Page 3 of Stalked By the Trucker

"Maybe we're all just looking for someone to share the road with," she muses, and there's a yearning there that echoes inside me.

"Maybe," I murmur back, the space between us charged with unspoken possibilities.

We talk—really talk—and it's like stripping down layers, getting to the bare bones of who we are. With each word, each shared laugh and lingering glance, the connection between us tightens, drawing us closer.

It's dangerous, this game we're playing. She’s nothing more than eighteen, and here I am a man in his late thirties.

But I'll be damned if I don't want to see where it leads.

I lean in, resting my elbows on the cool surface of the diner's counter, hooked on every word slipping from London's lips. "So, what's this dream of yours?" I probe, my curiosity genuine and insatiable.

She pauses, biting her lower lip for a heartbeat before releasing it. "I want to paint," she declares, her voice steady but her eyes ablaze with passion. "Not just canvas and walls, mind you. I want to capture life—its raw beauty, its chaos. Make something that screams and whispers all at once."

"Sounds intense," I say, impressed by the fire in her. It's like watching a storm brew over the desert—beautiful, unpredictable, powerful.

"Life is intense," she retorts with a shrug, though her smile tells me she's pleased with my reaction. "If you're not living on the edge, you're taking up too much space, right?"

"Right," I chuckle, feeling that unfamiliar tug in my chest. Vulnerability isn't usually my thing, but with London, it feels like throwing caution to the wind ain't such a bad idea.

"Your turn," she prompts, leaning back against the red vinyl booth, her gaze locked onto mine. "What secrets are hiding behind those brooding eyes, Bronx?"

"Secrets, huh?" I muse, letting out a low laugh. "Ain't nothing too exciting. But I guess one thing I've never told anyone..." I trail off, debating whether to share it, then decide what the hell. "I write poetry. Nothing fancy, just thoughts and feelings that hit me when I'm out on the open road."

"Poetry?" She looks surprised, and yeah, I get it. A rough-around-the-edges trucker spilling his soul in verse isn't exactly common.

"Guess we've both got more to us than meets the eye," I add, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over me.

"Seems so," she agrees, a softness in her voice that makes me think we're peeling back layers neither of us expected to shed tonight.

The air between us is thick with anticipation, our conversation a slow dance as we reveal hidden pieces of ourselves. There's a thrill in the risk, in the sharing of dreams too fragile for daylight. And damn if I don't want to keep dancing until the music stops.

But, finally, it does, and then the silence stretches between us, the kind that says more than words ever could. I can't tear my eyes away from London's face, the flickering neon lights painting her in shades of mystery. Her lips part just slightly, and there's this moment, this electric fucking moment, where the world narrows down to just the two of us.

"Bronx," she whispers, and when her voice sounds like that, fuck, I'm helpless against it.

"London," I murmur back, and my hand moves before my brain catches up, reaching out to brush a stray strand of pink hair behind her ear. My rough fingers graze her soft skin, and her breath hitches, a shiver rippling through her. It's a simple touch, but it's loaded with all the things we're not saying.

I lean forward, elbows on the table, and I've never been so damn aware of every inch of space separating us. "You here hitching a ride?" The question hangs heavy in the air.

She nods, biting her lip, and I can almost taste her uncertainty mixed with defiance. "Yeah. I was." She pauses, her gaze locked onto mine. "But I haven't found the right one yet."

"Let me tell you something, sweetheart." I don't break my gaze, the intensity of the moment etched into every crease of my face. "The road can be a cruel companion or a silent confidant. But it ain't no place for someone like you to be thumbin' rides from strangers."

A flicker of vulnerability crosses her features, and then she hardens it, that sassy edge creeping back in. "And who's to say what's right for me, huh?"

"Nobody," I concede with a slow nod. "But I'll be damned if I let you ride with just anyone." My voice drops lower, a growl tinged with something raw. "You need a lift, London? It's yours. On one condition though," I add, feeling that familiar protective surge rising up within me.

She leans in, curiosity lighting up those big brown eyes. "What's the condition?"

"Simple." I stare right into her soul, hoping she understands the gravity behind my words. "You ride with me—only me. Because I won't let any harm come your way while you're under my watch." The words hang between us, an unspoken oath from a man who knows the loneliness of the road all too well.

London's gaze never wavers, and there's a spark there that tells me she gets it. She understands this isn't just about a ride. It's about trust, about the uncharted path we might be starting down together. And damn, if the thought doesn't excite and scare the hell out of me at the same time.

"Okay, Bronx," she says, her voice soft yet certain. "I'll ride with you."

And just like that, the deal is sealed—not with a handshake but with a look that says more than a thousand handshakes ever could. We've both got our secrets, but for now, they don't matter. Right now, it's just the open road ahead and the promise of what might be—a journey neither of us expected but maybe it's the one we both need.

CHAPTER TWO

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