“So, where are you taking me?” Sascha asks from the passenger seat. While she had been quiet since leaving the apartment, there had been a subtle aura of excitement radiating from her as she stared out the tinted windows of the truck. “It’s a surprise,” you answer, pulling into a gas station parking lot. “I try to keep it unique to each of y’alls individual tastes, so I hope what I’ve planned is to your liking.” “I’m sure it will be, Anon. I have a notion that I’ll be happy with whatever you have planned,” she says with a petite smile. “It’s just nice knowing that my owner is willing to do this for one of his guns, even if that gun is butchered… “ The smile fades and her final words peter out to just above a whisper as she speaks, her dual toned eyes looking down at the floorboard. You’re having none of that, however, and lean across the center console to gently rest your palm on her cheek to turn her gaze towards you. Her own rough and callused hand rests upon your as she looks to you, yet not meeting your gaze. “Sascha, you ain’t butchered,” you drawl, thumb stroking her cheek. “You’re you and you’re perfect the way you are. Just cause some asshole decided to alter you don’t mean you ain’t beautiful, alright? Now, find us something to listen to on the radio while I run in the store real quick.” She nods, pressing your hand closer to her cheek with her own for an added sense of comfort. She finally meets your eyes with her own, the faint smile returning. You return the smile with one of your own before leaning in to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. She’s almost reluctant to let your hand slide away from her face, but relents and turns to scanning radio stations as a distraction. Exiting the Ford, you beeline for the back of the convenience store as you walk through the doors, giving the attendant a quick greeting. Ten dollars later and you’re at the back of the truck, tailgate down, dumping a small bag of ice into the cooler you keep in the bed. You then bury six glass bottles in the ice, tossing the trash into a nearby can as you walk back to the driver’s door. As you climb back into your seat, your ears are greeted by the sweet twang of country music as it flows from the sound system. “Jason Aldean, huh?” You flash her a grin as you look over your shoulder to be sure you don’t run over any stray pedestrians idiotic enough to get in the way of your four wheel drive. “I can change it, if you want,” the meek Geist says. “I know you listen to other genres, too, so if you want we can listen to something else.” Her hand moves to change the station, but your own meets it before it reaches the dial. “It’s fine, country’s my favorite, anyway,” you reassure her. You keep her hand in yours, resting it on the center console. As you pull out of the parking lot, you feel her fingers slowly move to intertwine with your own. You happily oblige and return the gesture. The next short stint of driving is spent in relative peace and quiet, save for the Southern fried music pouring from the speakers. However, Sascha seems to be getting warry of just where the two of you are going, as you passed the usual turnoff for the range a few miles back. You squeeze her hand in an effort to ease her worries, pulling it up to your face to plant a quick kiss on it. She looks over to you for further reassurance. “Don’t worry, Sascha, we’re almost there.” She quietly nods, looking out the window as the truck enters downtown. A few blocks later, you pull into a parking lot where you’re just able to back into a parking space in the back. The lifted F250 sticks out amongst the Priuses, Hondas, and other sedans that fill the public lot, but you’ve come to accept being in almost another world when you enter city limits proper. You climb out and make to go around to open Sascha’s door, but she meets you at the front of the truck. “So, what’re we doin downtown?” she questions, head tilting this way and that as she scans the immense buildings around you. “There’s a bar, club, place thing that does different themes each month,” you say, offering your arm to her. She latches onto it, almost afraid to let-go in this unknown terrain. “And this month’s theme is ‘Southern Soiree,’ which essentially means all these damn yankees are using it as an excuse to pretend to be redneck.” “Then why are we going if it sounds like we may get made fun of?” She allows you to lead her from the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, walking a few more blocks in the direction of the bar. “Well, I hear it’s usually not too busy with these kinds of themes, and I figured you’d prefer a more relaxed atmosphere for our first date.” “Oh… well that’s very considerate of you, Anon,” she acknowledges, squeezing your arm a little tighter. “I told you, I care about all of you and take things into consideration,” you say, leaning over to peck the Geist on the cheek. Her face reddens slightly at the affection, but makes no protest. Eventually, the two of you reach the club and take your place at the back of the line of people waiting to get inside. As you wait, you take in the attire of the city-folk standing ahead of you. Most seem to have taken country to mean either cowboy or redneck, with there being a halfway mix of either western garb, large belt buckles and ten-gallon hats included, or white wife-beaters and grungy jeans. Needless to say, you stick out like your truck in the parking lot: black polo, faded jeans, your favorite ball cap with an embroidered Georgia flag, and pair of boots still stained red from the red clay back home. The people ahead of you and your date are slowly admitted to the establishment, and soon the two of you approach the bouncer. He looks over your outfit, then Sascha’s, and shakes his head as he pretends to check “the list.” “Not on here,” he grunts. “Back of the line.” “C’mon, Anon, it’s not worth it,” Sascha sighs, pulling on your arm. “Now hold up,” you say, holding up a hand. “Sir, may I see the list? I’m sure there’s some mistake.” You’re handed the clipboard, the bouncer rolling his eyes. You flip through the stack of papers that contain a myriad of names that were more than likely pulled from the pages of a phonebook, stopping every so often pretending to search for you name. You soon triumphantly hand it back to the hired muscle. “Page 9, you’ll find things in order.” The man flips the pages back and finds the twenty you slipped into the clipboard, eyeing it before giving the two of you one more look-over. He finally tucks the ersatz document under his arm and steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter. You usher Sascha in through the double doors before he can change his mind, thankful it only burned twenty dollars. You had thought it would require at least fifty. “What was that back there?” your Mosin asks as the two of you make your way around the edge of the crowded dance floor. In an effort to both keep to the theme while satisfying the more urban patrons, some Frankenstein fusion of house and banjo music is blasting over the speakers. The two of you find a table for two in a back corner, far enough from the sound system to avoid having to yell at one another. “Oh, I just found my name on the list, you know how hard of a time some people have reading such small print,” you lie, grinning wide. “Cyka, you bribed him like a backwoods sheriff,” the Southern Slav giggles, prompting you to hold your hands up in feigned innocence. “It got us in, didn’t it?” you ask as a cocktail waitress appears. You order two beers and a basket of fried chicken legs. You hand her the cash and hope in the back of your mind it’s at least KFC tier. “It’s more crowded than I thought,” Sascha comments, looking around the establishment. “Yeah, I guess my source was wrong,” you apologize. “Well, the music isn’t the worst I’ve heard… “ “You’re joking, right? The dude in that last song rhymed ‘nigga’ with ‘banjo.’” “Okay, so it’s terrible.” The waitress returns sooner than expected and sets two stout bottles of a microbrew you’ve never heard of, a plate containing no less than three miniscule drumsticks accompanying them. You and Sascha can’t help but just stare at the plate and drinks, unsure of what to make of them. As the two of you make your way to the near empty dance floor, more than a few of the other bar goers eye you both with mixed expressions of curiosity and interest. They don’t matter, though, as the next few minutes it’s just you and Sascha moving in time with the country twang of My. Byrd’s “Watermelon Crawl.” The two of you fall into something of a miniature line dance, mixing in portions of the song’s namesake. Just as the tune begins to taper out, another one slowly builds in its place, another piece you’re both familiar with “Shall we continue?” she asks, breathing heavily “Let’s,” you say with a nod, pulling her close. She laughs as you begin to lead her across the dance floor, spinning and dipping her to the melody of Josh Turner At this point, the two of you have garnered quite the crowd of onlookers, all of whom seem mesmerized by the unfamiliar dance moves, while equal parts shocked that such movement and grace is possible in boots. The two of you seamlessly flow across the wood paneled floor, almost as if you were both dancing on air. The two of you lose yourselves in the music, focused solely on the movements and one another, your eyes never leaving one another’s except when you spin her around. As the final notes are struck and fade, you dip Sascha lower than you had previously, her head just above the floor with one leg in the air. Applause ripples through the crowd around you both, whistles and catcalls following. The combined heat from the lights and the dancing has you both sweating profusely, but you can’t help appreciate the way her face glistens in the lights above you. As you pull her upright, she presses herself against you, still breathing as if she had just run a mile. Your faces are less than an inch apart, mouths open from the intense respiration, eyes locked on one another as you look down at her. Ever so slowly, you begin to close the gap, your eyes and hers closing as you both brace for contact The moment is cut short as you suddenly find your arms empty, Sascha having pulled away from your arms. She gives you a playful wink as she squeezes your hand in hers. As people begin filling the dancefloor once more, she hugs onto your arm for a moment, leaning in to whisper in your ear. “Go sit, I’ll get us some water. You’ve earned it.” She kisses your cheek before once again evading your grasp, weaving through the crowd. Chuckling at her actions, you make your way back to the table for two in the corner, relishing the feeling as you get off your feet for a moment. You take another swig from the nasty beer, face contorting in disgust as you force yourself to swallow it. You lean against the well, resting for a moment as you await Sascha’s return. Your peace is shattered, however, as a commotion breaks out not too far away, the music abruptly halting mid-tune. You raise your head, brow furrowed as you try to look past the crowd to see what the deal is, but your ears quickly pick up what sounds like your date yelling at someone. “Let me go, damn it!” she yells, voice filled with anger, struggle, and fear. “C’mon, you lil hick, just one dance?” “I got that good shit out at the car, if you know what I’m sayin.” You jump to your feet and quickly shove your way through the throng of people, boots stomping as you go. As you get closer, you can see two lanky white guys flanking Sascha, one of which has her by the arm. Both are dressed in gaudy, bright colored “cowboy” outfits similar to that of Marty McFly’s, hipster tier facial hair adorning their faces. Closing in, you can see tears starting to well up in the eyes of your Southern Slav as the two are egged on by the crowd. You finally break through the last line of people. “Hey, fuck face!” you roar. The two John Wayne wannabes ignore you, still focused on their prey. You reach for the nearest one and grab him by the shoulder with your left hand, pulling him to face you. “Can’tchu see we’re busy- “ He stops midsentence as you tower over him, face deadpanning as he begins to realize the mistake he’s made. His friend, however, doesn’t have the same mental capacity and suddenly punches you in the jaw. Well, punch would be an exaggeration in this case, as it feels more like a love tap with the force of a puppy behind it. The color drains from both of them, and even a few bystanders, as you chew your tongue, contemplating what to do. The entire bar is dead quiet. “Sascha, go wait in the truck,” you drawl, tossing her the keys. She nods, running for the exit as she does her best not to cry. “Hey man, no hard feelings, right?” the one who punched you begs, hands up, a nervous chuckle escaping his maw. “Of course not,” you say with a toothy smile. You push past them, giving the appearance of leaving. They both audibly exhale, nervously laughing. “Then again,” you reconsider, stopping not even two steps behind them. “Daddy always said you don’t treat a lady like a piece of meat.” As nimrod one turns to face you, your fist makes contact with his jaw and sends him sprawling on the floor. Nimrod two attempts to scamper away, but you grab him by the back of his shirt and reel him back in. You spin him around and sock him in the face, ensuring him a black eye and stitches. As you finish them off, you hear what sounds like the bouncer from earlier trying to make his way through the crowd. “Time to boot scoot and boogie on outa here.” Like a bullet from a gun you’re gone, the crowd dispersing before you as you run for the door. You make it out to the street and sprint in the direction of the parking lot. You’re not even half a block away from the club when you catch up with Sascha, who’s hugging herself tight as she walks. Without skipping a beat, you scoop her into your arms and continue the quickened pace back to the truck. “W-what happened?” she asks, wiping away a few stray tears. “Had a conversation on the proper treatment of women,” you grunt, turning to job into the parking lot. You set her down, doubling over as you catch your breath for the umpteenth time that night. “God I’m out of shape,” you wheeze. Ten minutes later and the two of you are leaving city limits, traffic in the outbound lanes near non-existent as the night’s still young. The clock on the radio confirms this, reading 8:17. You sigh, gripping the wheel as you navigate the highway. “I’m sorry, Sascha,” you apologize, breaking the silence. “I had this whole night planned out, thought it would be a good way to ease you into things and all it did was shatter it.” She’s quiet, sitting with her hands folded in her lap as she stares out the window. “I had this notion that we’d be able to get a taste of bein back in the South, try and feel like we were back where we first met instead of stuck up in Yankeeland hell.. “ “Anon,” she sighs, hand resting on your arm. “I appreciate it, I really do. And I enjoyed it for the most part, honest.” “Don’t lie to me, Sascha,” you say with a shake of your head. “This night’s gone to shit and it’s not even nine o’clock. Might as well just head home and forget everything else.” You feel her squeeze your arm as she leans in close, resting her head on your shoulder. Her presences is comforting, to say the least, but you still feel like a sack of crap after what happened. “What else did you have planned?” “Don’t worry bout it, just gonna head back home.” “Anon,” she sates, voice carrying some weight to it. “Yes?” “What else did you have planned for tonight?” “Sascha, don’t- “ “Cyka, tell me,” she swore, the Russian half of her hybrid accent becoming more prominent. Defeated, you decide it best to tell her instead of making things even worse by testing her patience. “There’s a stretch of land one of my new clients said I could use for whatever I wanted since it’s nothin but timberland and grassland.” “What were you planning?” she prods, eyebrow raised. “I, uh, figured we could end the night just resting in the bed of the truck with a blanket and that six pack I bought earlier… “ “How far of a drive is it?” “The turn’s right up here, why” “Let’s go,” she orders, shaking your arm. “But Sascha- “ “No buts,” she quips. “Just drive.” Nodding, you follow directions and turn off the highway and fallow a series of side roads until you’re on a backroad leading away from town. Roughly twenty minutes later, you turn off onto a dirt road and flip the switches to turn on the light bars mounted to the brush guard. As you trundle down the uneven roadway, you look over to see a grin of excitement pulling at the corners of Sascha’s lips. Your powers of deduction decide it’s the off roading, so you decide to make the most of it. You roll down the windows and slow down enough for the gears to change as you shift into four wheel drive, looking over to her with a mischievous grin of your own plastered across your face. She looks to you with an expression that says she doesn’t believe you. You answer by mashing on the gas, sending the super duty flying, dirt and gravel flying. Sascha, in turn, lets out what can only be described as a cross between a rebel yell and Russian “urrah” as the two of you speed down the backroad. The diesel engine roars as it carries you both away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust behind. The dirt road finally runs out and you whip the truck into a sliding stop in the middle of the field, dust swirling around the vehicle as the two of you sit in the cab laughing. You unbuckle yourself and climb out, pulling a few blankets from behind the seat before making your way around to the back. Just as you drop the tailgate and toss the blankets into the bed, you’re nearly tackled to the ground by Sascha, who is still laughing and energized. “That’s what I’m talking about!” she says, jumping up and down with her arms around you. “So is this actually more your speed?” you ask, lifting her up into the back. You join her soon after, spreading out one blanket for the two of you to lay on. “Hell yeah!” she nods. You pull out two amber bottles of beer, handing her one after opening it with your multitool. She graciously accepts it and takes a long drink. You settle down on the blanket, back against the cab, watching her. She drains the bottle in one go and pulls another from the cooler. She looks around for the bottle opener and spies the pouch for the tool on your belt. Dropping to all fours, she crawls across the bed of the truck until she’s practically in your lap, pressed against you. You’re not sure where the meek and shy rifle from earlier has gone, but you think she’s somewhere back down the road choking on dirt. “You don’t mind if I borrow this, do you?” she asks, pulling the tool from your belt. She doesn’t wait for a response before popping the cap off and letting it roll away, forgotten. “Not at all,” you answer, unsure where she’s going with this. Now it’s your turn to sport a reddened face. She giggles at your expression before turning to sit in your lap, snuggling close. You pull the other blanket over the two of you and wrap your non-beer arm and hand around her midriff. With a content sigh, you both settle in, beers in hand, and stare up at the stars. You both sit in silence, just enjoying the other’s company and the atmosphere of the moment. “Dumbass, you shoulda just done this in the first place,” she laughs, leaning back to look up at you. “I kinda realized that the moment we hit the dirt road.” You lean down and rubs noses with her, prompting a giggle to escape her. “So, think we can make this our thing?” she asks, eyes glittering in the moonlight. “I think that can be arranged,” you whisper, leaning further down to plant a kiss on her lips. “Mudding next time, though?” “Only if you volunteer to wash the truck.” “We can make it a group effort. I know you’re just dying to see us all in bikinis,” she teases, rubbing the back of her head against your chest. “Shut up and kiss me again,” you grumble, face reddening further. And she does just that.