Deleted Scene #1 For Prologue

Choice Picked: Stop to Help

You tap your foot on the breaks and slow down to a stop beside the man. He pauses mid-step with his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline, as if he expected you to keep driving and ignore him in his wounded state

Rolling down the passenger's side of your car door window, you offer what you hope is a friendly smile.

Your aunt says you should smile less, complaining that you remind her of those serial killers who smile in their mugshots. A grin that expresses a lack of regret for their actions or the fact that they murdered countless innocent people.

Truly a great ego boost to your already crumbling self worth.

Not.

You: Do you need a lift to town? If so you can hop in.

The man blinks, mouth opening and closing.  His voice comes out cracked, like he needs a drink of water when he finally answers.

Hitchhiker: Yes…please.

You reach over and open the car door, pushing outward in invitation for him to slide in. He takes the offering and remains quiet as he gets into his seat, closes the door behind him, and buckles his seat belt. You pick up the water bottle you brought for your trip and tap his shoulder with it.

He takes the water gratefully and his Adam's apple bobs up and down while he takes a hearty drink. Stray droplets of water slide down to his chin and follow along the curve of his neck. His eyelashes flutter and he groans in pure unabashed pleasure.

You stare at him with a raised eyebrow.

Damn, dude just sucked that bottle dry and made sounds erotic enough to rival any porno in existence.

You take mental notes, wanting to borrow them for future references when applying them to your own side gig.

Once he’s finished, he scrubs a hand over his mouth, and lets out a sigh of relief.

Exhausted eyes meet yours when he realizes you aren’t driving.

Adam: Everything alright?

You: Perfectly fine.

You keep your expression neutral and shift the car into drive.

Hopefully, he didn’t take that the wrong way.

Explaining your job proves a hassle when explaining it to the better half of the population. You tend to wind up with one of two types of individuals: supportive people who want to know too much about your profession or people who think you’re beneath them and don’t bother hearing you out.

You're condemned before they even know you as a person.

Luckily for you, the man doesn’t inquire about the odd minute of staring.

Instead, he places the empty plastic bottle in the center console and relaxes against his seat. He looks tired and haggard. How’d he get out here in the first place?

You want to ask, but you’re not great at small talk or asking questions.

So you dodge the potential social interaction in favor of turning up the radio.

CAKE blasts from the speakers. The lead vocalist sings about delivering a bouquet of hyacinth to his lover's doorstep, admitting his regret for his part in their broken relationship and how they find each other in the end.

Ugh. You turn it back down.

The hitchhiker quirks a brow. You’ve piqued his curiosity by your visceral reaction.

Hitchhiker: Not a fan, I presume?

You: Every radio station plays these same songs of theirs on repeat. I’m kind of sick of hearing them if I’m honest. I don’t like the same stuff being shoved down my throat over and over again.

Okay, that sounded like an innuendo, but the hitchhiker ignores it.

Hitchhiker: Why not use playlists from apps like Hotify or Randora?

You: I get bored of music pretty easily, I guess. Helps me find new music.

Hitchhiker: I figured finding new music would be difficult given they put the same songs on repeat.

You roll your eyes at him, but ease up the tension in your shoulders and loosen your grip on the steering wheel.

You: Calling me out? That’s pretty rude, you know.

Hitchhiker: I’ve done worse things than calling people out.

You: Oh yeah? Like wha-

You don’t even have a chance to finish before something cold and sharp presses against the base of  your throat. You’re so startled that you let go of the wheel. The car almost veers off the road into a ditch when the hitchhiker grabs the wheel and regains control.

Hitchhiker: Woah there!

He presses the sharp object deeper into your throat and you wince at the sudden sting and sticky liquid starting to drip down your neck.

Hitchhiker: Hands on the wheel.

He says it like a command and with shaking hands you obey.

Sweat drips down your brow.

Hitchhiker: Good. Now I’m going to let go. Okay?

You don’t even bother to nod as he pulls away, but doesn’t remove the object from your throat. You presume it’s a blade.

Hitchhiker: There we go. You really shouldn’t take your hands off the steering wheel. You could’ve killed us both just now.”

You say nothing. You can’t.

If you do, who knows how deep the blade will cut your throat. Not to mention you almost severed your trachea by accident when you lost control of the car.

You cast the hitchhiker a quick glance through your peripheral vision.

He’s drumming his fingers on his thighs, staring at you with minor interest, a deadly light sparking behind those unhinged eyes.

You're relieved when he finally unpins you from his gaze and glances towards the open road in front of you, studying the shape of the land and the large thickets of trees.

His next words come out agitated and borderline accusing.

Hitchhiker: You know, you really surprised me back there, picking me up like that.

Hitchhiker: I figured you’d speed past me or hesitate, but you pulled right over.

Hitchhiker:  I didn’t predict that. And that? That really fucking frustrates me.

Hitchhiker: So here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re going to take our time getting to know each other, because eventually you’re going to slip up and reveal the rotten human hiding underneath that nice facade of yours.

Hitchhiker: And then I can do what I came here to do. Okay?

He readjusts the knife’s positioning so that it merely hovers over your throat and allows room for you to speak without slicing your neck open.