Page 8 of The Perfect Hosts
Three beers later, Lucy and Trent are still at the bar, a basket of fried Rocky Mountain oysters between them. “I’ve seen you around,” Trent says.
“Oh yeah?” Lucy says, taking a swing from her bottle of Peroni. Pricey for sure, but she wasn’t buying. “And you’re only saying something now?”
“I’m shy,” Trent answers.
Normally, if a guy said this, Lucy would think he was bullshitting her, but Trent’s ears are actually turning red. She finds it quite endearing and is tempted to reach out and touch the tip to see if his skin is hot. Instead, she signals the bartender for another round. The jukebox has mercifully stopped playing Patsy Cline, and the TV above the bar shows the ten o’clock news. A Breaking News chyron scrolls across the bottom of the screen.
“Boring!” Lucy calls out, not wanting Trent to become distracted by anything but her. “Isn’t there a game on or something?”
The bartender sighs and reaches for the remote. He clicks through the channels until he finds a Minnesota Timberwolves–Utah Jazz game. “Much better,” Lucy says.
“Aw, Jesus, I’ve got to work in the morning,” Trent says, rubbing his eyes. “I’m going to be worthless.”
“You don’t look worthless,” Lucy says, pushing his beer bottle toward him. Trent smiles and takes a drink. “You can always call in sick,” she says after he sets the glass down.
“Nah, I’m lucky I got tonight off,” he says.
But the thing is, the alcohol doesn’t seem to be affecting Trent in the least. He’s clear-eyed, not a slurred word to be heard. Well, shit, Lucy thinks. The man can hold his liquor.
“Maybe we should get out of here,” Trent whispers in her ear.
“Oh yeah?” Lucy asks, arching an eyebrow. “Where do you want to go?”
“I don’t live too far from here,” Trent says. His enunciation still maddeningly precise. Damn, she has never met anyone who could hold his liquor quite like this.
He slides one hand up and down her arm, his calloused fingers rasping roughly against her skin. He is handsome, Lucy thinks.
Trent’s grasp on Lucy’s arm tightens, and beneath the bar his other hand slips between her legs. “Trent,” she says, removing his hand from her crotch with what she hopes is a lighthearted laugh. “Buy a girl a drink first?”
“Been there, done that,” he says, standing and spinning her barstool toward him. He nudges her legs apart and steps into the opening. Lucy glances around. The bartender has abandoned his spot behind the bar. She can see him through the windowpane, sucking on a cigarette out front. It is fully dark now, the parking lot illuminated only by the neon sign flashingick’s. Even Patsy Cline has given up her spot next to the jukebox and stumbled home. One other patron sits in a corner booth with his head tipped back and eyes closed. “Come on,” he says and leans in, brushes his lips against her neck. “Let’s go.”
She’s beginning to have second thoughts. She can hear her late stepmom’s voice in her head warning her not to be so impulsive. Fair, she thinks. She hasn’t always made the best decisions when it comes to men. Outside, the bartender is still smoking and staring at his phone. It’s time to bug out now. Trent whispers a few fantastically dirty words in herear, and Lucy feels she’s going to end up having sex with this stranger. Be smart, she tells herself. Stay focused on the endgame.
She presses both hands against Trent’s denim shirt and pushes. “That last beer went right through me,” she says as he shuffles backward a few steps. “I’ll be right back.”
“Hey,” Trent says, his eyes narrowing, frustration creeping into his voice. She gets up from the barstool and walks nonchalantly toward the bathroom.
She doesn’t know this guy, and she’s pretty much in the middle of nowhere with unreliable cell service. What if Trent doesn’t take no for an answer? She came to Wyoming for a reason and has to keep her wits about her. She pushes through the door and into the musty-smelling, grimy bathroom, well aware that by stepping into this small, confined space, she is making it all the easier for Trent to come inside and corner her. Four block windows the size of tissue boxes sit a few feet above the hand dryer. There is no way Lucy can fit through one of the windows, let alone break through the glass.
She pauses to splash cold water on her face, knowing that she is going to have to go back to the bar and tell Trent thanks for the drinks, but she has no intention of sleeping with him. When she walks out of the bathroom, the bartender has once again taken his place behind the counter, and Trent is nowhere to be seen.
Seeing the surprise on her face, he hitches his thumb toward the door and says, “He left.”
Huh, Lucy thinks, weirdly offended. She wants to be the one to slip out the door, to be the ditcher rather than the ditchee. She moves to the door and peers through the glass. The dark lot is now empty except for two vehicles, Lucy’s truck and what must be the bartender’s four-door parked in the far corner of the lot. She sees no sign of Trent or his vehicle.
“See you,” Lucy calls over her shoulder and steps out into the night. There are no stars or moon, and the air has cooled like only May nights do. Lucy climbs into her truck and sits for a moment trying to decide her next move. Find a motel in Nightjar—what a stupid name for a town—or head toward her final destination? A motel sounds like the smart idea. She’ll be sober and clearheaded by morning.
She starts the truck, cranks the radio, and pulls onto the road heading toward town. Lucy drives for about a mile when she feels the truck pull right, nearly sending her into a ditch. She swings the wheel to the left but can feel an unmistakable vibration coming from the undercarriage. She flips off the radio, and The Eagles are replaced with a rhythmic thumping. Fuck. She slows the truck and pulls off to the side of the deserted road. Pissed, Lucy leaps out and, using the light from her phone, stomps to the rear of the truck to assess the damage.
A flat tire. “Fuck,” she says, her voice too loud in the quiet night. What to do? Lucy wonders. Lock herself in her truck, try to catch a few hours of sleep, and change the tire in the morning? Or wrestle the spare from beneath the truck’s carriage in the pitch dark and do it now?
In the distance a set of headlights appear, pinning her into place with their brightness. “Oh shit,” Lucy murmurs. It’s never good to be alone on a deserted highway in the middle of the night, and her pocketknife suddenly seems entirely inadequate. The gun seems like overkill. Her only other weapon, the lug wrench, is snug in its spot beneath the front seat. She might not be able to reach it in time.
As the approaching vehicle slows and comes to a stop behind her, Lucy presses her phone to her ear, pretends to talk. Laughable, because Lucy no longer has anyone to call. She’s burned all those bridges.
And lo and behold, it’s Trent who steps from the truck.
“Looks like you’ve got a flat,” Trent states the obvious.