𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋

seventeen

warning: unedited, sexual (almost) intercourse

As soon as Ryder orders the Lyft she feels slightly off.

Her moms are still out in the restaurant with their family friends as Ryder waits outside the tavern, her thin cardigan not really assisting her with the chilled winds that send a shiver up her spine and make her arm hairs stand. She wears a tight black dress and a loose cardigan to somewhat dress up for the dinner, but immediately misses the blanket of warmth in the tavern and the comfort of moderation.

May has just begun but the nights still are ambiguous in terms of good weather. One day can be warm, sunny, humid, but others are damp, cold, and foggy. Today is one of those cold and foggy days, the night especially being brutal due to the drop in temperature.

She leaves the tavern because she knows men are watching — her moms think she needs air before she leaves and give her an unsuspecting kiss on the cheek, but the grimace of a smile placed upon the chapped lips of a man in the corner, she feels as if she needs space, air, anything other than his eyes.

It's the curse of beauty.

A car appears in front of her, a black one and she shamefully admits she doesn't know the brand. However, by checking the license plate and opening the front door slightly to ask for her driver's name, she hops in the car and calculates the address.

Maybe she should've asked Finn for a ride by the overwhelming smell of different air fresheners spreading in the car. The man who confirms his name gives her a smile, but it's anything but welcoming. His teeth are crooked, he can be passing 60, and his eyes wander over her body to make her shift in the front seat.

"I plugged in the address you sent," he says, shifting the gear to drive. "It won't be long."

Ryder gives a polite nod and looks out the window, wishing she sits in the backseat (then again, the backseat has childlocks), because maybe the dress is too short and maybe she had a slip of her mother's pina colada. Alright, maybe a few. Maybe a drink. But she's sober, she's so sober but she fears he'll smell the lingering alcohol on her breath and think otherwise.

Perhaps he's just a regular driver, she inquires. There are good people out there.

That's right. There's the possibility that she's paranoid and she's just getting the wrong vibe, because people are nice and she doesn't want to assume any different. She's taken Lyfts in the past and has never had a problem, so why assume now? Maybe because she's alone rather than with her drunk friends, or maybe because she's wearing a short dress with alcohol lingering on her breath. This guy could just drop her off and never see her again, her nerves getting the best of her. She's just overreacting.

But her heart skips when she watches his phone with the GPS, the man taking a left turn instead of a right.

"Uh, sir," piped up Ryder, "you missed the turn."

He doesn't acknowledge her statement, but rather says, "You're so pretty, you know that? So beautiful."

Ryder grits her teeth. "You missed the fucking turn." The grip on her clutch gets tighter, knuckles growing white as her heart pounds.

He doesn't respond, but instead grips the wheel tighter, speeding up on the seemingly abandoned road, in the complete opposite direction of where the party is. There's no one in sight, she cannot roll down the windows and yell, nor can she call someone.

Rather, she pulls out her phone and pauses — her moms are at dinner, they don't look at their phone, her friends are at the party, they won't see their phones. Who else? Who else does she have? Think, Ryder.