Page 2 of Stalked By the Trucker

"Damn," I exhale, a whisper lost in the clatter of the diner. My heart's doing this weird drum solo, and I'm hooked. Something tells me this girl's gonna be more than just a pretty face to wonder about. She's gonna be a storm, and hell, I've always had a thing for storms.

"Dammit, Bronx, what're you thinking?" I mutter under my breath. My heart's a freight train in my chest, pounding out a rhythm that's got nothing to do with the crappy country song twanging from the jukebox. The girl—just a slip of a thing with hair like candy floss and eyes full of secrets—she's got me twisted up inside something fierce.

Can't just walk up to her, I reason with myself, while my body's already leaning off the stool, every muscle coiled to close the distance between us. I don't know what kind of baggage she's carrying. Could be trouble. Big trouble. But damn, the way she bites her lip, lost in thought or whatever's on the page she's scribbling on—hell, makes me think a little trouble might be just what I need.

***

I’m obsessed with the girl. I’ve never stayed in one place too long, but I stay here because she’s here. I watch her curl up and fall asleep in the booth of the diner for two nights straight before I realize just what’s going on with her.

And I’m not having it. Not on my watch.

With a grunt, I push off the counter, feeling the scrape of the stool against the tiled floor. I stride over, boots echoing like gunshots in the hush that's settled over the diner. I'm big enough to cast a shadow over her table, but I keep my voice low, rough with the rasp of too many smokes and not enough sleep.

"Hey," I say, and it comes out gruffer than I intend. "Mind if I join you?"

She looks up, and it's like catching a glimpse of the sun—blinding and brilliant and damn near knocks me off my feet. There's a flicker of something in those brown eyes. Could be caution, could be curiosity. Hard to tell.

"Sure," she says, and there's a tremor in her voice that matches the one in my gut. She slides over, making room, and I slide into the booth across from her, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, far enough that I'm not crowding her.

I shift into the booth, the worn vinyl squeaking under my weight. The flickering diner lights cast shadows over her face, but can't hide the surprise—or is it a spark of interest?—in those wide-set eyes.

"Didn't mean to startle you," I say, my voice low, trying to smooth out the edges.

"It's fine," she murmurs, tucking that rebellious lock of pink hair behind her ear. The simple gesture sends a ripple through me, stirring something that's been sleeping for too damn long.

"Long day?" I ask, leaning back against the seat, trying to appear casual, though every nerve in my body is tuned to her frequency.

She nods, her lips curving into a half-smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Where you headed?" I keep it light, but I'm itching to know her story, to hear the melody of her voice as she spills her secrets.

"Just...away," she answers with a shrug that speaks volumes.

"Me too," I admit, and it's the truth. Always driving towards the next horizon, never looking back.

"Seems we've got that in common," she says, a hint of warmth creeping into her tone.

"Bronx," I introduce myself properly, extending a hand across the table. Her fingers are slim, cool against my rough palm, and I realize I don't want to let go.

"London," she replies, and the name rolls off her tongue like poetry or sin—can't decide which. Her name fits her, somehow—exotic and familiar all at once.

"Nice name," I say, releasing her hand reluctantly. "Ever been?"

"To London?" She laughs, and it's like music, all sweet and low. "Nope. But maybe one day."

"Got big dreams, huh?" I ask, intrigued by the layers I'm starting to uncover.

"Doesn't everyone?" Her gaze holds mine, challenging, defiant.

"Suppose so," I concede, finding myself lost in the depths of her eyes. They're like pools of melted chocolate, deep enough to drown in.

"Tell me about yours," she urges softly, leaning forward, elbows on the table.

"Mine?" I chuckle, scratching at my beard. "Ain't nothing special. Just...freedom. The road."

"Sounds lonely," she observes, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Sometimes," I agree, and it's more of an admission than I've allowed myself in years.

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