Page 1 of Stalked By the Trucker

CHAPTER ONE

Bronx

The highway stretches out like a lover's beckoning arm, and I press the pedal of Ol' Faithful a little closer to the floor. The truck rumbles beneath me. Wind whips through the open windows, tangling my hair, feeling like rough caresses on my weathered skin.

"Freedom," I growl to myself, the word tasting sweet as sin on my tongue. The road is mine alone. It's just me, the hum of rubber on asphalt, and the vast, unclaimed horizon.

As mile markers tick by, I let memories flicker through my mind. Each one is a flash of heat. My cab has been a sanctuary, and tonight, it's just me and the open road, a testament to the solitude I embrace and the freedom that runs through my veins like wildfire.

"God, I love this," I confess into the empty space, my voice rough as gravel. It's the truth, raw and unfiltered. Nothing beats the feeling of owning the road and chasing the sunset until it bleeds into the dark velvet of night, every mile a new possibility.

I live for this.

The neon sign of a roadside diner cuts through the twilight like a beacon, pulling me in. "Eddie's" it says, flickering with a buzz that syncs up to my own restless energy. I swing Ol' Faithful into a spot, killing the engine and letting the silence crash over me. The truck's vibrations still linger in my bones as I step out, stretching my back with a groan that feels like sweet release.

I stride toward the diner, the gravel crunching under my boots, music to my ears after hours of nothing but the drone of the highway. Pushing open the door, the bell above chimes, announcing my entrance like I'm some sort of prodigal son returning home.

The place is dripping with nostalgia, walls plastered with vintage ads and road signs—ones I've probably passed a hundred times on my travels. A jukebox in the corner croons an old country tune, the kind that makes you want to slow dance with a pretty girl or drink whiskey straight from the bottle.

"Take a seat wherever, hun," calls out a voice from behind the counter. It’s got that warm, motherly vibe that almost makes me miss home.

Almost.

I find a stool at the counter, the red vinyl squeaking a welcome as I settle in. The air's heavy with the scent of sizzling bacon and onions, mixed with the undertone of burnt coffee—smells that speak of comfort and a world that doesn't change no matter how many miles you run.

"Whatcha havin', sugar?" A waitress sidles up, notepad in hand, pencil tucked behind her ear. She’s got that look—seen it all, heard it all, yet still smiles like she means it.

"Give me the biggest burger you got,” I say, my voice raspy. “And keep the coffee coming."

She winks and saunters off, hips swaying to the music that now seems to throb in time with my pulse. Around me, the low hum of conversation weaves through the clatter of cutlery against plates, forming a lullaby for weary travelers.

"Another day, another dollar," I mutter to myself, tipping my hat down over my eyes, just taking it all in—the hustle of life happening around me, a stark contrast to the isolation of the cab. For a moment, just a fleeting moment, I let myself sink into the tapestry of voices, laughter and the clinking of mugs.

As I wait for my order, I scan the joint without much interest and think of my soon-to-be companion: a greasy, heart-clogging excuse for a meal. It's just what I need after a long haul, something solid to ground me before I hit the road again.

"Here ya go, big guy," the waitress says as she slides the plate in front of me, a mountain of meat and cheese staring back. "Anything else I can get ya?"

"Just keep the coffee coming," I reply, my stomach growling louder than the trucks outside. Time to dig in and enjoy the simple pleasures, the kind only a place like this can serve up hot and without pretense.

My eyes drift away from the plate as I eat. They wander across the diner, past truckers swapping stories and locals drowning in their pies, until they snag on her.

I stop chewing mid-bite, my eyes transfixed like I’ve just seen an angel.

And maybe I have.

She's like a splash of color against the drab backdrop—the girl sitting all by herself in a booth, gaze anchored to the tabletop.

Who is she?

She's got this pink hair that's shouting for attention amidst the sea of trucker caps and work-worn faces. Her skin's fair, almost glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights, making her look out of place, like she's meant to be somewhere brighter, somewhere that doesn't reek of overused frying oil.

I don't know her name yet, but damn if I don't want to. It's not just her looks. It's the way she's trying to make herself small, shoulders hunched, fingers fidgeting with a napkin. There's a story there, and I'm a sucker for a story.

Then she lifts her head, and our gazes collide, and fuck. It's like getting hit with a live wire, that jolt zipping through me, fierce and unexpected. Her eyes are wide, big and innocent-looking but shadowed with something else, something that whispers of trouble and tales untold.

I feel a pull that makes me want to unravel her mysteries and fix what's broken. She's got this allure, youthful but laced with a quiet strength that calls to me. She's a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, and I've always been good at solving puzzles.

Focus on your food, I tell myself, even as I can't tear my gaze away from her. There's vulnerability there, in the slant of her brows, the tight set of her mouth. And it hooks me, right in the chest, tugging with a force I haven't felt in a long while.

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