Three: Beer Run
As it turned out, Trevor was less than pleased with the alcohol situation in Evelyn's house.
"What the fuck is this horseshit?" he griped, rifling through her fridge as if he had a right.
Evelyn had trailed into the kitchen after him, standing uncertainly all the way across the room, arms folded tightly over her chest. "I mean, I really only keep water, so…"
"Water? What the fuck am I, pregnant?" he demanded, letting the fridge swing shut and moving immediately to the cabinets—cabinets he'd searched thoroughly only half an hour before, but he was apparently desperately hoping that he'd missed something. "You don't even have—ahh, what the fuck do girls drink, Hypnotiq or some shit?"
"Well, maybe if you'd let me know you were coming," she muttered.
Fortunately, Trevor either didn't notice the sarcasm or he was too wrapped up in his woes to care. He shut the last cabinet door with more force than was strictly necessary, then followed it, his forehead meeting the wood with a heavy thunk. "I really hoped you wouldn't be boring," he groaned.
Privately, Evelyn took offense, but she didn't really believe that insisting to this man that she wasn't boring would yield a good result. He'd want her to prove it, and who knew what he'd demand as proof? The man had a damn cut here tattoo dashed across his throat; she found she really didn't want to find out what he considered to be not-boring.
She didn't have to bite her tongue for long. Abruptly, he reeled his forehead back from its rest against the cabinet, turned towards her, heaved a heavy sigh, and said, "All right, let's go," flicking his fingers at her commandingly.
Evelyn stayed right where she was. "Go where?" she asked suspiciously.
He stared for a second, mouth hanging slightly open in disbelief. "Beer run," he said finally, realizing she actually needed it spelled out. "I'm not going through this weekend dry. And, y'know, I'd let you stay and keep watch over Ron, but really, I don't trust you. So you're coming with me."
"You don't trust me to be tied up in my house alone but you trust me being with you around a bunch of strangers," Evelyn said slowly, testing to see if it sounded less crazy coming from her. It didn't.
"Isn't that what I just fucking said?" he demanded, palms open at his waist as if inviting her to fight as he began to pace towards her.
She let him get roughly two steps before sidestepping and blurting, "Okay, fine, let's go." And I continue to suck at chicken.
He stopped abruptly, let out an annoyed huff, and turned away, heading for the door. Evelyn took a quick step around, then, instead of doing anything useful in the two seconds she had before he checked to make sure she was following, she grabbed the first thing she saw: her purse. She would regret not picking up a steak knife later, but at the moment, it felt oddly comforting to be slinging the strap over her shoulder as she followed him out the door. That way, it almost felt as if she was going voluntarily.
That feeling crashed and burned as soon as she laid eyes on the truck.
It wasn't like she hadn't seen something like it before. Hell, in Louisiana, half the population drove a truck that looked like that. That was precisely why she was wary. Rusty, roofless, seatbeltless, probably with holes going straight through the flooring —she knew exactly how much of a death trap a vehicle like that could be.
She'd come to a dead stop, and unfortunately, Trevor noticed. He swung around, facing her as he walked backwards toward the truck. "Hey—don't tell me you're scared of a little rough and tumble," he called out, not even making the slightest effort to tone down the insinuation.
She sighed, forcing herself to start walking again. "Is there no way we can take my car?" she asked without any hope whatsoever.
"Ummmm… no," he said, slinging himself into the driver's seat and picking up a pair of cheap ray-ban style sunglasses up off the dash, slipping them on as she circled around to the other side.
She shook her head, opened the passenger door, had a moment of terror when she was certain the rusted, creaking thing was going to fall right off the truck (and she had no doubt Trevor would insist on driving it regardless), but it was more durable than it felt and slammed securely into place.
And now you're stuck in a truck with a crazy man.
She didn't have much time to come to grips with the situation before Trevor reversed so abruptly that she barely had time to keep herself from face-planting on the dashboard. He chuckled and she didn't even deign to shoot him a glare as they peeled out from her driveway.
Evelyn took a second to situate herself, prior experience telling her that the silence wouldn't last long. Sure enough, they'd been driving for maybe five seconds when Trevor started in with that grating drawl of his: "Soooo. Evy. What's your deal, huh?"
"My deal?" she repeated, irritable, distracted, trying to figure out if there had ever been seatbelts and if there were any convenient handholds for her to use as anchors. "You don't even have an oh shit handle," she complained.
"Yeah, your deal," he said, ignoring her grumbling. "Couple'a fucking things look to set you apart from the usual Los Santos zombie; I want you to prove me right."
"Things like what, exactly?"
"You're twenty-seven."
"Genius observation."
"Not married, not engaged, I don't see rings on that fucking finger."
"I'm flattered that you looked."
"Hey, look, you can flirt with me later, I want you to, but I'm trying to get to the bottom of something right now."
Evelyn scoffed. "By all means, go on."
"All right, so you've got a stable job, nice house, no roommate. Where are your friends? Where's the boyfriend?"
"Okay, who's flirting with who again?"
He looked at her over the sunglasses. "Oh, believe me, baby, when I'm flirting with you, you'll fucking know it."
"Yeah, kinda got that sense," she muttered.
He pushed his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. "All I'm saying is that you seem a little isolated."
"You've met me twice! The first time, you isolated me, this time you jumped me in my house, where I live alone."
"Yeah, my point exactly. You live alone. Not only that, but you're a woman living alone in a beach town. That don't happen unless you're stupid or self-isolated, and given the fucking textbook you carry around in your purse—"
"I'm not isolated."
"Suuure, you're not. You're just hanging out by yourself on Friday night in your house in the middle of the woods."
"Dude, I have friends," she said, starting to get annoyed. "In fact, if you'd been half an hour later you'd have arrived at an empty house and I'd be out with some of them."
"Look, I'm just saying it's a little weird, all right? Looks to me like you're alone on purpose. That doesn't exactly fit with a standard beach-dweller lifestyle; these people might as well be dead if they're not around other people."
"And let me guess, you think that's something to look down on." She knew she was treading a fine line—was actually surprised that she hadn't triggered some sort of explosion yet, but the longer he went without reacting badly to her sarcasm, the less she tried to rein it in. This is going nowhere good.
"Not being self-reliant? Yeah, I really fucking do."
"People thrive in different environments. My preferred environment just happens to be… a quieter one."
"With a bunch of fucking books."
"Hey, you know what? Believe it or not, and with the exception of your involvement, I'm living my dream life. I'm independent and uncommitted. There's no one around to bother me, I spend my time time engaged in things that I'm interested in, and I'm happy."
"I fucking knew it."
"What, that I'm happy?"
"You're hiding from people."
"Thank you for that stunning insight, Dr. Freud."
His quick glance in her direction was the only warning he got before he swerved sharply into the other lane then back again, effectively smashing her head against the door. Stunned, she didn't react right away, and before she had time to recover, Trevor was yelling at her: "You know, I've had about e-FUCKING-nough with the little sarcastic quips! I'm here trying to have a nice conversation, to get to know you, and all you seem to be able to do is give me shit! You are a rude fucking person, Evelyn!"
"I'm sorry," blurted Evelyn the second he paused long enough for her to get a word in. He laughed angrily, making it clear that he didn't believe her, and she rushed to explain—anything to calm him down and to make sure she didn't end up dead on the side of the road somewhere. "Look, I am, okay? I know I'm testing your patience. It's—when I'm scared or stressed out, I deal with it by acting like a complete asshole. Like no one can hurt me if I hurt them first."
He didn't say anything, which was worrying, given that he wasn't really inclined to silence. She sighed, drawing her braid nervously over her shoulder and then smoothing her long bangs back from the spot on her forehead that had collided with the door. "It's… a coping mechanism. A really shitty one."
He chuckled low again, though this time the growling sound was a little less threatening. "You're not fucking lying about that," he told her. He fell silent, just long enough for her to wonder how, exactly, he was planning to murder her, then, abruptly, he said, "Okay, fine. I accept your apology."
It was such a weird thing to say so soon on the heels of a tantrum that she stared at him for a second, trying to see if he was fucking with her. Apparently not, because he went on, resuming the conversation like he hadn't just battered and bellowed at her: "So are there any other shittycoping mechanisms I should know about? I already know you zone out when you probably shouldn't. What else?"
And Evelyn froze. Because whatever intuition he had that told him she had plenty of ways to deal with trouble was right, and he was hovering right over the big one.
Nothing, really, I just study what scares me so I can learn not to be afraid of it, she thought, and it was the truth. It was a long-held belief of Evelyn's that you couldn't be afraid of something if you really, truly understood it, and thus far, the tactic had worked for her. She'd gotten over her fear of snakes by learning about them. She'd gotten over her fear of guns by taking gun safety classes and learning how to shoot. And now, crazy or not, she was going to try to get over her fear of Trevor by learning what made him tick. Seeing people as projects made them less intimidating.
But there was no way she was going to tell him that. Given their situation, her being petrified of him worked to his benefit; if he got the sense that she was trying to figure him out… well. She didn't think his reaction would be a good one.
She managed to figure out an acceptable response in just a second or two, not long enough to rouse his suspicion. "I'm usually either distancing myself from the situation or I'm concentrating way too hard on what's going on. Like, I forget to speak, because I'm too busy making sure I'm aware of everything that's happening."
"Yeah, I actually noticed that," he said dryly. "Kind of a boring fucking way to deal with excitement."
"You've made it pretty clear that you think I'm boring; are you really surprised?"
There was a short pause, then, to her surprise, he said, "Yeah, a little bit. You've got a lot of interesting things about you, Evy, little bit of fire in the blood. I can tell. So, yeah, it's a little weird that you choose to live so safe."
Evelyn hesitated, at a temporary loss for words. This is crazy. He's spent all of an hour with me and he's talking like he thinks he knows me. Even more unsettling was the creeping feeling that he might have already seen a little more of her than she was comfortable with. She settled on a non-reply that would hopefully discourage any more discussion of the topic: "You really don't know me well enough to say that with any confidence."
He looked over at her, giving another one of those suggestive growls. "Maybe not, but I'm more than willing to get to know you."
Fortunately, Evelyn was saved from having to come up with some kind of response to that by their arrival at the supermarket. Trevor "parked" the truck—meaning he stopped the truck vertically spanning three parking spaces before climbing out. Evelyn shook her head, thinking it's like he wants to get caught before scrambling out to follow him.
Unexpectedly, he came around the truck to meet her. She flinched back, but he seemed not to notice, slinging an arm over her shoulders like he was entitled and starting towards the store entrance. She moved with him—she couldn't exactly do anything else—but she wasn't happy about the situation. She'd chosen to wear heelless boots instead of pumps that day, and she didn't like that without the extra height she fit neatly under his arm, that her head barely cleared his shoulder. She didn't like that she could feel his body heat through her cardigan and his shirt—he ran hot, like he was sick or on something (and judging by that weird brightness in his eyes, it was probably the latter). She didn't like that she could smell him, a combination of sweat and dirt and metal tied up by something acrid and chemical, and most of all, she didn't like that she had no idea how he'd react if she shoved him away, so she just had to deal with it.
"And on the topic of fucking," he said as they crossed the parking lot, an opening that snapped her out of her moody discontent fast in favor of alarm, "what're the odds that you and I'll be knockin' boots before this is over?"
Icy fear prickled at the back of her scalp. Distract, stall, she thought, and she blurted, "What's the success rate for that approach?"
"What, complete honesty? Probably higher than you'd think, but the past don't exactly matter. All that matters right now is how you feel about it."
Evelyn was silent for a moment as she tried to figure out how best to navigate what could potentially be a minefield. Well, he's asking you, not threatening you yet, so… that's a good sign, right? Still, there were facts that she couldn't ignore, for all that she'd been trying for the past hour. Facts like that he was her captor and she was his hostage, like that he was taller and stronger and a hell of a lot crazier than she was. Facts like that if he decided he wanted sex regardless of her consent, then there was no way in hell she could fight him off.
There was a reason she'd been avoiding thinking about it. It made her feel scared and sick, and she wished she was anywhere but in this parking lot pinned to the side of a man who was holding her hostage for the second time.
A man whose grip on her arm was tightening. "Evyyyy?" he crooned, shaking her a little. "Where'd you go?"
They were alone in the parking lot, but they'd soon enter the store, and she wouldn't be able to have this conversation with him around other people. She reached up, took hold of his hand, and slipped out from beneath his arm, pulling him to a stop. "Can I be totally honest with you?" she blurted before she could talk herself out of it.
He turned slightly so they were standing face-to-face and stared at her, looking like she'd just asked him if the sky was blue. "Word of advice. Always be totally honest with me."
She wasn't just going to come out and say I'm scared you're going to rape me, wasn't keen to bring the idea to the forefront of his mind, but she could try to make him understand what was going on in her head. Quietly, keeping careful control of her voice, she said "You scare the living shit out of me. I saw you kill those cops the day you robbed my bank, six of them, just mowed them down like it was nothing, and I don't for one second believe that you'd have any qualms about killing me, too."
He was starting to look at her like she was spouting Latin. She got to the point. "I'm in survival mode, okay? I'm focused on getting through this alive. Figuring out whether or not I want to fuck you? It's at the bottom of the list of my priorities, given the situation."
"Oh, Jesus Christ," he muttered, glancing towards the entrance of the store, and for one terrifying second, her stomach dropped and she was certain that she'd said exactly the wrong thing. Then he was looking at her again, voice loud—but not, she thought, angry. "This is what I'm talking about, Evy, huh? You're playing it safe. Scared of your fucking shadow! Yeah, okay, so sure this is a home invasion scenario, sure you're in danger of getting iced if something goes wrong, but that doesn't mean you have to act like you're fucking dead already! Jesus, you think you'd be excited to get whatever joy you can out of life while you still have the time."
Evelyn actually took a step back at the conclusion of his rant, feeling like the words might physically knock her over. She considered them for as long as she dared, then, before he could start in again, she said, "Maybe you're right. But I don't know how I'm supposed to change an instinctive fear response."
"Easy," he said dismissively, grabbing her hand and starting towards the store entrance again. "You practice. And you gotta trust me, Evy—that way's way more fun. And I'm not just talking about fucking. I'm marking you down as a 'maybe' on that subject, by the way," he tossed over his shoulder as he entered the store.
"Great," she muttered as she moved to keep up. The 'maybe' status wasn't reassuring, but the fact that he was bothering to ask was highly encouraging in itself. It pointed to the absence of a rapist mentality. She could work with that.
The store was quiet, and Evelyn was grateful for it. The more people around, the harder it would be to resist the temptation to try and signal someone for help. Instinct and a lifetime of reading lurid accounts of abductors and the way they thought and operated made her think that it would be worth the risk of getting caught and being exposed to his anger, anything to be rescued. However, prior experience with him combined with her tendency to act on what she thought rather than what she felt made her certain that the impulse to get free right now at any cost was a bad one. She'd seen him kill. She'd witnessed his unpredictable temper. She'd heard from the police what he was capable of and knew that he was very hard to catch, substantially decreasing her odds of a happy ending if she did manage to get someone's help.
The rational conclusion was the one that looked the craziest on the surface, she decided as she trailed along behind him. She was going to play along with him as much as she could. He could be lying about leaving her alive and well if they made it through the weekend without incident, but he definitely was not lying about getting revenge in the event that she ratted him out. She knew that most abductors kept their captives subdued by grandiose threats, threats frightening enough to make those captives ignore their own self-preservation instincts but usually totally hollow.
Trevor was different.
They reached the beer aisle, and she watched him as he strode past the six-packs to the more substantial cases. She was suddenly hypersensitive of their movements—now that she'd decided that they couldn't be exposed, she was worried that one of them would look guilty, set someone's suspicions buzzing.
In Trevor's case, she decided that he might attract attention, but it wouldn't be because he looked guilty. The opposite was more accurate—he walked like he owned the world, slightly bowlegged, feet pointed out, taking his time but moving with loud energy. This was a guy who did nothing quietly, and she was starting to understand why the cops were so perplexed by their inability to catch him. It didn't seem fair.
She stood slightly to the side, arms crossed tightly as he browsed the fridges for a few seconds before throwing open the door and grabbing one 12-pack of midrange beer… the another, then another, carrying two precariously under one arm and balancing the other on his opposite shoulder. "Okie-dokie," he said, turning back to her, "let's go."
She turned and walked along with him willingly enough until she realized that he was walking towards the exit, clearly with no intentions of making a stop at the checkout to actually pay for it. She stopped dead.
It took him a second to register that her footfalls had stopped, but once he did, he swung around with a gravelly groan of frustration. "What now?"
She whispered fiercely, not wanting to tip off any employees. "You should pay for that."
He looked at her uncomprehendingly. "Why?"
She shook her head in disbelief. How the hell is he not in prison? That was around the time she realized that she wasn't only going to be responsible for watching her own step throughout this ordeal—she was going to have to manage him, too, since she doubted he'd take into account exactly whose fault it was that the police were descending upon them before exacting bloody revenge.
Oddly enough, this calmed her. Knowing what she had to do always anchored her thoughts and feelings; she was able to align them with the task at hand and banish all other distractions. Calmly, she approached him and took one of the cases from under his arm, and he let her, watching with wary curiosity.
Once she had the case in her arms, she met his eyes—he was still wearing those cheap sunglasses, but the lenses were transparent enough that she could be sure that he was looking at her. "Let me buy them," she said clearly.
She watched his face as he processed the request, watched his gaze flick rapidly from one of her eyes to the other, searching for an ulterior motive, finding none, realizing what her sudden cooperation meant. After just a second, his face relaxed, and he pulled the last case onto his free shoulder to mirror the other one. "Hey, fine by me. I always wanted a sugar mama," he said, turning and starting towards the nearest checkout aisle. "Always pictured someone a little older than you, but ehh, I'm not picky."