Chapter Text
"Damn it!" you mutter under your breath as you stumble out of the Bay Bar in Paleto Bay, frustration etched on your face. Tripping over your own feet while exiting the bar, you catch the amused glances of two women smoking nearby. With a glare that screams defiance, you convey a profound "fuck you" and decide to brush it off. The journey has been long, and the encroaching darkness amplifies your wariness of the night scene in this drug-ridden town filled with eccentric rednecks.
Hoping that you would have reached West Vinewood by now after walking nonstop, you realize you still have a considerable distance to cover. Leaving the bar behind, you continue to your left, passing the stoplight and traversing through neighborhoods that gradually give way to a fire station and a police station—thankfully. Turning right, you venture down the interstate, where the roads become increasingly ominous as the night deepens. With sparse passing cars and diminishing light to guide your way, you trudge forward, encountering the Pala Springs aerial tramway. Seeing it in person, it appears vastly different from the images you had come across.
Ever since you started roaming and following train tracks and roads, you've become overly cautious due to numerous instances of muggings and beatings during your travels. Losing your belongings repeatedly has taught you not to carry anything valuable and to avoid making connections along the way. Your father, perpetually worried about your safety, likely paces the floor, driving your younger sister insane with his constant anxiety. As you walk, enveloped in the sounds of the forest, you notice a large sign indicating the next exit for Paleto Point. Perhaps there's a place for you to find shelter for the night, as you'd rather not be out and about when the clock strikes 1 or 3 am. The enticing scent of the ocean reaches your nostrils as you gaze over the bridge's edge, observing the meeting of water and seashore.
Approaching the end of the bridge, you spot a hill where you can overlook the ocean. As fog starts to descend, rendering your surroundings hazy, all you can think about is finding a safe refuge. You climb to the top of the hill and peer out, taking in the expanse of the ocean, an enchanting alcove, and a distant light. Intrigued, you focus on the light, emanating from a small island protruding into the water. Feeling it best to leave the area as quickly as possible, you scramble down from your elevated vantage point and start jogging along the edge of the highway, weaving through the woods. Crossing more and more bridges, your fatigue intensifies, and your feet seem as heavy as cinder blocks, dragging through the dirt. Blue and white lights come into view, indicating a fish restaurant named Hookies. The pang of hunger hits you hard, as you've been starving for the past 48 hours, having exhausted your money long before you expected.
You attempt to continue walking, but as you lift your foot, it catches the back of your leg, sending you tumbling into the gravel. For a moment, you find solace in the comfort of the ground beneath you but that didn't last for long. Startled, you leap to your feet, and in a swift motion, you throw a punch at what had awoken you. The impact lands square on the jaw of a dirty, older man, eliciting a surprised "FUCK!" from him as he rubs his jaw, where your punch landed.
Straightening up and dusting off your clothes, you respond with a touch of attitude, "What did you expect? Did you think I was dead? And why the hell were you touching my supposed corpse?" Your voice conveys your anger but he only seems to laugh.
He huffs, seemingly astounded by your question or your audacity. "Well, if you must know, I was looking for a wallet. If you were 'dead,' you wouldn't be needing it anytime soon."
You snort in response, "Yeah, you would have found nothing but a ball of lint that's been in my pockets since day one. I can guarantee I'm a lot broker than you." Crossing your arms, you believe you have the upper hand in this conversation, but deep down, you sense there's more to this man than meets the eye.
"Yeah, no argument there. But since you have so many questions for me, I suppose I get to ask you as many questions as I want, right?" He circles around you, maintaining a safe distance, as if sizing you up.
Brushing off your clothes, you respond, "Sure, go ahead." Maybe you should have thought more about your casual agreeance.
"Ok, why don't you tell me why you're lying face down in the dirt of North Chumash, assuming you're not worm food." Realizing he's actually asking questions, you consider how to best politely extricate yourself from the situation and consider for a moment continuing to walk. So, you do just that—ignore him and walk past his black Stallion car, determined to forge ahead.
You heard him call after you a few times before you assume he gave up and went across the street for food. For a while, the surroundings remain quiet, and you no longer worry about the man from before. The further you go, the sun becomes more merciless, making your skin feel as if it's boiling. Passing a fruit stand, you long for even a trace of money to buy something, and as you gaze ahead, you notice a tunnel, quickening your pace to reach the shade. Upon entering the tunnel, you collapse against the cool surface, seeking relief from the scorching heat.
Suddenly, a familiar black car drives in front of you, coming to a halt, and the window rolls down. "Not used to the Los Santos sun, huh? If you need a ride, you could have just asked," a voice suggests.
Despite yearning for the respite of an air-conditioned car, you refuse the offer, retorting, "You're right. If I wanted your help, I would have asked for it." Determined, you rise to your feet and resume walking through the tunnel, but the car pulls up next to you, matching your pace as the driver taunts and teases.
"If you're headed to the city, you'll die from heatstroke before you get there. What's so bad about spending time with me anyway?"
You scowl at him, responding sourly, "The fact that you call it spending time with you makes me not want to ride with you." Finally, he rolls up the window and drives forward, leaving you in the dust. Strangely, you can't deny that a part of you doesn't entirely hate the idea of a ride, but you also don't want to end up naked in anyone's trunk.
As you walk, thoughts of him occupy your mind—the tattoos on his knuckles, the stained white t-shirt, the hint of oil lingering on him. He's not bad-looking, or maybe it's just your desperation speaking. It has been years since you had any form of companionship, and the sudden attention feels surprisingly comforting. Emerging from the dark tunnel, your vision is momentarily blinded by the blinding sunlight. Gradually, you discern the black Stallion parked at the end of the road, with its owner, perched on the trunk hood, seemingly waiting for you.
Approaching with an air of defiance, you can't help but let the attitude shine through. "Are you a creep?" you inquire, capturing his attention.
He hurriedly pockets his phone, feigning offense at the remark "A creep? Does it make me a creep to want to help people like you?" You don't fully buy his response, but as he steps out of the car and stands in front of you, you can't help but notice his towering height, chest hair peeking out from his V-neck t-shirt, and the scars that become more apparent up close. He's certainly not unattractive, and there's a certain charm about him. You pull out your phone and snap a picture of him and the car, catching him off guard. Immediately, he questions your action.
"If I end up dead on the side of the road or feel threatened in any way, this picture goes straight to my dad. Got it." He appears stunned for a moment, but quickly regains his composure, a charming smile creeping back onto his stubbled face.
"Yes, ma'am," he says, rushing to open the passenger door for you. However, you don't spare him a glance while entering the car, asserting your independence. He shrugs it off and scurries around to the driver's seat, starting the engine, which purrs like a contented cat. The coolness of the leather seats against your bare thighs soothing the sunburn that had begun to burn. "So, where are we headed?" he asks, before pulling away.
"Just West Vinewood. I can walk from there," you respond without elaborating. Without a word, he steers the car forward, merging into the traffic. As you venture closer to civilization, passing chain stores sporadically placed along the way, curiosity gets the better of you.
"So, why are you out here alone, with no money or car? Are you hooked on drugs or something?" His choice of words is vulgar, but you find yourself drawn to his straightforwardness.
"No, it's nothing that serious. I guess I just wanted to travel," you admit, the silence stretching momentarily.
"Well, sugar tits, hate to be the one to say this, but you won't last ten seconds around here, especially without money or know how to handle a gun," he states matter-of-factly.
While the statement is hard to digest, the only thing that keeps resonating in your mind is "sugar tits?" you look over at him in question.
He chuckles a little, seemingly amused. "Yeah, you didn't exactly stop being a bitch long enough for me to ask your name."
As rude as his words are, you can't deny the truth behind them. "It's (y/n). Sorry about being a bitch earlier. I'm struggling already, and you can't trust everyone you meet," you respond honestly, the city lights gradually coming into view, shimmering like dancing stars on the water.
He sighs, "You've got that right."
Intrigued, you're unsure if prying for his story is the right course of action, but you feel compelled to inquire about his well-being, considering he has given you a ride and doesn't seem to be kidnapping you.
"Hey, uh, I never got your name either," you say, making him look up from his phone, his expression a mix of annoyance at having to speak again and curiosity as to why you'd want to know.
"It's Trevor. Most people call me T, or Uncle T, your choice." he reveals, prompting a slight smile to grace your lips. You appreciate the opportunity to help others, even if the kindness you extend might not fix everything.
"Yeah definitely not doing that. Well, T, thank you for giving me a ride. I really appreciate it," you express sincerely.
He smiles and his eyes stay focused on the road while he speaks, "No problem, but, uh, you do owe me a favor now," he interjects, causing your eyebrows to furrow.
"I owe you a favor? What kind of favor?" you question, uncertain about how you feel owing a favor to someone like him. He doesn't respond immediately, evidently choosing his words carefully.
"Yes, I scratch your back, you scratch mine," he says, the tension evident in his grip on the steering wheel. Realizing that you're not planning to stay in touch after this, you contemplate how you'll repay the favor later. Instead of probing further, you decide to agree and move on.
"Well, you're right," you concede. His grin widens, his knuckles turning white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. Without another word, he pulls forward, expertly weaving through traffic. You can't help but think that hitching a ride with someone who knows how to drive might be a better idea next time.
The journey remains relatively quiet until you approach civilization, passing towering buildings and bustling crowds. The closer you get, the bigger and taller the structures become, cement and flashy signs covering every inch of this overwhelming place. He pulls over at a small diner, putting the car in park and letting out a long sigh.
"This is as far as I can take you. I have some things to take care of around the corner. Remember, don't trust anyone, and don't accept rides from strangers," he advises, his words laced with false concern.
A mischievous grin spreads across your face. "You were a stranger, and yet you gave me a ride. Does that mean I shouldn't trust you?" Intrigued, he matches your energy, leaning closer to pin you against the back of your chair, his arm resting on the door handle. He's so near that you catch the scent of his shirt—rank with gasoline and smoke.
"Not at all," he says, opening the car door and bidding you farewell. Stupid or not, you decide to push your luck.
"Hey, T, about that favor I owe you. How can I get in touch with you to repay it?" As he starts the car and shuts the door, a smile creeps across his face.
"Don't worry, I'll find you when I need you," he states with confidence. With that, he pulls away from the parking spot, leaving you standing there, wondering—will he actually find you?