"nerd" || sinclair brothers x F reader

~stranger~ (REWRITE)

The car door clicked open, and I stepped out.. only to be shoved by Finn on his way out behind me.

"Go fuck yourself," I muttered, shooting a glare at him.

He opened his mouth for some smartass reply, but Dad shut it down fast.

"Finn. Be nice to Y/N," he said, stepping out on the other side with all the emotion of a man who deeply regretted fatherhood. Which made sense, we were all condom rip cases.

"How come they get to—?" Finn started, but Mom cut in before he could finish. Poor Finn. Poor naive, loud-mouthed, older-brother Finn.

"You heard your father," she said, taking a swig from the fruity alcoholic beverage she'd snagged at the last gas station. Classy.

I, being the so-called "well-behaved child," stayed quiet and smug. Their opinion of me was simple: I could do no wrong.

Unfortunately for them, they were very, very wrong.

We walked for a while, stretching our legs. Then a smell hit us.

A bad one.

My eyes watered instantly. It was the kind of smell that had weight to it.

"What the hell, Finn? Have you not showered since last month?" Noah asked, plugging his nose with both hands.

(If anyone named Finn is reading this, relax. You smell like roses. Probably.)

"As much as I'd love to blame Finn for this," I said, waving the air, "it's probably roadkill."

"Y/N's right," Mom added, setting her drink on a rock. "Maybe if we follow the smell, we'll find a road. Actual buildings."

Ah yes, the classic survival plan: follow the scent of decay into unknown terrain. What could possibly go wrong?

My brothers made random and mostly feigned noises of disgust as we got closer to the source. What were they expecting? That it would smell like lavender and fresh bread?

Eventually, we reached a pit.

We all leaned over to get a look.

Yup. Dead animals.

Then I saw something—just for a second.

Was that a hand?

No. No, come on, be rational. It smelled too awful to still be human remains. It'd have decomposed by now. It's plastic. It has to be.

Then—slam.

A truck door shut somewhere behind us.

I turned.

A guy had stepped out of a beat-up truck. Brown hair, dark eyes, dirty denim jeans, a white t-shirt under a worn brown jacket. A green baseball cap was pulled low over his face.

Without a word, he walked between us and tossed a deer carcass into the pit like it was nothing.

"Sir—?" Dad started, but the guy cut him off.

"Lester," he said simply.

"Jason," Dad replied, offering a hand.

They shook briefly.

"Do you know where we can get a full tank of gas around here?" Mom asked, suddenly remembering how to be polite.

"I got some gas in the truck. Not a full tank, though," Lester said, shrugging. "Bo runs a station a few miles from here. I can take you."

He smiled. Toothy. Too friendly.

No one smiled back.

So I did.

Lester glanced at me. "Aren't you sweet," he muttered, barely audible.

"Thank you. We'd appreciate that," Mom said, finally managing a smile.

And then—like total idiots—we all piled into this stranger's truck.

These are the same people who taught me about stranger danger. Unbelievable.

What could possibly go wrong?