“Eh,” he swats the air, “he’d have been fine.” Then he pauses and eyes me standing, barefoot, in the middle of the dirt path in my Navy-blue satin pajama shorts and grey camisole.
“You’re pretty brave for coming out this far without a light,” he looks me up and down, “and next to no clothes.”
The breeze rushes through the trees and sweeps over my skin, making me shiver. I glance down at myself, noticing my nipples hardening and showing through my cami.
“Well,” I cross my arms over my chest, “I didn’t want to be the reason Waylon died in the woods.”
“You didn’t mind walking out here by yourself?”
I shake my head, glancing around dismissively. I did mind—I minded a lot—but I was more afraid of what could happen if I didn’t.
Bowen accepts my response and motions to the right side of the path, “Help me take down this broken tree stand, then we’ll go home.”
I nod and follow him to the edge of the path. I’m about to say I can’t walk far into the trees because I’m not wearing shoes, but he steps into a clear section relatively devoid of vines and brambles. The canopy isn’t so thick here, and I can see the silhouette of a stand in one of the poplars right ahead of us. I linger nearby while Bowen works, my arms wrapped around my torso, scanning the trees around us, still keeping an eye out for glowing eyes and any other creatures I don’t want to meet in the woods at night.
He finally returns with the stand in pieces and tosses a section of the ladder at my feet with a startling clang. My hand flies to my chest again and I take a deep breath to steady myself.
“Ease up, lady,” Bowen says at my nervousness, “I’m the scariest thing out here.”
“You’re not scary,” I scoff, glancing back around the spooky woods.
“No?” he bends down to grab the seat and hands it to me before picking up the three sections of ladder.
The stand’s been out here a while, the black metal rough with a few rungs missing from the ladder. Bowen steps past me and I follow him back out to the path in silence. His truck isn’t much further. If I’d kept walking and not seen him standing at the poplar already, I would’ve come to it in another minute or so. As soon as we arrive at the tailgate, Waylon’s head pops out the passenger window to greet us. Bowen drops the tailgate, then takes the seat from me and tosses it into the bed.
“Hey,” I swallow, breaking the heavy silence, “I realize I’m not very good at accepting help, even from you. I was just caught off-guard when you pulled out that mugshot. I don’t like thinking about what happened back then, and after so long I was finally getting to where things feel normal again. And, now, there’s more that I don’t know and I just don’t feel like dealing with it.”
“You might not like it,” Bowen reaches behind his head and pulls his shirt up over his back. He balls it up and swipes it across his forehead before tossing it into the bed of the truck, “but you still have to deal with it.”
“I know,” I shift back and forth on the smooth patches of dirt under my feet, “but I appreciate you caring and wanting to keep me safe.”
Bowen narrows his eyes and tilts his head, “Are you offering an apology?” he asks, popping his spearmint gum in his teeth.
“Yeah,” I nod, “I guess I am.”
“You guess?”
“Yes,” I say firmly.
He stares at me for a few moments, then the corner of his mouth lifts. He takes a step toward me. Then another. And another.
He glances down at the pieces of the ladder still lying on the ground, “Help me finish loading this and I’ll consider it.”
Bowen jumps up into the bed of the truck and kicks a pile of tie-downs, sending them clattering against the back of the cab. Then he reaches down and I start handing him the pieces of the ladder.
“Come here,” he extends his hand and I take it, letting him hoist me up onto the tailgate.
He motions for me to follow him up to the back window of the cab and then crouches down to begin untangling the mess of nylon straps and buckles. Some are loose and some are still affixed to the back rack covering the window where I’m sure a dead animal or two were secured not long ago.
When I kneel down next to him, he hands me an orange strap and then a black one, “Hold these so they don’t knot back up.”
I let my eyes wander while I wait, inhaling the sultry night air, thankful it’s warmer than usual. I still scan the tree line, my eyes now adjusted to the darkness. I don’t know how Bowen can see to untangle knotted tie-downs, but it doesn’t matter. I’m just relieved that Waylon is safely tucked into the cab of Bowen’s truck and not being eaten by coyotes.
I’m also relieved to have found Bowen and he seems to be in a better mood than when I last saw him. All I want to do is push the last conversation we had out of my mind. It was eerie and I don’t want to think about it. I don’t even want to think about how much I don’t want to think about it.
“OK,” Bowen’s voice snaps me back to the present.
Before I can even look down, I feel a sharp tug at my hands and my knuckles slam into the floor of the truck bed. The black nylon strap tightens around my wrists, digging into my flesh and making me wince.
What the—
I follow both ends of the strap to a rubber-coated hook jutting out from the middle of the rhino liner. The strap snakes up between the rear window and the back rack, loops once around a support bar, and then attaches to a large blue carabiner hooked in the middle of the rack. Even in the sporadic moonlight, I can see light brown and white hair peppering the black liner beneath my feet and stuck between the fibers of the tie-downs where they secured a dead coyote earlier. I try to raise my hands and reach for the carabineer at chest height, but my hands barely move an inch in either direction.
I jerk my head up to Bowen, still crouched next to me. He’s motionless, his fingers hooked in the black metal rack bars. My eyes dart up and down in confusion, panic mounting.
“Baby girl,” he shakes his head with a smile, “your self-awareness is for shit.”
“Well,” I scowl back at him, swallowing hard, “I didn’t think I needed so much when you’re around.”
Bowen reaches behind me and squeezes the back of my neck, “That’s exactly when you need it.” Then he leans forward and kisses me on my cheek, breathing into my ear, “You should probably save your apologies. You’re going to need them.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My eyes round and I let out a huff as he stands up and saunters back to the tailgate, leaving me tied to the floor. He jumps down onto the dirt path and slams the tailgate, a sinister smile seeping across his face. Locking eyes with me, he moves along the side of the truck, dragging his hand along the edge as he goes.
He throws open the driver’s side door and calls over his shoulder, “You ride in back, ‘til you can behave.” Then he ducks into the cab, giving Waylon an ear scratch as he slams the door.
The truck roars to life, the noisiest thing in the entire forest. Bowen immediately cranks up his music, heavy bass splitting the air and Maria Brink’s false chord screams echoing through the trees. I feel a shudder and the truck begins rolling down the path, but we’re going the wrong direction. He’s not driving back toward the house, he’s driving deeper into the woods.
“Bowen!” I tug at the ties and slam my shoulder against the cage.
