Considering how densely populated Los Angeles is, this stretch of California is like culture shock. I passed Barstow at least thirty minutes ago, and since then I’ve seen only one other car on the road. More recently, a sign announced the town of Yermo, but it must have been off the highway because as I cruised by in the dark, I’d seen nothing but the long, narrow tunnel of my own headlights.
Honestly, it’s a little freaky.
I’ve made the drive from Los Angeles to Vegas a number of times, so I know more or less where I am and that I have about two hours of absolute nothingness ahead of me until I see the brilliance of Vegas filling up the night sky. That means I’ll be rolling into town just after midnight, which is fine by me. The city will still be hopping. I can grab some breakfast at a diner, and then I can go crash.
Sex—and my nap—had reinvigorated me some, but I am starting to fade again. It’s hard not to when I am blanketed in black, lost in the seemingly endless abyss of the Mojave Desert at night.
The car shudders slightly, and I frown, wondering if I’ve just run over some debris. When it does it again, I click off the music so that I can actually think. I check the rearview mirror, but I can see nothing there in the pitch black.
I take my hands off the steering wheel, but the Ferrari continues straight, so I rule out a flat tire. It shudders again and then slows. I press harder on the accelerator, but that does nothing. Automatically, my eyes go to the gas gauge, but I still have almost half a tank, so that isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s something electrical? Or maybe—
Shit.
Damien had warned me about the broken gas gauge at least a million times, and Nikki had reminded me again earlier today. And still all it took was a gorgeous man to completely empty my head of any and all useful facts.
And now I’m going to have to wait for AAA, which, of course, will take forever.
I steer onto the shoulder, but keep my foot on the accelerator, living the absurd fantasy that maybe I’ll reach a convenience store, gas station, five-star hotel. Something.
But when the Ferrari gives its last gasp of life, I look out as far as the headlights reach and see absolutely nothing. I look left and right, hoping to see the flicker of light from a house or from a business.
Nothing.
Neither are there lights approaching in my rearview mirror or coming toward me, westbound toward the coast.
Shit.
Apparently, I’m stuck. Isn’t that just peachy?
I put the car in park, kill the engine, and turn on the hazard lights. Then I snatch up my phone and search my contacts for the 800 number for AAA, but when I dial, the call immediately fails. I spit out a curse, then try again, and only when the call fails once more do I think to glance at my phone’s signal strength.
No service.
What the fuck? How can there be no service? This is America for fuck’s sake, where everyone and their dog has a cell phone and wants to be able to use it. And, seriously, isn’t one of the primary reasons for owning a cell phone so that you can make a call when you’re in trouble? And yet the Powers That Be don’t put cell towers in scary, empty parts of the country where stranded women may need to make a phone call so that they don’t have to wait in a Ferrari for the next car—which just might be driven by a sex-crazed psychopath?
I exhale, pissed, and beat my palm against the steering wheel. Then I open my door, thinking that I’ll just start walking.
Then I immediately close my door and lock it because the walking plan is just about as stupid as it gets, especially now that I have sex-crazed psychopaths on the brain.
Okay. Fine. This is not a problem.
Well, yes it is. But it’s not an insurmountable problem.
I pull my phone out again and stare at the screen as if that will magically make a signal appear.
Since I do not actually have magical abilities, nothing happens. But I open my text messaging program anyway. I read somewhere that text messages don’t require as strong a signal, and also that the strength of a cell tower’s signal changes all the time. So maybe if I send a text, eventually it will find a signal and flitter away to its destination.
Clearly, there is a reason that I am an actress and not an engineer. But I figure that even if it doesn’t help, it won’t hurt.
I open the messaging app and stare at the phone. Because the first person I think of to text is Ryan—and yet how the hell am I supposed to phrase it? Sorry I skipped out on you. Please come save me.
Somehow, that doesn’t work for me.
I consider texting Sylvia, Damien’s secretary with whom Nikki and I have become friends, but I’m certain that she will simply send Ryan. He is, after all, Stark International’s security dude. Evelyn Dodge, my friend and pseudo-agent, would be a great choice, but I happen to know that she and her lover Blaine left around lunchtime for a Manhattan getaway.
I tell myself I’m being stupid. That Ryan will be mad, yes, but he won’t leave me stranded. I’m his boss’s new wife’s best friend, after all. So even if he doesn’t come himself, he’ll send someone else.
Besides, odds are the text will never go through.
I spend a few moments thinking about it, then decide on the message.
Sorry I bolted, but I need help. Stranded on the 15 just past Yermo. Please?
I read it once more, then press “send” before I can talk myself out of it. Then I put in my headphones, turn my music back on, lean back in my seat, and wait.
If nothing else, I figure I’ll be rescued come morning. There will be more traffic, for one thing, and maybe even the highway patrol.
As it turns out, I don’t have to wait that long.
Not even five minutes have passed when I see the flash of lights in the rearview mirror. I turn off the music and watch the car approach. I can’t tell what kind it is; all I can see is the glare of the lights as it crawls closer and closer, moving at a snail’s pace now.
It is still on the highway, but as I watch it slides to the right, pulling off onto the shoulder. Then it eases forward until it is right behind me.
I expect the driver to kill the lights, but he or she doesn’t, and I am left sitting there in my Please Carjack Me Now Ferrari with sex fiends on my mind.
My pulse starts to beat more quickly, and I curse myself for not getting the tire iron out of the trunk. Because there’s not a damn thing I can use as a weapon inside the vehicle—not unless I intend to beat someone senseless with my iPhone.
I am astounded at my naiveté and pissed off at my own stupidity. I passed through Barstow with its stretch of gas stations and I was so busy trying not to think that I didn’t think. And now here I am, trapped in a car with Ted Bundy parked behind me.
I check the phone once more, but it still shows no signal.
Fuck.
I see the door to the car open, and someone gets out. A man, I think, though I can see very little in the dark in my mirror.
I check the door locks again and am relieved to find them secure.
He is approaching the car now, walking with the light at his back so that he appears as only the shadow of a man. I tell myself to be calm, that he is probably just a Good Samaritan. That most serial killers are not trolling the interstates.
I know it. I believe it, and I’m still scared shitless. Terrified that Ryan will get my text and two hours later will arrive at the Ferrari to find me battered and bloodied and very much dead.
Honestly, it’s a little freaky.
I’ve made the drive from Los Angeles to Vegas a number of times, so I know more or less where I am and that I have about two hours of absolute nothingness ahead of me until I see the brilliance of Vegas filling up the night sky. That means I’ll be rolling into town just after midnight, which is fine by me. The city will still be hopping. I can grab some breakfast at a diner, and then I can go crash.
Sex—and my nap—had reinvigorated me some, but I am starting to fade again. It’s hard not to when I am blanketed in black, lost in the seemingly endless abyss of the Mojave Desert at night.
The car shudders slightly, and I frown, wondering if I’ve just run over some debris. When it does it again, I click off the music so that I can actually think. I check the rearview mirror, but I can see nothing there in the pitch black.
I take my hands off the steering wheel, but the Ferrari continues straight, so I rule out a flat tire. It shudders again and then slows. I press harder on the accelerator, but that does nothing. Automatically, my eyes go to the gas gauge, but I still have almost half a tank, so that isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s something electrical? Or maybe—
Shit.
Damien had warned me about the broken gas gauge at least a million times, and Nikki had reminded me again earlier today. And still all it took was a gorgeous man to completely empty my head of any and all useful facts.
And now I’m going to have to wait for AAA, which, of course, will take forever.
I steer onto the shoulder, but keep my foot on the accelerator, living the absurd fantasy that maybe I’ll reach a convenience store, gas station, five-star hotel. Something.
But when the Ferrari gives its last gasp of life, I look out as far as the headlights reach and see absolutely nothing. I look left and right, hoping to see the flicker of light from a house or from a business.
Nothing.
Neither are there lights approaching in my rearview mirror or coming toward me, westbound toward the coast.
Shit.
Apparently, I’m stuck. Isn’t that just peachy?
I put the car in park, kill the engine, and turn on the hazard lights. Then I snatch up my phone and search my contacts for the 800 number for AAA, but when I dial, the call immediately fails. I spit out a curse, then try again, and only when the call fails once more do I think to glance at my phone’s signal strength.
No service.
What the fuck? How can there be no service? This is America for fuck’s sake, where everyone and their dog has a cell phone and wants to be able to use it. And, seriously, isn’t one of the primary reasons for owning a cell phone so that you can make a call when you’re in trouble? And yet the Powers That Be don’t put cell towers in scary, empty parts of the country where stranded women may need to make a phone call so that they don’t have to wait in a Ferrari for the next car—which just might be driven by a sex-crazed psychopath?
I exhale, pissed, and beat my palm against the steering wheel. Then I open my door, thinking that I’ll just start walking.
Then I immediately close my door and lock it because the walking plan is just about as stupid as it gets, especially now that I have sex-crazed psychopaths on the brain.
Okay. Fine. This is not a problem.
Well, yes it is. But it’s not an insurmountable problem.
I pull my phone out again and stare at the screen as if that will magically make a signal appear.
Since I do not actually have magical abilities, nothing happens. But I open my text messaging program anyway. I read somewhere that text messages don’t require as strong a signal, and also that the strength of a cell tower’s signal changes all the time. So maybe if I send a text, eventually it will find a signal and flitter away to its destination.
Clearly, there is a reason that I am an actress and not an engineer. But I figure that even if it doesn’t help, it won’t hurt.
I open the messaging app and stare at the phone. Because the first person I think of to text is Ryan—and yet how the hell am I supposed to phrase it? Sorry I skipped out on you. Please come save me.
Somehow, that doesn’t work for me.
I consider texting Sylvia, Damien’s secretary with whom Nikki and I have become friends, but I’m certain that she will simply send Ryan. He is, after all, Stark International’s security dude. Evelyn Dodge, my friend and pseudo-agent, would be a great choice, but I happen to know that she and her lover Blaine left around lunchtime for a Manhattan getaway.
I tell myself I’m being stupid. That Ryan will be mad, yes, but he won’t leave me stranded. I’m his boss’s new wife’s best friend, after all. So even if he doesn’t come himself, he’ll send someone else.
Besides, odds are the text will never go through.
I spend a few moments thinking about it, then decide on the message.
Sorry I bolted, but I need help. Stranded on the 15 just past Yermo. Please?
I read it once more, then press “send” before I can talk myself out of it. Then I put in my headphones, turn my music back on, lean back in my seat, and wait.
If nothing else, I figure I’ll be rescued come morning. There will be more traffic, for one thing, and maybe even the highway patrol.
As it turns out, I don’t have to wait that long.
Not even five minutes have passed when I see the flash of lights in the rearview mirror. I turn off the music and watch the car approach. I can’t tell what kind it is; all I can see is the glare of the lights as it crawls closer and closer, moving at a snail’s pace now.
It is still on the highway, but as I watch it slides to the right, pulling off onto the shoulder. Then it eases forward until it is right behind me.
I expect the driver to kill the lights, but he or she doesn’t, and I am left sitting there in my Please Carjack Me Now Ferrari with sex fiends on my mind.
My pulse starts to beat more quickly, and I curse myself for not getting the tire iron out of the trunk. Because there’s not a damn thing I can use as a weapon inside the vehicle—not unless I intend to beat someone senseless with my iPhone.
I am astounded at my naiveté and pissed off at my own stupidity. I passed through Barstow with its stretch of gas stations and I was so busy trying not to think that I didn’t think. And now here I am, trapped in a car with Ted Bundy parked behind me.
I check the phone once more, but it still shows no signal.
Fuck.
I see the door to the car open, and someone gets out. A man, I think, though I can see very little in the dark in my mirror.
I check the door locks again and am relieved to find them secure.
He is approaching the car now, walking with the light at his back so that he appears as only the shadow of a man. I tell myself to be calm, that he is probably just a Good Samaritan. That most serial killers are not trolling the interstates.
I know it. I believe it, and I’m still scared shitless. Terrified that Ryan will get my text and two hours later will arrive at the Ferrari to find me battered and bloodied and very much dead.
