’re friends now and all, but that’s still too much to ask.”  I can’t quite believe anyone could be that generous.  I’ve never been that trusting. 

He surprises me by backing up about a foot.  Guess he realizes I’m skittish, which makes him good at reading people.  Standing on the step below me puts us almost eye to eye.  That makes him six-two, six-three, easy.  Bigger than Fred for sure, and not someone I could take in a fair fight.  Or a crooked one, for that matter.  Yet he’s being real careful to not scare me.  That raises him another notch in my book. 

“How about I drive you into town?”  I nod.  It’s a long, wet walk, and if he was going to try anything, he would’ve already.  Sometimes a body’s just got to be practical. 

We walk to the car in silence.  He opens the passenger seat door and gives me a boost.  Sort of melting into the seat, I don’t even flinch when he reaches over to buckle me in.  My skin prickles something fierce at the contact, but I’m too bone-tired to care.

Next thing I know he’s shaking me awake.  Nothing gentle about it either.  “My friend owns the bar.  Go in back and make your call.”  He’s on my side of the truck, door open and umbrella at the ready.  His mother did a damn good job teaching him manners. 

Batting the sleep from my eyes, I look around.  We’re outside of an old-time bar named Jimmy’s.  It’s one of those places you can tell right away never had any better days.  I knew its kind all too well.  I’d dragged my mother out a few of its brothers.  Although I’d protested, I was definitely glad for Tristan’s company.  Not the kind of bar I’d want to linger in, from the look of things.  Made me wonder about the friend that owned the place.

After the shit-fest of the last few weeks, everything turns up roses.  I get a hold of the Lawsons, who give me until Monday to get my ass in gear.  Hopefully I’d be able to trade in my unused train tickets for new ones.  Otherwise I’d likely still be screwed.  But for now, things were looking up. 

“Tristan?”  He’d been standing guard outside of the back office.  Not really sure whether he wanted to keep me in or everybody else out.  It was a dive, true enough.  But way I figure, he’s got a real long protective streak.  At any rate, he poked his head in.  “Yes, Cassandra?”  When he said my name he smiled.  I know he did it to irk me.  Funny how it didn’t bother me, though, the way he said it. 

I have a real bad knight-in-shining-armor fixation.  Doesn’t take a rocket-scientist to understand why.  Another reason I needed to get on my way.  “I need a ride back to the train station.”

“No.”

Who does he think he is?  I go from tired to fired up in two seconds flat.  I’ve never taken to ‘no’ very well.  “Why the hell not?”  I try to sound reasonable.  I’m pretty sure I fail.  My hands clench and release with frustration. 

Leaning against the door, as casual as you please, he chuckles.  That pretty much guarantees what he says next is going to piss me off.  “Because you’re going to want to sleep there.”  Which was true.  “And that doesn’t sit right with me.”