Chapter 2

The outskirts of a desert town, right outside of San Diego, California. Agnes sat in her car, parked on the side of the road. It was midnight. She just stared at the darkness and kept trying to fix what she had done. But there was no way back, no rewind button in this life. She had been a prisoner in a con.

A man, a thief, had lied to her almost a year ago to the day and had taken her away from everything she thought she was, everything and everyone who knew she existed in Los Angeles. The restaurant manager, the few neighbors who saw her come in and out of her miniscule studio apartment had all said goodbye to her, believing that this was a great opportunity for her. Wow, Agnes had thought, a real music producer wants to hire me as his assistant. Sure, it takes a lot of sacrifice, and, of course, I need to quit my current job as a hostess and drive out to Vegas tomorrow. Totally normal. The Australian had come into the restaurant and fooled her into a fake job and a fake future, which she blindly walked into and fell into a deep, freezing black hole. For months, he made her buy things and pay for hotel rooms. He used her to survive then abandoned her in this godforsaken place. She had nothing left, no place to go, and no one to help her.

Her eyes were beyond tired; she had been driving since six in the morning and had not stopped. She had gained almost twenty pounds, having been force fed and kept mentally chained to the Australian man, she did not know her body was alive anymore. All she knew was he was gone, and she was left with a car she could not pay for and a life now destroyed. He was fat, annoying, and for the life of her, she did not remember why she would believe someone like him. Looking back to the moment she decided to go with him, the signs were everywhere. The manager in the restaurant she worked in did not want to leave her alone. She persisted, insisted on staying with her while the man spoke to Agnes.

“Agnes, let me stay with you. He seems a bit odd.”

Agnes reassured her. Lied to her. She had been alone and took care of things alone. That is how she proved her strength since she thought she was unworthy of help from anyone. She had become afraid of asking for help when, as a little girl, her teachers would make her feel stupid, joking how she would probably never amount to much outside of the acting profession. So, she had learned to lie and to appear smarter, stronger, and perfect. Even though she broke rules, stole, and manipulated her way out of problems, she was admired.

Now, sitting in that car, it was like all of her lies, all of the wrong life choices, came crashing down on her. The leather seat was warm and uncomfortable, and she felt sweaty and gross.

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?” she asked out loud. She clutched the driver’s wheel. She turned the car off.

Her gas tank was down to a quarter tank, and she had zero money in her purse. Her credit cards were maxed out, and she had negative one hundred dollars in her bank account. Agnes got out of the car.

She had been wearing the same clothes for a few days. Her sweat and the dirt had permanently permeated her skin. Ripped white-washed jeans, a faded t-shirt, and old sneakers. Her hair was in a messy bun, not for fashion’s sake, but for the fact that she had lost her suitcase with her brush, soap, and everything she needed to the conman. He dragged her to the remote town she now found herself in and told her he would be right back with the money he owed her, and they would start to work on the movie soundtrack he was waiting to be offered. Then, he vanished that night. The next morning, around five, she knew it was all over. His bag was gone and so was hers.

The road was quiet. Warm nights reminded her of San Juan on a summer night. No sounds of life echoed in the distance, only that round, perfect nothing vastness of an empty road.

She needed to eat, get gas, and figure out how to get back to somewhere. Anywhere.

“I was so freaking stupid!” yelled Agnes into the void.

She yelled again, and again, and again, emptying her lungs and mind of all the pain and the silent suffering she had endured for a year. Torture. She was strong; she had always known that deep within. But how the hell could she recover from this? Her resume was shot, her background check would be a joke, and there was no way to explain her current situation.

“Um, so, I thought I had an assistant job, but turns out, it was all fake. But I’m an NYU grad!”

What kind of job could she possibly find that wanted her acting skills? Plus, there was the fact that she survived living with a con artist while managing to not get raped or killed. There must be something she could be good for. She looked up at the stars. When she was younger, she had been obsessed with astrology. Maybe this was all written in the stars... Maybe this was her beginning.

“Right… I’m garbage now,” she said aloud. She opened her car door, slammed it shut, and walked.

She walked to where the edge of the tar met the border of burnt yellow grass and sat down. The gravel felt hard like needles, hurting her hands. At least she was still alive. She wrapped her arms over her knees and looked at the city. San Diego. Wow, that happened.

Nobody would believe her. She was still trying to believe it all herself.

From a distance, she heard the sound of an engine roaring towards her. Was that an old muscle car engine, a sports car, or something sleeker, more modern? She could tell the difference. Agnes was obsessed with James Bond and had seen all of the movies. The gear Q prepped for James, the scene in the underground headquarters, and most importantly, the Aston Martin, truly made Agnes happy. One day, she thought, I would be like a female James Bond: in control, beautiful, and going around the world performing good deeds but having a lot of fun and kicking ass while doing it. If she could have chosen spy school, she would have. I guess acting was the next best thing, Agnes admitted to herself.

She stood up, digging more gravel into her hands as she pushed herself up since her legs fell asleep. She saw the lights of the car and watched it slowed down, then stop, right next to her car. She moved as fast as her sleeping legs would take her.

She half hobbled half jogged to her car. A black Mustang, 1976, purred on. Agnes slowed down. She couldn’t make out the driver. She walked in front of her car, then floodlights were flashed on.

“Hey! ” screamed Agnes.

The engine was turned off.

The driver’s door opened, and a figure stepped out. She was too scared to move but spoke up again.

“What’s your problem? I can’t see with these lights; could you please turn them off?”

A man came into the light. He was wearing a light grey suit, black leather gloves, and brown dress shoes. With slicked back brown hair, brown eyes, and very white teeth, he had manly yet soft features. Catlike.

“The lights stay. Sorry about that. It’s pitch black out here,” he said with a smile.

He had a British accent. Great, thought Agnes, another con artist, ready to sell me his latest project slash job.

“Ok, well, I’m fine, thanks. I was just taking a break out here.”

Agnes started to move to her driver’s door, but the man made a quick move to her. He hadn’t quite grabbed her, yet she knew she had to stop moving.

“Agnes.”

The hairs on her body stood up. How in the hell did he know her name?

“I want to offer you some help.”