Getaway
HE IS 2B.
His name is Leroy Samuels and he lives in 2B.
We met by happenstance, actually. I was filling up the gas tank of my 2001 Chevrolet Impala, stuffing my debit card back into the depths of my purse as my hair blew around me with the latest gush of wind through my open windows. I heard the ‘ka-thunk’ of the fuel pump as it signaled that my tank was filled and set my purse aside, sticking my legs out of my open door and hurrying to remove the nozzle and get my receipt.
When I turned back from screwing my fuel cap back on to retrieve my receipt, I found myself waiting for the machine to chug out the small scrap of paper. I waited and waited and waited, but nothing happened. Frustrated, I spent another moment deciding if I should leave or go inside to get a copy. I looked around the lot and noticed only two other cars fueling up and one waiting by the front entrance to the store. Not bothering to lock up my vehicle, I headed inside.
I asked for a receipt for my pump. The woman asked if it was out of paper. I shrugged, telling her that I guessed so since it didn’t print my receipt after I asked it to. She was slow to get me my copy. When I finally left the store, the bell above the door ringing behind me as it came to a close, I could just hear the guy who had held the glass open for me saying that his pump was also not printing his receipt.
When I was halfway home, I noticed that the same truck had been following me, its headlights raining in through my rear window, since I had left the gas station. It was a little out of the ordinary, but I tried my best to ignore it, basking in the flow of quiet country tunes flowing from my stereo. Only when the truck followed my left turn into my apartment complex did my heart start beating ten times faster.
I gathered my things – my bag, my cardigan and notebook – into my arms, my keys ready so that I could quickly hurry up the stairs to my apartment. I started around the front of my car toward the lit sidewalk when a voice called out to me, the owner of the truck coming into view on the concrete sidewalk a few paces away.
“I’m not stalking you, I swear,” he called, stepping under one of the lights by the covered walkthrough between the two sections of the one apartment building. His sandy hair shined under the light and he smiled easily, his lips pulling up, surrounded by a slightly darker shade of stubble. It was the guy from the gas station, who had followed me into the store in search of a printed receipt as well.
“I must admit, I was getting a little worried. I usually lose people after the turn at Woodrow.”
He laughed, and I found myself taking a few steps closer until I was also under the covered walkway, my body relaxing some at the sound. I hadn’t realized how tense I had become between unbuckling my seatbelt and stepping out of my car.
He reached out a hand and I hesitated some before taking it, his warm fingers wrapping around mine as we shook. He nodded toward me, smiling slightly. “My name’s Leroy Samuels.”
“Mariah Walker,” I said, nodding back.
“I hope you have a nice night, Miss Walker. One Jenkins Commons resident to another,” he smiled again, dropping a hand into his tan cargo shorts, pulling out a set of keys. He took a moment to flip through them, spreading a hand over his hair once he found the right one.
I finished off our pleasantries, gesturing for him to walk up the stairs first. I waited behind for a moment, then started up the stairs a few paces behind him. I nearly bumped into him again at the landing of the second floor. He laughed again, the sound light and very musical to my ears.
“I’m 2B,” he explained, motioning toward the apartment door a few steps away. I nodded in understanding. “I’m also that guy who can’t tell his apartment key from his other keys.”
“Well,” I said, pulling my bag higher on my shoulder, “at least your journey is relatively short. I, on the other hand, have a ways to go. 4B.”
“Good luck Miss Walker,” he said, seeming to find his key.
“Thank you; and good night to you, Mr. Samuels.”
It wasn’t until I was up in my apartment an hour later, a water bottle pressed to my lips and a blanket wrapped around my legs, the book I had been reading lying next to me on the mattress, that I realized I might have been flirting with a stranger. A stranger who, as it turned out, wouldn’t remain such for long.
We met by happenstance, actually. I was filling up the gas tank of my 2001 Chevrolet Impala, stuffing my debit card back into the depths of my purse as my hair blew around me with the latest gush of wind through my open windows. I heard the ‘ka-thunk’ of the fuel pump as it signaled that my tank was filled and set my purse aside, sticking my legs out of my open door and hurrying to remove the nozzle and get my receipt.
When I turned back from screwing my fuel cap back on to retrieve my receipt, I found myself waiting for the machine to chug out the small scrap of paper. I waited and waited and waited, but nothing happened. Frustrated, I spent another moment deciding if I should leave or go inside to get a copy. I looked around the lot and noticed only two other cars fueling up and one waiting by the front entrance to the store. Not bothering to lock up my vehicle, I headed inside.
I asked for a receipt for my pump. The woman asked if it was out of paper. I shrugged, telling her that I guessed so since it didn’t print my receipt after I asked it to. She was slow to get me my copy. When I finally left the store, the bell above the door ringing behind me as it came to a close, I could just hear the guy who had held the glass open for me saying that his pump was also not printing his receipt.
When I was halfway home, I noticed that the same truck had been following me, its headlights raining in through my rear window, since I had left the gas station. It was a little out of the ordinary, but I tried my best to ignore it, basking in the flow of quiet country tunes flowing from my stereo. Only when the truck followed my left turn into my apartment complex did my heart start beating ten times faster.
I gathered my things – my bag, my cardigan and notebook – into my arms, my keys ready so that I could quickly hurry up the stairs to my apartment. I started around the front of my car toward the lit sidewalk when a voice called out to me, the owner of the truck coming into view on the concrete sidewalk a few paces away.
“I’m not stalking you, I swear,” he called, stepping under one of the lights by the covered walkthrough between the two sections of the one apartment building. His sandy hair shined under the light and he smiled easily, his lips pulling up, surrounded by a slightly darker shade of stubble. It was the guy from the gas station, who had followed me into the store in search of a printed receipt as well.
“I must admit, I was getting a little worried. I usually lose people after the turn at Woodrow.”
He laughed, and I found myself taking a few steps closer until I was also under the covered walkway, my body relaxing some at the sound. I hadn’t realized how tense I had become between unbuckling my seatbelt and stepping out of my car.
He reached out a hand and I hesitated some before taking it, his warm fingers wrapping around mine as we shook. He nodded toward me, smiling slightly. “My name’s Leroy Samuels.”
“Mariah Walker,” I said, nodding back.
“I hope you have a nice night, Miss Walker. One Jenkins Commons resident to another,” he smiled again, dropping a hand into his tan cargo shorts, pulling out a set of keys. He took a moment to flip through them, spreading a hand over his hair once he found the right one.
I finished off our pleasantries, gesturing for him to walk up the stairs first. I waited behind for a moment, then started up the stairs a few paces behind him. I nearly bumped into him again at the landing of the second floor. He laughed again, the sound light and very musical to my ears.
“I’m 2B,” he explained, motioning toward the apartment door a few steps away. I nodded in understanding. “I’m also that guy who can’t tell his apartment key from his other keys.”
“Well,” I said, pulling my bag higher on my shoulder, “at least your journey is relatively short. I, on the other hand, have a ways to go. 4B.”
“Good luck Miss Walker,” he said, seeming to find his key.
“Thank you; and good night to you, Mr. Samuels.”
It wasn’t until I was up in my apartment an hour later, a water bottle pressed to my lips and a blanket wrapped around my legs, the book I had been reading lying next to me on the mattress, that I realized I might have been flirting with a stranger. A stranger who, as it turned out, wouldn’t remain such for long.
♠ ♠ ♠
New deal.