When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

It’s a great saying. Full of optimism and positive outlook.

But whoever came up with it assumed that life only has fresh lemons to hand out.

What if life gives you rotten lemons? Then what? What do you have to say to that, First Person Who Came up with the Saying?

Forget lemons. You need to take a break, my lungs whine. My muscles are screaming a chorus of pain and my feet are demanding a better pair of running shoes because pounding along a jogging trail—even a dirt one—is still hard on the joints.

I grit my teeth and push harder, sweat running in rivulets despite the cool morning air. My body’s complaining because it doesn’t quite grasp the implication of a wildlife documentary I saw once. In it, the narrator said, “You don’t have to be the fastest animal in the herd. You just have to be faster than the slowest one.”

But what about prey that doesn’t have a herd? Prey that has to run alone?

Prey like me.

I’ve been running for eight years now, while the damn universe keeps throwing one rotten lemon after another, hard enough to leave bruises. Soon it’s going to start lobbing lemons with razor blades embedded. Why settle for bruises when you can slice and dice?

Okay, stop with the negativity, please.

Fine, fine. I shake off my morose thoughts. I didn’t move to Los Angeles to bitch about my life, certainly not in my first month here. I’m in the City of Angels for a sign, something—anything—that says I’m going to be okay. That I’m going to be safe…that I can quit running and rest.

A guardian angel.

The universe owes me something half-decent by now. I’m not even looking for fresh lemons. Just some that aren’t totally rotted out yet, so I can turn them into the lemonade everyone’s always talking about.

I take in my new environment without slowing down. Cincinnati was such a lovely town. A place that could’ve kept me safe, or so I thought.

My wishful thinking lasted ten months and three days.

The universe gave me a sign that final morning. I was watching TV, and the news anchors were bursting with morbid excitement over a missing young woman who was found dead just three days earlier. The killer? Her ex-boyfriend.

“Young men with twisted sexual desires and fantasies…” intoned one anchor. His partner picked it up: “…who lose their outlet…can go dark.” Her tone was somber but her eyes shone with a macabre eagerness to share the nugget of wisdom. “They can’t stop. Until they’re caught or they satisfy their fantasy, which can escalate all the way up to murder.”

What I heard was: My stepbrother Roy isn’t going to stop tormenting me. He’s going to keep going until he kills me.

It’s okay. I’ve been in Cincinnati for over ten months, and he still hasn’t found me. And that’s a new record. Maybe—just maybe—he’s gotten bored chasing me all around the country. Maybe he’s even dating, although I feel sorry for his girlfriend because she probably doesn’t know Roy’s a sociopath.

If Roy hadn’t done anything by my next birthday—which would be a big deal, since he always sends me a “gift” to make sure I know he hasn’t forgotten about me—maybe I could’ve thought about something beyond running. I might even have been able to make friends I could actually hang out with. Maybe started college.

When I turned TV off and exited my half-basement unit—which I rented from a nice old lady who was supplementing her social security with the wrinkled stack of cash I gave her every month—I saw a brown sedan coming down our residential road entirely too fast. My throat went tight as I saw old Mrs. Kowalski in the way. She saw the car but froze, like an actor caught in a slow-mo scene. I screamed at her to move, waving my arms.

The sedan didn’t stop. It plowed into her full speed, blowing her out of the way like a scarecrow in front of a tidal wave, then swerved around the corner and vanished. But this time it was me who was frozen as blood shot up to my head, then almost immediately drained away, leaving me dizzy and dazed.

The license plate. The same damn Georgia vanity plate that appears in every city and town I try to run off to.

 

RN IF U CN

 

When the police questioned me, I told them I hadn’t seen anything useful. I knew from experience that giving them the vanity plate wouldn’t lead to anything. The plate doesn’t officially exist. Roy had it made just to torment me, to let me know he’s found me.

Run if you can.

Now, running along the path, I can still feel his creepy artificial watermelon breath against my ear. I shiver, even as sweat pours down my body in the Los Angeles heat.

Universe, you gave me a sign in Cincinnati right before Roy’s car appeared. That means you feel like you owe me one after eight years of shitty luck, right? So come on. Give me something. A guardian angel to keep me safe. If that’s too much, then just a sign. Just direct me where I can find somebody who can do something about Roy.

A man jumps in front of me. Adrenaline spikes, scorching through me and expelling an unsteady breath from my lungs. Is this a sign? I squint, running my shirt around my forehead and eyebrows to get the sweat out of my eyes.

The air carries the smell of stale alcohol, and then the most incredible stench. His dark, greasy curls stick to his dirt-smudged face and hollow cheeks. Yellow crust lines bloodshot eyes. His long coat is a mysterious shade somewhere between dingy and grimy, and his calf-length athletic socks were white at some point in the past.

The man in front of me hasn’t been intimate with soap in days. And it’s been months for his clothes. But as awful as his body odor is, I don’t think it’s enough to kill Roy.

“Hey there, pretty girl.” He smiles, displaying crooked teeth a shade lighter than mocha.

My lungs are still demanding air, so I breathe through my mouth, wondering whether to go around this person or just turn and jog back the way I came.

His eyes twinkle. “Gonna show you something good.” He yanks the coat open.

“Agh!” I jump back, raising my hands to block the view, but it’s too late.

Rotten lemons, and now a disgustingly dirty sausage? Fuck you, universe! I seethe inside. If I didn’t have to screen out the sickening display, I’d be shaking my fists.

He laughs triumphantly, then starts walking toward me.

I step back, my heart beating hard for reasons that have nothing to do with the morning run. This isn’t the kind of torment my stepbrother enjoys, but he could’ve expanded his repertoire.

Please, for God’s sake. Let this guy be a random pervert freak!

I run my gaze down the man’s naked torso and legs. Just lots of filthy, hair-matted skin, no tats or writing mentioning Roy. Thank God.

Apparently Roy hasn’t found me yet, even though he has to know by now that I’m no longer in Cincinnati. That’s good. Very good.

Then I realize something else. The section of the huge park this freak and I are in is secluded. Lots of trees and nobody around. At least not anyone I can hear.

I need to either fight or run. I don’t want to run, but it’s the most logical option. No matter how unhygienic this man is, he’s taller and bigger than me. Probably stronger, too, although I doubt he’s fit enough to chase and catch me if I take off.

But suddenly I’m too full of rage at the world. I have to run from somebody as pathetic and fucked up as this? It’s unfair that a predator like him can thrive, while I have to hide, run and cower when I haven’t done anything wrong.

Is there anything I can swing at him? A branch? Or is he drunk and slow and stupid enough that a kick in the balls will work?

A piercing whistle cuts the air from behind me.

Someone’s here! Maybe I won’t have to run or deal with this pervert myself. If I’m lucky, the other person will be a cop who’ll arrest this disgusting subhuman and toss the jail cell key into the ocean.

I turn around, ready to call out for help, then stumble back and literally fall on my butt in surprise when three huge Dobermans rush up, their teeth fully bared. Their ears are clipped and pointed. Spiked collars encircle their necks. Obviously, they’re not cuddly pets who want to play.

There’s no time to get back to my feet. The canine paws eat up the ground at a pace I could never match. In any second, those fangs are going to rip into me. Tremors shoot through me, and my mouth is full of bitter sourness.

A flasher…and now hellhounds? Maybe the universe really wants me gone from Los Angeles.

The flasher lets out a small whimper and starts to stagger backward.

Don’t worry, perv. Given my luck, they’re after me. For all I know, they’re Roy’s dogs—

The dogs blow past me, two hundred pounds of canine determination. I stare after them, my face slack.

One of them jumps and pushes the flasher back. He lands with a thud. The others help the first keep him on the ground, looming over him, growling and snarling. One snaps at his dick, which shrivels faster than a balloon deflating.

Then the flasher pees in his non-pants.

So. Gross.

I stand up slowly, so as not to upset the dogs or get their attention. But they seem occupied with the filthy asshole on the ground. I try to get my breathing under control, my legs shaky. The Dobermans obviously aren’t after me, so that’s good. Maybe they’re trained to only attack perverts in the wild.

“Thanks,” I murmur, backing away. I don’t extend a hand for the Dobermans to sniff. I need my hands to start my job at the café. The manager’s probably not going to appreciate it if I call in hospitalized on my first day.

One of the dogs smacks the flasher’s crotch with its paw. The man lets out a pained whine, his body curling, despite the dogs on him. The dog that smacked him eyes the man’s ass like he wants to sink his teeth into it.

“Don’t do it,” I say. “You’re going to get lice or butt cooties or something.”

The dog saved my life. It deserves a cleaner ass than that to bite if it’s in the mood to chew on something—not that I’m volunteering my own. I tell myself I’m doing it a favor because mine is sweaty from the run.

“Stravinsky, no,” comes a firm, gravelly command.

The dog immediately stops sizing up the man’s buttocks and sits, its rump firmly on the ground and its mouth open and tongue hanging out in an “I’m waiting for your next command, aren’t I a good dog” pose.

It’s an instantaneous transformation. Holy cow. That’s some amazing training.

The dogs’ owner appears from between the trees. He’s tall—really tall. Broad shoulders and a lot of muscle, but not in a pretty-boy model way. They seem more utilitarian, developed on a farm rather than in a gym. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and frayed blue jeans. Boots with soles that look hard. A pair of reflective sunglasses wrap around his eyes, and the only thing I can see is his wide forehead, thin nose, flat mouth and strong jaw. His thick, dark hair’s cropped—too short to grab, just like his dogs’ ears. His expression doesn’t change to reassure me that he’s a safe person, like most men do when they meet a woman for the first time.

“Thank you.” I give him a slightly nervous smile.

He doesn’t smile back. Instead, he approaches, his movements unhurried but precise. I can feel his eyes doing a quick scan of me behind the sunglasses. My pulse skitters, and the fine hair on the back of my neck bristles with something I’ve never felt before. If I have to put my finger on it, I’d say it’s a little bit like fear and a little bit like being buzzed. Whichever, it’s making it hard for me to breathe evenly.

Swallowing, I glance down and spot sweat, dirt and stains on my shirt and pants from the run and fall. I squirm as my face heats with embarrassment. My rescuer’s probably wondering if I’m friends with the flasher. We’re both filthy, although I’m certain I smell better despite my sweaty state.

My mouth is sawdust dry, but I manage to say, “You saved me from this pervert.” Just so he knows that the creep and I have nothing in common.

The man stays silent.

Ooookay… This is awkward. But I don’t want my savior to go without at least knowing his name.

This is the first time I’ve encountered somebody who looks like an angel. Not the nice, sweet kind who sings heavenly songs and make you feel warm and happy, but the kind God sends down to smite bad guys. The stranger could also pass for a demon who’s crawled out of the fiery depths of hell, but I prefer the smite-mission angel.

You better make friends with him, something in my gut says.

And every cell in my brain says I need to listen to my gut.

I start to extend my hand until I realize my palms are damp with sweat. I should say something to let him know I’d like to get to know him or something. “I’m Angelika,” I blurt out. “You are…?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he lets out another whistle. The Dobermans come over, then fall in behind him. The perv stands up, his hands and legs shaking.

“Cover it before I cut it off.” The dog owner says it as though the very presence of the flasher offends him.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” The pervert immediately pulls his coat together, holding it tightly. Liquid drips down one leg.

“Leave,” my savior says. He doesn’t raise his voice, but his word carries, full of raw power that sends shivers down my body.

“Sure, man. No problem. No hard feelings.” The perv nods and starts to back away slowly, his eyes on the man and the dogs.

One of the Dobermans barks, like he’s annoyed the perv’s taking his sweet time. The flasher jumps, then runs, stumbling a little in his hurry. One hand holds the coat together as the other protects his crotch.

“Thank you,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice steady, so my savior doesn’t think I’m crazy or something. Bet he already does. Why couldn’t I have waited until now to introduce myself and act all cool and…you know, like the kind of person you’d want to be friends with? I totally blew it in my desperation and scrambled thinking.

But he’s already started walking away. I take a hesitant step toward him, but his dogs are moving in a protective formation that blocks me.

“Really. Thank you,” I call out. I’m not going to fight three trained Dobermans.

He glances back over a shoulder. And I swear I can see the faint hint of a smile fleet over his face.

But then he turns around, and all I can see is his back.