Protect Me(16)
Once our mess is cleaned up and the drinks are nothing more than melted ice, I look back over at the beauty sitting shotgun in my car. I can’t help but stare. She’s fucking beautiful. Her gray eyes are like magnets. I can’t fight the intense pulling as my eyes seek hers. It’s uncontrollable and that’s what confuses me the most. I like control. I like order. Lia makes me want to throw both of those out the damn window.
“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” I ask, the words out of my mouth before I even process what I’m saying.
She looks startled, yet curious. “Where?” she asks cautiously.
I clear my throat. I can’t backtrack now that the words are already out there, so I have two choices. Lie and take her someplace else or take her to the one place no one has ever gone. The one place that is mine and mine alone. “I wanted to show you something,” I tell her as casually as possible, even though I’m starting to get a little sweaty in the pits.
She raises an eyebrow in question and searches my face for an answer. I hold my breath again as I wait for her reply. I seem to be doing that a lot lately.
“Okay,” she says so quietly that I almost don’t hear her.
I don’t hesitate. I scoot the metal arm that holds the food tray back towards the ordering platform, turn the key, and throw my Mustang in reverse. We’re bouncing out of the craterous parking lot a few moments later.
Once on the highway, I chance a glance over at Lia. She’s picking at her nails again. Nervous habit? I crank up the stereo to help drown out the silence. It’s not a bad silence, but one filled with question. And not just Lia’s questions. My own, too. Like ‘What the hell are you doing?’ kinda questions.
Ten minutes later, I slow my car down as I approach the entrance to the worn, grassy path. I turn off the highway, shut off the car, and hop out. I grab my keys and walk towards the padlock that keeps the rest of the world off of this path. Once the gate is opened completely, I slip back in my car and start it up. I look over at Lia who seems way more nervous than anyone has ever been before.
“Hey, I’m not a serial killer or anything,” I tell her with a smile to try to break the tension and, hopefully, ease her nervousness.
“Okay, if you say so,” she replies with a shrug. “Though, I’m pretty sure all serial killers say they aren’t serial killers before they torture their victim with ropes and tasers.”
I chuckle a little and make a grab for her hands that are wringing together in her lap. I give them a gentle squeeze and look deep into her uneasy eyes. “If you want to turn back, we can. Just say the words, Lia, and we’re out of here and on our way back to your car,” I tell her as I rub my fingers along her fidgety ones.
Lia exhales loudly and closes her eyes for a few seconds. “No. Show me,” she says. It’s in that moment I see the trust in her eyes. She knows I’m not some crazy psycho delivering her to her untimely death.
“Okay. If you’re sure?” I ask, giving her one last chance to change her mind.
“I’m sure. Let’s go,” she replies with a small smile.
I throw the car in drive with my left hand before returning it to the steering wheel. I have to use my left because I don’t let go of her hands with my right. They feel so small and warm nestled within my own. It’s comfortable.
I drive about a quarter of a mile back along the path before my headlights hit the small wooden shed along the creek bank. I park my Mustang in its usual spot next to the outbuilding. I turn off the engine, bathing us in instant quiet and darkness. You can hear the crickets chirp and the fish jumping. I still hold Lia’s hands within mine as if offering her reassurance and comfort in her time of need.
“What is this place?” she finally asks after a few minutes of quiet.
“This is my favorite place,” I tell her. “This is on the edge of my parent’s property. We’ve always fished and camped here when I was growing up, but it was owned by old man Baxter. He never used it so he sold this little strip of land - about ten acres - to my parents earlier this year. My dad has been the one taking care of the land anyway. He built that shed there when I was about ten years old. The creek that feeds into the Missouri River is right there,” I say as I point to the darkened area in front of us. “This little building is a small camping or fishing shed. Just a little place to get out of the elements if needed.”
The day is growing darker by the minute. Lia looks through the darkness and surveys the area. It’s heavily wooded right up to the creek bank. The small shack houses an old cot, folding chairs, fishing supplies, and some cookware.