#hasil farrell

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Fuck this.

They were the first words you thought to yourself as you woke up in the dead of the night, thunder and lightning crashing above the New York townhouse your boyfriend owned, rain rattling violently against the window panes.

Fuck this.

Not the weather, not the house, but fuck him and his phony facade to the outside world, fuck the way he treated you behind closed doors, fuck the bruises and bust lips and black eyes that you had to hide behind layers of makeup and excuses.

Last night was the last straw. He’d gone too far, just because you made polite conversation with his associate at the work event he practically dragged you to. He’d hurt you for the last time, humiliated you enough, and his apologies and excuses and promises to change were all empty and you were done.

Creeping out of bed, your head pounding from where it was slammed into the bedroom wall just hours before, you used the storm to cover your back, the noises outside masking the soft sounds of your feet on the plush carpet, of the suitcase zipping, of the front door opening and closing.

You barely had time to pack anything, you were too terrified he’d wake up and catch you in the act, and then you’d be done for.

You had the essentials, but you’d had to leave behind many things you loved, but now was not the time to worry about those.

You ran through the torrential rain to your shitty little car that was parked along the street, sticking out like a sore thumb alongside the fancy cars in this part of town, something that always pissed your boyfriend off, but you loved this car, it was your first car and it had been with you through so many life events you couldn’t bare to part with it.

Your heart was lodged firmly in your throat as you threw your suitcase in the backseat and climbed in, starting the engine and praying it wouldn’t die on you now of all times.

The engine roared to life and you almost let out a sigh of relief, but then the bedroom light flicked on, and your body went ice cold.

Fuck this.

You thought one last time as you pulled out and drove as fast as you could away from the place you’d grown to hate.

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As far as your luck stretched, your little car got you out of New York at least, but then it ran out and your car broke down, smoke billowing from the engine just out of state.

You stood behind the car, with your suitcase in hand and still damp from the earlier rain, the sky still dark but lightening on the horizon.

You were too close to New York for your liking, you needed to get further West, or you were certain he’d find you.

The road was quiet this time of morning, and you shivered as your damp clothes stuck to your skin, and you briefly contemplated quickly changing behind the car, but part of you was scared it might explode, or that you might miss a passerby, so you held fast and waited with your arms wrapped tightly around yourself for warmth.

It felt like forever before an old Station Waggon came into view, slowing to a stop in the middle of the road next to your smoking car.

Tentatively you walked over, as the window rolled down. It was too dark to see the driver, until he took a drag of the cigarette on his lips and the embers just about lit up his face. Sharp features and dark hair illuminated for a brief second before he removed the smoke and exhaled slowly.

“Need a ride?” He asked, his voice rich and deep.

“Uh…” you hesitated, unsure if it was a good idea to get into this particular strangers car.

“It’s a yes or no question, sweet cheeks.”

You bristled, ready to tell him no thanks, but a fat, cold rain drop landed on your bare shoulder and your resolve immediately weakened. You were freezing, uncomfortable, and terrified your boyfriend… well ex boyfriend… would turn up at any moment.

You hesitated only briefly, and then nodded, “Yes, please.”

The man ushered for you to put your suitcase in the back seat and get in as he took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it out the window.

Man, if this dude ended up murdering you, you’d be pissed.

You grabbed your luggage and gave your car one last forlorn look before climbing in, just as the rain started to come down heavily again.

You closed the passenger door and shivered, mumbling a thank you as you took in the car. It was tidy, but stank of smoke and burgers.

The man reached behind your seat and pulled out an old snot-yellow cardigan, one you were sure belonged to a woman, and your eyes flicked briefly to his hand in search of a wedding band.

Nothing. You’d hoped he was married, for some reason that would have made you feel… safer.

“Here.” He said, handing you the cardigan.

“Oh… thank you.” You said, gratefully pulling the cardigan on over your damp clothes.

“Benson.” He reached over and extended his hand.

You took it hesitantly and shook, “Y/N.”

“Where you off to, Y/N?” He asked, pulling away and driving away from your sorry old car.

You cleared your throat, you hadn’t actually thought this plan through fully.

“Anywhere.” You said softly, “As far away from New York as you can get me.”

Benson breathed out a chuckle, it sounded menacing.

“A little run-away, huh?” It was still too dark to really see his face, but you could tell he was smiling from the lilt in his voice.

You decided to ignore him, and to your relief he didn’t say much else for a while as he continued to drive further and further away from the city you’d grown to fear.

After a while, the sky began to lighten and you could finally get a good look at the man who’s car you were travelling in, and you couldn’t help but linger over his sharp cheekbones, his hair that curled slightly, or the way his cheeks hollowed as he pulled on another cigarette as he drove lazily down the Highway.

“You’re staring.” Benson said without taking his eyes off the road, and a hint of a smile tugged on his lips.

You blushed.

“Where are you heading?” You decided to change the subject as quickly as you could.

“Anywhere.” He mirrored your earlier statement, tearing his eyes from the road to smirk at you.

Finally you let out a small smile and laughed.

What a weird guy.

After a couple more hours of driving in (now comfortable) silence, Benson indicated to come off onto a rest stop with a gas station.

“I need to grab some more smokes.” He said, pulling the car into a space. You felt relieved, you really had to pee and your clothes were still damp, you would finally get the opportunity to change.

“Want anything from inside?” Benson asked as he got out of the car and you lugged out your suitcase.

“No, thanks.” You smiled quickly before scurrying into the bathrooms.

The floor was gross, but the toilet was even worse, so you kept the suitcase up right on its wheels and squatted over the seat for a wee, before washing your hands and opening the suitcase a crack and fishing around blindly for dry clothes.

You pulled out a fitted cornflower blue jumper, and a fresh pair of jeans, and quickly changed. You checked your reflection in the mirror and a bruise was already blooming on your cheekbone from being smashed against the wall last night, but thankfully the rest of your appearance was still fine, so you smeared on some concealer and picked up your suitcase. You went back outside, desperately hoping Benson hadn’t decided to leave you.

Much to your relief, the old car stood in the same spot, but Benson was nowhere in sight.

You assumed there was a long line inside so you walked out of the bathroom towards the car to wait, but a hand slammed over your mouth and yanked you against the wall to the side of the toilets.

You yelped as Benson pushed you against the wall and out of sight of the cars and fuel pumps.

“Shhhh…” he lifted his free hands index finger to his lips.

Your eyes watered out of fear, and surprise that you actually found Benson disturbingly beautiful up close, and then out of disgust for feeling this at a time when this practical stranger had you pinned against a dirty wall.

The sound of police sirens raced across the highway and out into the distance, growing quieter the further away they got, and finally Benson released his hand slowly, circling his hand around your wrist instead. He lifted his finger to his lips once more to tell you to keep quiet, and pulled you slowly and carefully towards the car.

You were too stunned and confused to do or say anything other than drag your suitcase along behind you.

Benson grabbed the case and shoved it into the backseat again, ushering you inside the car and buckling your seatbelt. As he leaned over you, you could smell him through the stale cigarette smoke and burgers that tainted the vehicles material, and he smelled of oak and patchouli.

He closed the door and rounded the front, climbed into his seat and sped off in completely the opposite direction he was going in before, back towards New York.

“Wait… what are you doing?”

“We need to go a different way.” He said with his eyes darting around the now busy highway.

“What’s going on? Why are you hiding from the police-“

Benson suddenly opened the glove compartment in front of you and pulled out something that made your heart plummet.

A pistol, and he pressed the cold metal against your ribcage through your sweater.

“Just shut up and sit pretty.” He said so calmly it made your breath stutter.

What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

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By midday, Benson had pulled into a grotty old Motel parking lot, and he turned to face you in his seat, the gun still pressed painfully against your ribs.

How he drove that way for so long you would never know, but a small part of you was impressed.

“Right, you’ve got two options.” He said, turning to look at you, his blue eyes boring into your fearful ones. “Either you can stay in the car, and behave yourself until I get back, or you can come inside with me, pretend to me my wife, and keep your pretty mouth shut. What will it be, princess?”

Your mouth opened and you gaped at him for a moment.

“Clocks ticking sweetheart.” He gave you a sarcastic smile, and a wave of hot fury swept over you. The cheek of this guy.

“I’m coming in.” You stated, straightening your spine in defiance.

“Alright.” He said, climbing out of the car.

You followed hesitantly, but you knew this would be your only way to somehow get help.

Benson shot you a warning look, as if he’d read your mind. “I mean it, behave.”

Without another word, you followed Benson into the small reception office of the shitty motel. It was dark inside, the walls littered with pamphlets in plastic cubbies that fluttered as the desk fan rotated in the stifling room. It was that time of year where the nights were cold and the days were hot, and you felt sticky in your jumper, sweat from your nerves trickling down the dip of your back.

Benson plastered on his friendliest face and leaned against the counter top, as the man behind it barely acknowledged the two of you.

“Hi there, I’d like to book a room for me and my lovely wife here.” Benson explained with his saccharine smile.

The man didn’t even bother to look up as he clicked slowly on his old computer. “How many nights?” He murmured.

God, this dude was not about to be your knight in shining armour, that’s for sure. Not without a nudge anyway.

You walked over to the desk and leaned over with a smile of your own.

“Just one please.” You tapped your fingers loudly against the sticky wood. “And!”

The man’s head shot up to you at your strange exclamation, “Do you have anyone who could help me with my bag?”

Benson and the man looked at you for a long while.

The man eyed your lone suitcase and then back at you, “I don’t think you need help with that thing, ma’am, I’m sure your husband can carry it for you.”

You huffed, holding his gaze, your eyes widening as you tried to signal to him that you were in danger. “No, he has a bad back. I need your help.”

Benson caught on to what you were doing, and he shot the man an apologetic look. “Ignore her, I can take it.” He said, before pushing you back out of ear shot while the man did what he needed to do on his computer.

Benson’s arm slipped around your waist in a loving embrace, but his words were acidic in your ear.

“You think I’m fucking stupid? If I hear you open your mouth or so much as look at him again, I’ll make sure you don’t sit for a week.”

Although he was only threatening to spank you, it was enough to shut you up until you reached your room on the second floor.

The second the door closed behind Benson, you shoved him as hard as you could, his back thudding against the wall with the force you exerted.

“What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing?!” You yelled in between shoving him as hard as you possibly could, but it only made Benson grin down at you in amusement. “You kidnapped me!” You wailed, standing as tall as you could, seething.

“Technically you got in my car willingly.” He smirked down at you.

You lifted your hand to shove him again, but he quickly grasped your wrist in mid air, squeezing tightly.

“Enough.” He said simply. “I don’t want this any more than you do, but unfortunately when the cops started sniffing around that gas station, I couldn’t very well let you draw attention to my car, and after that you would have suspected something, so you’re stuck with me until I can figure out what to do with you.”

You gawked at him, stunned, “What to do with me? Are you going to kill me?”

He smirked again, releasing your wrist as he walked to the double bed, “Depends.”

You followed, your chest rising and falling heavily as rage began to burn at your finger tips.

“Fuck you, I don’t need this. I’m leaving. Thanks for the ride, asshole.” You huffed, grabbing your suitcase and whirling towards the door.

That must have been the last straw for Benson, because suddenly his hand was in your hair and he tugged you so your back was pressed against his front, his other hand circling over your throat.

“You leave, when I say you can leave.”

His hold on you was not painful, but it was firm enough to show you he could exert real force if he wanted to. That he could overpower you easily.

Benson released your hair and stroked his knuckle down your cheek, his mouth dipping low against your ear, “Now be a good girl, and be quiet for the rest of the night.”

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- Part 2 Here -

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