What Dreams Are Made Of

Megan was on her way back from a fall writer’s conference at UNCW where she had been asked to teach a class about the proper way to prepare a book outline. She was just twenty-six but already she had lucked into a few book deals and was an aspiring, meaning broke, writer. When the college had offered to pay her traveling expenses and a small gratuity for a two-day seminar, she had leapt at the chance.

Now she wondered if those traveling expenses included fixing her flat tire. She unhooked her seat belt and opened the car door. Fortunately, the flat was on the curb side so at least she wouldn’t have to worry about someone hitting her if she was able to put on the spare. She went back and opened the trunk. Of course it was full of books, files, folders, and luggage. She started unloading everything from the trunk, putting it all on the back seat so she wouldn’t have to worry about anything happening to it. She was on the third carton when a car pulled in behind hers.

She looked back as she carried a carton to the back seat of her ten-year old Pontiac Bonneville. A man in his late thirties, or even early forties, got out and ambled towards her. A feeling of trepidation crept up her spine as she remembered all the scary Stephen King novels she’d read. Why was she thinking the worst case scenario instead of the best? Her practicality returned as she reasoned that surely he would know a lot more about changing a tire than she did.

"Need some help there?" He asked with a wide grin. He ambled over to the side of the car that was lower and knelt as he looked at the flat. He was rangy, almost to the point of being gaunt. His graying brown hair was in bad need of a cut. That, along with his scratchy-looking salt and pepper beard growth gave him an all over grizzled look.

"Just had a blow out. It was probably all my fault. I knew it was time to start thinking about replacing these tires. I guess I just didn’t think it was as urgent as it apparently was," she replied with a self-mocking smile.

Megan was petite and slender, reaching five foot only by wearing stacked heels or standing on her toes. One would think she was a student on campus instead of the teacher. She had short brown curly hair that framed her small oval face, with an auburn shading that shimmered in the full light. It was a throw back to her Irish ancestry. While her dark brown eyes, flecked with green, were filled with the seriousness of rich mahogany, her lightly arched eyebrows were expressive enough to let the imp in her show through. Her small up-turned nose with the merest scattering of freckles, gave her a juvenile look and promised to hide her maturing age for years to come. Her bow shaped lips framed a small mouth very sensuously. Pink and full, they fell into a natural smile unless she was pouting.

"You got a spare and a jack? I think I can get it off," he said smiling to himself at the secret double meaning of his words.

Ducking out from under the back seat she turned and walked back to the trunk. "Only one more box to move and then I think I can get to everything. Should be a spare and jack in this well under here," she said as she indicated the felt covered bottom of the trunk.

He took the last carton out of the trunk and carried it to the back seat on the opposite side of the car. As Megan helped him to maneuver it inside she asked him what his name was.

"James Johnson, but everybody just calls me J.J."

"Well, J.J. I sure am glad you happened by," she said as she stood up. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a blue and gray State Trooper car drive by on the other side of the median, going the opposite direction. J.J. was still hunched over in the back seat and didn’t see it as it flashed by or he might have had other ideas about hanging around.

Megan removed the well cover and pulled out the spare and the jack. Within ten minutes the two of them had the spare on the car and the flat in the trunk.

Megan lifted her hand to shake J.J’s grimy one, saying, "I don’t know how I can thank you for stopping and helping me. I really appreciate it. Can I give you some money for your trouble? It would have cost me at least a tow bill if you hadn’t come along."

J.J. mumbled something and hung his head down a bit, indicating that he wouldn’t be adverse to that idea so she went around to the front passenger side to get her purse.

Before she knew what had happened he had her pinned to the front seat with his knee high up between her thighs pushing her short shirt up to her crotch, his arms holding her shoulders down. She was shocked, scared, and bewildered all at once. This couldn’t be happening to her, she knew better than to let this happen to her!

***

Lance Connors sped by the old Bonneville and noticed the young woman beside the car. There was an even older car pulled in behind it but he didn’t see the driver. He wondered about that and then decided to turn around at the next intersection to check it out. Before he got to it though, he was hailed by a motorist who had run out of gas a few miles further up. He stopped to assist, asking the dispatcher to call the roadside assistance number for the manufacturer’s warranty service. When he was assured that somebody was on the way with some gasoline he remembered the woman on the opposite side of the highway. He got back in his cruiser and instead of driving to the next turnaround, he drove across the grass median and backtracked to where she was.

***

Megan was struggling to get him off of her but it was to no avail. She was only able to kick her heels into his back from this position and that wasn’t doing any good, she couldn’t get enough leverage to make her efforts count. In fact, it was only making her more accessible to him. Suddenly a shiny silver knife blade was waved across her face and she froze.

"Now, that’s a good girl. I see you understand me now," he hissed at her through crooked, stained teeth and cracked lips. For the first time she was aware of the strong smell of beer and tobacco emanating from him.

He slowly took the knife and one by one he popped the buttons off of her shirt by inserting it between the folds. She got the message that he was trying to send her about how sharp the knife was. When he had divested her buttons he used the point of the knife to open each side of her shirt, using exaggerated movements to lay first one side of it across her arm and then the opposite side. Deftly he cut the short satin-covered piece of elastic that joined the two cups of her bra together. The tension that had been on the elastic caused the bra to pop wide open exposing her lily white breasts to his gaze.

"Nice. Very nice. A bit on the small side though. They remind me of my first girlfriend’s. She was just fourteen when I took her," he whispered as one hand moved to caress a fleshy mound.