By W. C. Watt
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I rubbed my hand down my thigh and kept on walking. What else could I do? I was in the middle of goddamn nowhere, with no idea who I was or how I’d gotten here. And no idea who I could trust. If I could trust. As the slope flattened, the grass became long enough to brush my butt. Which in turn made me wonder if the grass was actually long, or if I was short. I felt long—long and rangy—but self-perception is an odd thing when the memory can give no references. I held my hands out and studied them critically.
Behind me, a car door opened, then footsteps approached. ” Even with the anger so evident in his rich, deep tones, the stranger’s voice was as sexy as all get out. Not the sort of thoughts any sane person would be having about the man who’d just tried to run them over. ” I said, voice little more than a squeak thanks to a mix of annoyance and pain. ” I tried pushing upright, but that forced more stones into my already scraped hands, and I yelped. He muttered something under his breath, then stepped closer.
Still no cop. I had time yet, but probably not a whole lot. I shucked off my stolen sweatshirt as I sprinted around the water, throwing it behind the dam’s erosion-rutted shoulder, then did the same with the pants. If luck was on my side, I’d at least have dry clothes to climb into once the cop had left. If not, well, I’d have to find something else to steal. I dove into the water. It was so damn cold it snatched a gasp from my throat, and the sound seemed to echo across the softer sounds of the day.