Rescuing Amanda

It's dark, it's raining, the summer night feeling like fall. I am staring out of the windshield with eyes like piss holes in the snow, trying to see where the road is going and hoping like hell this clears up soon because I have at least another hundred miles to drive.

There's a flash of white in the headlights. An animal has run into the road. I brake hard, stopping just in time, ABS juddering on the slick road. The "animal" runs to the passenger side and starts pulling the door handle fit to yank the damn thing right off. It's a woman. Drenched, looking over her shoulder. I unlock the doors, and she throws herself in and screams, "Drive! For God's sake, drive!"

So I put my foot down, and, as the car takes off, a man appears out of the trees brandishing a handgun. We're too close and moving too fast for a decent shot, but I hear a loud bang as something hits the bodywork.

"What the hell just happened?" I glance at my bedraggled passenger, who is huddled up, arms folded across her chest, shivering. I turn the heat up. She stays mute. I look again and see that she is naked from the waist down, and her white T-shirt is virtually transparent due to the rain. And she has a pair of handcuffs dangling from one wrist. "I am pretty sure I need to call 911."

"No! Please! At least, not here."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because he IS 911 here."

"Well then, at least tell me what happened so I can help somehow."

"He pulled me over, supposedly for a broken taillight. He made me get out and stand there in the rain, and my shirt got wet, and he was staring at my titties and told me he could 'make it go away' if I made it worth his while. I told him I was recording this on my phone, and he grabbed it and stomped it and then... Oh God. Then he put me in handcuffs and tore off my shorts and..."

She goes silent.

"Did he rape you?"

She nods. "While he was pulling his pants back up, I slipped one hand out of the cuffs. Kicked him in the head and ran."

"In the HEAD?"

"Yeah. I used to kickbox."

I laugh.

Flashing red and blue lights in the mirror. Headlights flash. I pull over. The officer gets out of his car, and I can see him clearly in the mirror. So can she.

"Fuck! It's him! Go! GO!"

I floor it, and he fires into the back of the truck, shattering the back window but missing us. He gives chase, his powerful cruiser steadily catching me. Some part of my brain kicks into gear, and I call 911 on hands-free as we speed up the ramp onto the interstate. I tell the dispatcher there's a cop behind me but that I do not want to surrender to him, specifically. Can she arrange an intercept by state police or some such?

"Sir, I am going to need something specific here."

"I have someone with me who claims the pursuing officer just assaulted them."

"Sir, people claim that all the time in arrests."

"Ma'am, this is a female, and the accusation is... more than just assault. Plus, he shot at my truck twice, without warning or ever even exchanging a word with me. Please?"

"One moment, sir."

Fuck! He's coming alongside; it looks like he's going to try to PIT me, which is insane! There's traffic all over the place. His window is rolled down, and he takes a left-handed shot at us, which takes out my passenger window and exits through the roof. He's looking at me and doesn't see that he's fast approaching another vehicle. He notices just in time and brakes, and now I'm ahead again, and I put an 18-wheeler between us.

"Ma'am, please hurry, we're in heavy traffic, and he just shot at me and tried to run me off the road."

Silence. Then sirens and lights: a white vehicle. His is black. Thank God!

I wait until it's right on my tail, then indicate, pull over, and stop. The officer pulls up behind, and the black car behind him. I roll down my window and hail White Car Cop, wanting to get our story in first.

"Officer, I picked this lady up exactly as you see her here. She was running from that guy who just pulled up behind. I don't know what his side is, but she claims he sexually assaulted her during a traffic stop. He shot at us at least three times, without any warning at any point. Please, whatever he says, don't release her to him. Please?"

The officer looks at me, then at her. She's clearly utterly terrified, crying, nodding along with me. I wish I was wearing a suit, not working clothes. The dude has a spine, though, thank God: Black Car Cop is approaching, and our hero raises a hand in command, stopping him. Black Car Cop looks like he is making a pretty dangerous calculation. He is moving his hand slowly towards his holster when another white patrol car rolls up, pulling in front of me. Black Car Cop makes his mind up, waves to the other officers, goes back to his vehicle, turns off his emergency lights, and drives off, leaving rubber on the road behind him.

"Don't let him go!" But the officer is all about me and my bullet-riddled truck and the near-naked woman with handcuffs and what sounds, frankly, like a cock-and-bull story, so I really can't blame him. I'm in the back of his car in cuffs in no time, and after a conversation with her through the window, they radio in for EMT and a female officer, to my intense relief. An hour later, I am in a cell, freshly DNA swabbed and breathalyzed, and my truck is in a pound somewhere, and I am feeling angry and sorry for myself and mostly worried about the woman. She's been taken to the hospital anyway, so there's that. I'm thinking about her, and how fragile she looked, and damn, she's tall, too, matching the height of the patrol officer even in bare feet, and how terrifying it must be for her to be handcuffed again.

It's well past noon the next day when they take me to the interview room. It's clear they don't believe her story, or mine, overmuch, and they think she's evading capture, but, they tell me they do not suspect me of rape or kidnapping *at this time*. I... well, I lose it. Banging the table and shouting.

"Goddammit, man, I picked her up, half naked, in pouring rain. She ran out in front of my truck; I nearly killed her! That cop shot my truck without warning as we drove off. Twice! Shot at us again on the freeway. None of this is normal, right?" Well, not if you're white, anyway. I calm down. "Look, I'm sorry, but I think there's a real danger of reversing victim and offender here."

Eventually they let us out because, they say, there is no report of fleeing and eluding filed from the county sheriff. I didn't think this through, or I'd have been more worried about that. She's in scrubs, one size fits no-one, but at least now minus handcuffs. We both look like shit, and I, for one, feel like it, too. My truck is now evidence. There's nothing for it other than to call an Uber. She is absolutely silent. In shock, I guess. Her hair is wild; they didn't even give her a damn comb.

"OK. We're going to the mall. We're going to get you some clothes and stuff, and I am going to find us a place to get cleaned up. Is that OK?"

She nods, still silent. I pay the Uber off, then guide her into the store, staying well out of the way as she tries things on because I don't want to appear as if I am gawking. She selects jeans, shirt, hoodie, underwear, trainers and disappears into the changing room with a sympathetic employee, and returns looking more human and less like a deer being stared down by a wolf. I pay for it all. The rental lot is way out near the airport, so I get another Uber to the nearest Marriott, where I can deploy the famous black card. I ask for two adjoining rooms, and to send up two sets of overnight essentials, and we ascend in the elevator.

"I suggest we get a shower, then you call my room, and we can go eat."

Twenty minutes later, the phone rings as I am combing my hair with a basic plastic comb sent up by the hotel. I tell her I'm ready, and I open my door to find a vision. Her long blonde hair is clean and straight. The oversized T-shirt hangs off one creamy shoulder. The jeans look like they were made as an advertisement for her legs, and vice-versa. And she's smiling! A brittle smile, but better than the look of abject terror. She takes my hand and thanks me.

We both eat like we haven't been fed for two days, which is not far from the truth. I find out her name - Amanda - and that the cop, a sheriff's deputy named Seth, is her ex, and that he likes to relax by beating the shit out of his women, which is why, after she kicked him out, she learned self-defense. She looks fragile. She's going to need to be strong, with a rogue deputy on her ass. I feel very protective all of a sudden.

Back upstairs, I see her to her room. Ten minutes later there's a knock on the connecting door. She's standing there in T-shirt and panties. She steps forward and takes my hands.

"Jim, I can't be alone tonight. I am too scared."

So I let her in and offer her my bed and pick up the phone to call down for an extra comforter so I can sleep on the chair. I'm halfway through when she takes the handset from me and tells them not to bother.

"We both need to sleep properly after the last day or so."

So she climbs into bed, and I lie on top of the comforter, and she calls me an idiot - we're both grown-ups, for God's sake - and I end up lying next to her and wondering how the hell I am ever going to get to slee...

I wake, disoriented. I have no idea what time it is. There's bright sunlight coming around the drapes. My back feels warm - Amanda is pressing against me, her arm round my chest. I daren't move. Her leg slides over mine, and she nestles in tighter. I need to pee, and I realize I also have a raging boner. I am just starting to panic when she stirs and jumps away from me as if I were electrified.

"Oh God, Jim, I'm so sorry!"

"No need to apologize."

I look at her. Nope, no need at all. Tousled hair, T-shirt ridden halfway up her body - the stuff of fantasies. I quickly scoot into the bathroom before she notices my erection. When I'm done, she's gone, the door between the rooms is open, and I hear the sound of a shower. Good call. I follow suit. I emerge, a towel knotted round my waist, and she is there in one of the hotel robes, sitting cross-legged on the bed. I force myself to look at her eyes, because I am pretty sure I caught a flash of pussy, and that will not do at all. She stands and comes to me, putting her arms around my neck and kissing me on the lips. The kiss is tender and delicate but feels like it might easily escalate. I step back. She reaches for the tie and undoes it, letting the robe fall open. My God, she is magnificent. Again I force my eyes to hers. I reach forward and close the robe. Tears well up in her eyes, and I embrace her, holding her tight until she stops sobbing. Until her heart slows down. Until I realize that I love her and would die to protect her.

"Do you feel up to facing the world, or should I order room service?"

"Room service, please, but I must be costing you a fortune."

I shrug. "I travel a lot and have a loyalty card. This isn't costing beans so far." Not strictly true, but not a lie, either. Anyway, she doesn't need to know that. I can afford it.

It's 1pm - we slept for over fifteen hours, it seems - so we order coffee and brunch, and dress while we're waiting, then eat and drink, and talk about the only thing we really can.

"Where is safe for you?" I ask.

"Nowhere."

"You can't mean that."

"My mom is in a care home with early-onset dementia. My dad is shacked up with some whore, and we don't talk. And anyway, he lives right around the corner from me, and Seth knows where he lives."

I wonder if there's a refuge or anything, but I can't imagine abandoning her in a strange city with no money or phone. Phone. I have the germ of an idea. But first:

"There's no hurry. We can stay here for a couple of days, at least."

I phone the AmEx Centurion concierge to get me a rental car. Two hours later we are driving to the local branch of Chase, and Amanda's trying to get them to issue duplicate cards, but without ID it's going nowhere, so I call AmEx again and arrange an additional card on my account, to be delivered to the hotel tonight, and we head to the phone store and get her a new phone. She logs in to her account, which tells her that her old phone has somehow survived the stomping, has 40% battery, and is still at the side of the road. So, finally, back to the PD, where we discover that nobody has logged a crime report for the rape, and I explain, forcefully, that this was an unfortunate omission on their part, which they should remedy. Right. Now.

It turns out that they take reports much more seriously from a woman who isn't dressed in a wet T-shirt and nothing else. We confirm that the hospital did, in fact, run a rape kit, though I can see, going down the road, how him being her ex is going to make that a whole lot more complicated. After what seems like two hours but is in fact only four, we are seated with a Detective Sansome who actually, finally, seems to be taking us seriously. Had her shirt been collected as evidence? Yes, but it's in limbo because there's no crime report. It's located. At my suggestion, he checks for requests and declines one from the county sheriff's department for transfer of the evidence and rape kit. He gives me a long, calculating look.

"OK, walk me through this again, from the beginning."

We arrive back at the hotel exhausted. The restaurant is closed, so I order dinner from the room service menu, which we eat in subdued silence. By mutual agreement we leave the connecting door open. I dream during the night that she comes to me, a happy, happy dream. When I wake at seven I find it wasn't a dream at all; she is curled up beside me. I give silent thanks that I had kept my shorts on, rather than sleeping naked as I habitually do. I get up to go to the bathroom, and when I return, she's awake and sitting up. The sheet covers her from the waist down. Nothing at all covers her from the waist up. I try to keep looking at her eyes, but it's difficult, especially since I can see she is checking me out. She smiles. Her breasts are gorgeous. Small, firm, perfectly proportioned, pretty pink nipples. One part of me is particularly interested, tenting my shorts, and she is looking right at it. Red with embarrassment, I grab my clothes from the chair and head into the bathroom to dress, pursued by giggles. When I emerge, she is wearing her T-shirt, but I cannot unsee her breasts. She approaches and kisses me, first languidly, then passionately, her tongue exploring my mouth, her hands pulling us closer. I stroke her face and manage to tear myself away.

"Amanda, no, we can't, not here, not now."

"Why not?"

Because if you ever consent to make love with me, as I very much hope you will one day, I want it to be your free choice, not out of desperation or obligation. But how can I say that?

"Because I need to give you space and give you time. Because I respect you." Because I am falling madly in love with you.

"But not enough to fuck me when I need you?"

"Far too much to have sex with you right now."

She stalks off to her room. Twenty minutes later she's back, fully dressed, looking contrite.

"You're right. I am a mess right now. I'm on an emotional roller coaster."

She puts her arms around me, lays her head on my chest, and weeps softly.

"Protect me, Jim."

"Absolutely." And I mean it.

We get a welcome call: detectives have visited the scene, using the tracking data from her phone. Despite the rain, they have corroborated at least some parts of the story, including recovering the phone and a shoe stuck in mud, but her car is a burned-out hulk. Aside from that, we spend the rest of the day talking, mostly about how the hell we get out of this mess. She has a job teaching grade school. She can't bring herself to start the call, so I do, telling them she won't be returning this semester as she's been a victim of a crime. No, she's fine, but traumatized, and can't return to the area for reasons she'll explain in writing. Of course they can speak to her; she's right here. They verify, by use of yes/no questions, that it's true, and she's not been kidnapped or something.

"I guess you'll have to come home with me, then."

The look of relief on her face. It's as if I had thrown a life preserver to a drowning woman. I send some text messages and a couple of emails, and we head off, our "luggage" in the bags from the mall.

We take a long route, sticking to the interstate where possible and detouring around her entire county. I call the Ford dealership on hands-free. Jerry, the sales guy, has a specced-out near-new F250 crew cab he could get to me in a couple of days, which is great.

"Did you just spend $80,000, cash, on a truck?"

"Yeah, it's a work thing, goes through my company. I need a truck." Preferably one without bullet holes. "I can't wait for them to give mine back."

She looks discomfited. Hooboy. We have some things in our near future. At the gate, I have to fiddle with the phone app because, of course, the rental has no remote. The gates swing open.

"You live in a gated community?"

"Not quite."

Low-level concealed lighting illuminates the driveway as I roll up to the house. The phone's geofence has kicked in, at least, so the covered entrance lights up. I leave the rental out front and open the door.

"Don't you lock your door?"

"Of course. But I have facial recognition."

"Fancy!"

Inside, the lights come on, dimmed, as it's late. The hallway has a slate floor, and a number of modern glazed oak doors lead off it.

"What is this place? It's classy!"

"It's my house."

I open the double doors at the end of the hallway into the living room, which is two stories high with a feature open-tread staircase in light oak leading to a gallery that runs around, servicing a number of second-floor rooms. Subtle mood lighting comes on as I walk in.

"Alexa, I'm home!"

"Wait, your house is controlled by Alexa?"

"What? Oh, no. Alexa is my housekeeper."

A trim middle-aged Latina appears, beaming at him.

"Hello, Jim! I expected you hours ago! Did you sort out your problem?"

"I'm working on it. This is Amanda." They shake hands. "Did you manage to get everything?"

"Yes, all ready."

Alexa is looking at Amanda with some curiosity.

"Excellent, thank you. Amanda is going through a tough patch and needs to stay for a while. I'll let her explain it when she's ready, but it's late now."

"Of course. Would you like anything to eat?"

"Amanda?" She shakes her head. "We're good, thanks, but if you could get a bottle of the 2020 Grenache, please. Oh, sorry, Amanda, are you OK with red wine?"

We share the wine, winding down from the journey.

"Jim, who are you? In my world, wine comes in red or white. If you're fancy, you get to choose between merlot and cabernet."

"I don't drink much, so I get something palatable." Although it should really be chambré. "And I've been doing OK lately."

"This is more than just OK." She gestures to the room. She's not wrong. But that's a conversation for tomorrow. "Will you show me around?"

"In the morning. It's better in daylight." I lead her upstairs. Alexa has turned back the counterpanes.

There's a connecting door between my room and hers, which I unlock. Amanda steps through almost immediately.

"Jim, there's someone else's stuff here; what should I do?"

From her eyes, I read this as: who is she, and when can I kill her. There's a white nightdress folded on the bed. Hairbrushes on the dressing table. Flowers, too. In the en suite I see a new electric toothbrush, a selection of toiletries and cosmetics, and a white robe.

"No, this is all for you. Alexa sorted it. I thought you could use a little normality."

"Who ARE you, Jim, that this counts as just normality?"