I did this in like ten minutes (the original just wasn't working and I was desperate to replace it) so feel free to tear it to pieces!
The girl walked alongside the grey road, thumb out, the breeze flicking her reddish-brown hair into her eyes. The sun had risen barely an hour ago, and no cars had passed yet. She stopped to fiddle with the buttons of her too-large black woolen coat.
From behind her came the roar of a car. She turned and squinted against the sun, thumb still out. A light green car whipped past her, followed by a blue. Neither even bothered to slow.
She collapsed.
She'd been walking all night, through the forest and onto the road just as the sun had risen. A few miles south and the road turned onto a highway, and how the hell was she supposed to catch a ride there?
Why didn't she just go home? She could say she'd been at a friend's, lost track of time and stayed the night, the usual excuse. She could have a shower, get the maid to cook her crêpes while she slept in her warm, soft queen-sized bed, play cards or chess or Monopoly with her father, provided Lucia wasn't there to-
Lucia. Black-dyed hair, elegantly painted nails, all black designer outfits and her pouty, plastic lips. And mon Dieu, her perfume. That was her earliest memory of Lucia-the smell of lilies as she bent down to hug her new figlia, slowly working it's way through the entire house, oozing into the walls until you could smell her even when she wasn't there. Lucia, who'd taught her how to apply makeup and dress like a little lady, and other than that had more-or-less ignored her.
Lucia, who'd payed to have her killed.
Fighting back tears, she didn't see the red ute until it had pulled up beside her. She stood up slowly as the tawny-haired driver wound their window down. "Hey honey," he said in French.
The girl smiled. "Bonjour," she said quietly. Something was twisting in her gut, making her feel slightly nauseous and weak.
Another man leaned over from the passenger seat, leering at her. "Want a ride, doll?"
It twisted harder.
"Um, yes please," she said. Had she eaten something odd? More likely it was hunger.
"Well, hop in." The driver glanced across at his passenger, smirking. Suddenly she realised what the feeling was.
It was her instinct, and it was telling her to say no, to scream, to run, run, towards the highway, into the forest, just to get away...
"Actually, I don't need a ride. But thank you." She took a hasty step backwards. Too hasty. The driver grinned and opened the door.
"Come on, doll. I'm not that scary, am I?"
No, not really, you don't look that bad, it's definitely just something I ate her mind said.
Yes, you're terrifying and I have to get out of here NOW her gut argued.
She went with her gut.
A rush of adrenaline gave her the energy to turn and sprint, but before she'd taken two steps the man had his arms around her, and she was screaming, and screaming, and screaming, panic rising like bile in her throat, but there was no-one there to hear-
The motorbike skidded to a halt, scattering stones everywhere. The black-haired man jumped off and strode towards them. An avenging angel. In a leather jacket.
"Is there a problem?"
"Of course not," the tawny-haired man said, loosening his grip.
"Yes," she sobbed, before he had time to think of an excuse.
The tawny-haired man sneered and let go completely. She fell onto her hands and knees. He got back in the ute. They watched as he spat out the window and drove off. The black-haired man turned to her. "Are you alright?"
This should've been the moment when they jumped onto the motorbike and zoomed off into the sunset. Instead, she burst into tears.
He stood in front of her, awkwardly shifting his feet as she cried out the stress and exhaustion and pain of the last twelve hours. When the last whimper slipped out, she got to her feet, wiping her eyes. "Pardon," she sniffed. Now she could see his face, she realized he was more boy than man. But ripped. Very ripped. No wonder the men in the ute hadn't bothered arguing. And quite cute, too.
She laughed at herself-after all that had happened, and she still took the time to admire a hot boy. He gave her a weird look, then stuck out his hand. "I'm Marc."
She studied his hand for a minute, then beamed (a little too enthusiastically) and took it. "Aimée," she said decisively. I'll be Aimée.
He grinned. "That's a pretty name."
) But American TOURISTS... now that's a whole new stereotype. Not happy-go-lucky, more chubby and moustached and bermuda-short-clad with a camera strung around their neck, acting over-enthusiastic yet ignorant about local customs. Sure, not all of them are like that, but hey, it's the crazy people who's stories get told. 