The truck driver lowers his whiskey to the floor and steps closer as I edge away. "You're so fuckin' hot. What's a pretty girl like you doing out here all alone?"
"My boyfriend," I blurt, my back now pinned against the side of the bus stop. "I'm meeting my boyfriend. He's a cop."
He leans in close to my face. His matted beard and thinning hair make him look like a monster. "That's not the truth, is it, sexy?"
"It's true," I stammer. "He'll be here any second now. With his friends… I mean, colleagues."
The trucker flashes his yellow grin and lifts a hand to my hair.
"Doesn't matter," he says, grinning. "I'll be done with you by the time he arrives."
His grubby fingers graze my skin as he pulls a strand of wet hair from my cheek. His lips are just inches from mine and his breath smells like gasoline.
"The back of my truck is nice and warm," he whispers, spittle flicking into my cheeks. "I love it when girls play hard to get."
I try to cover my face, but he grabs my left arm. "Get away from me, creep!"
"You've got a mouth on you." He licks his lips. "What else does it do?"
I'm trying to pull free, but he's easily three hundred pounds, so he overpowers me.
"Stop!" I scream through the rain.
He laughs and pulls at his belt buckle with his free hand. "Feisty."
"Get off me!" He wriggles his hips, and I can see the waistband of his off-white underwear. I try to knee his groin, but he dodges my move. "Please, just…"
I'm dazzled by a blinding light. The trucker's grin flattens, and I snatch my arm free when he turns around.
With a car horn echoing through the rain, we both lift a hand to shield our eyes. Then it's dark again, and I stare at the silver Aston Martin. Hoping it's a cop, I catch the driver's arm gesture and shuffle to my left. Whoever is inside nods and the pavement floods with light again.
"What the hell?" the creep gasps as the car's engine revs.
He makes a dash for his truck, but his open jeans constrict his legs, and he falls face-first into the concrete. The Aston Martin's wheels spin, and I throw a hand to my mouth as it speeds at the trucker.
I want to scream, but I'm paralyzed. Now on his back, the creep covers his face as the car screeches to a halt just inches from his feet. The trucker tries to pull up his pants, but as he tries to stand, he falls to his knees again.
Now he's scrambling on all fours around the car. The headlights fall black, and I gasp for air when I lock eyes with the driver.
"Is that…Mr. Collins?" I mutter as a relieved smile curls my lips.
The cigarette hanging from his mouth glows red as he nods at me before reversing. Now level with the trucker, Mr. Collins switches off the engine and pushes open his door.
I watch as he climbs out, and I gasp when he pulls off his gray suit jacket. He tosses it to the rear seat before closing the door. It doesn't take long for the heavy rain to soak his crisp, white shirt, and now I'm transfixed at the way it clings to his broad chest.
How the hell is that Chris Collins?
The terrified trucker is shuffling backward on his ass, but I'm watching my dad's best friend rolling up his sleeves before strolling to the hood of his Aston Martin.
It must be over five years since I last saw Mr. Collins at a Christmas party at our house. He was always kind of handsome, but he never looked like…this.
Even the way he's crushing his cigarette under his foot is so deliberate and composed. I think he's in his early forties, so he's closer to the trucker's age than mine, but the two men couldn't look more different.
The rain continues to hammer down on his shirt, exposing the contours of his sculpted physique. He looks like he's carved from marble. And what's that shiny thing in his hand?
It's only when the trucker sits up and waves his arms in panic that I realize Mr. Collins is holding a revolver. He cracks his shoulders and stares down at the creep. His voice is calm and assured.
"What were you going to do with her?" he asks.
"I'm… I'm sorry, dude. I was just seeing if she needed any help." Chris lifts his gun, and I almost jump out of my skin when he fires it into the air. "Calm down, bro! I wasn't gonna do nothing!"
"See these boots?" Mr. Collins leans against the hood and lifts his foot just inches from the trucker's face. "They're Italian. Custom made. I don't want to have to wipe blood and skull fragments off of them. So, let's try again, shall we? And I want the truth this time. One guy already got lucky tonight. You won't share his fortune if you lie to me again."
The trucker lifts both hands like he's praying. "Please, bro…"
"I'm not your fucking bro. Or your dude." Mr. Collins opens the revolver's cylinder and counts the bullets. "Two left. One for the chest. One for the head."
What the hell is happening?
"Please, sir. Just calm down. It was just harmless flirtin', that's all."
"That's all, huh?" Mr. Collins tilts his head, and I get the feeling he's trying to restrain himself. "Interesting. Flirting with your pants down must be a new pickup technique." He points his gun at the creep's crotch. "Show me. Now."
Glancing at me with tears in his eyes, the trucker lifts his ass from the concrete and starts to pull down his pants.
I don't feel bad for the guy. God knows what he would have done to me if Mr. Collins hadn't turned up. The trucker is taller and heavier than him, but this doesn't look like a fair fight even without the gun.
"What is it about men with tiny dicks forcing themselves on women? What were you even planning on doing with that thing?"
"Nothing, sir. I swear I—" Mr. Collins fires another warning shot, but this one hits the ground between his feet. "Please. I have kids."
Mr. Collins shrugs. "Six minutes."
"W-what?"
"That's how long it will take you to bleed out after I fire this bullet into that tiny dick of yours." He aims it back at the trucker's groin. "Your life is going to end on the pavement of this gas station. And those six minutes will feel like a painful year. Your choice. Last chance."
The trucker glances at me before lowering his head in shame. "I wanted to fuck her, alright? Didn't know her psycho dad was gonna show up."
Mr. Collins glares at the trucker and the gun shakes in his hand. His whole demeanor has changed. He looks possessed. His silver hair turns darker in the downpour, and I'm freaking out that he looks like he's done this before…
"I'm not her dad," he snarls. "And I'll show you psycho…" His jaw twitches with rage as his finger trembles on the trigger. "Say hello to the devil."
"Stop!" I yell. "That's enough, Mr. Collins! Please!"
"Close your eyes, kiddo!" Chris yells through the rain, his deep voice cold and assured.
Knowing there is nothing I can do to stop this from happening, I do as he asks, and my world falls black.
Please don't do it, I silently pray. Please don't do—
The deafening gunshot lifts my feet from the floor, and I stop breathing…