Free Jaded by Varina Denman Page A

I clocked out that evening, thoughts of my cousin churned through my mind until I thought I might be sick. When I locked the United’s front door behind me, I breathed deeply of the cool night air and felt an odd sense of relief that JohnScott hadn’t arrived on time to pick me up. I could do without another religious confrontation. The parking lot was deserted, other than an old sedan I didn’t recognize, so I took off across the asphalt at a steady clip, knowing JohnScott would see the darkened store and realize I had gone on home.
    I hurried past the sedan and angled toward Fifth Street—not the shortest route to my house, but the best way to avoid JohnScott when he finally showed up. As I stepped into the shadows between streetlamps, shame niggled at my conscience, and I almost turned back. I stood motionless in the middle of the street, giving myself a pep talk. JohnScott was my best friend, but even if he was, he wasn’t necessarily acting like it.
    Behind me a car door moaned. Someone was in that old sedan, after all, but who? Trapp shut down on weeknights. Friday and Saturday would boast late-night activity as teenagers and young adults met in town to entertain themselves, but Tuesdays were quiet like the dead. Everyone in town knew the routine, except the Cunninghams and—
    Goose bumps fingered across my neck. An out-of-style tennis shoe emerged from the car, then another, gravel gritting against asphalt as the owner pulled himself up to tower above the vehicle. Clyde Felton.
    The humming outdoor lights of the United, partially dimmed for the evening, failed to adequately reveal the man’s appearance. I could clearly see his forehead, but not his eyes. His cheekbones, but not his chin. His biceps and broad shoulders, but not his elbows or hands. He nudged the car door, closing it with an echo, then glanced casually around the parking lot before rotating his neck to examine the darkness where I stood.
    Could he see me?
    Slowly I backed away until my thighs pressed against the bumper of an RV parked at the curb. But good grief. Just because Clyde had attacked a woman before didn’t mean he would do it again. Still, the shivers running down my spine compelled me to run. Compelled me to get away from him, to find JohnScott, to save myself. But my limbs were frozen.
    I searched for the darkest shadow while Clyde slumped against his car, lit a cigarette, slowly lifted a hand in my direction.
    The fact the rapist waved at me barely registered. He knew where I was. A streetlamp illuminated an area of pavement in front of the camper, so I slipped into the blackness behind it. Most likely, Clyde Felton could outrun me—I’d never been much of an athlete—so I crouched behind the RV as sweat trickled down my sides. One hand rested on the smooth bumper, the other splayed in sandy grit on the street.
    When Clyde shoved his weight back to his feet, my nerves exploded, and I inched toward an acrid-scented plant on my left. Peeking between the fronds, I watched him drag the soles of his shoes across the pavement, covering ground rapidly because of the length of his gait. Already he approached the streetlamp, swaying toward the RV.
    Ice shot through my heart when his deep, garbled voice called out, “That camper don’t hide you none.”
    I’m not sure why I didn’t scream. It would have been logical, resulting in porch lights being flicked on and sleepy residents coming outdoors in their pajamas, but fear paralyzed reasoning, and my primal reflex was escape .
    â€œLord, help me.” The words came out of my mouth in a strangled moan, more reflex than intent, but I found myself wondering if God Almighty might notice anyway.
    Five blocks separated me from my home, so I pushed away from the bumper and stumbled toward the safety of brighter streetlights one block over on Main. My legs, numb from squatting, behaved in a nightmarishly sluggish manner, and I lost my footing,