Page 3 of Truck Off

The bills are mounting, and I can’t afford another thing to go wrong. Not yet. I’m behind on the electric bill and promised a payment by the end of this week. Hopefully that will be enough to keep it on for another month.

Dad’s prescriptions need refilling, and my migraine meds are low. There are too many bills and not enough money.

I need time. Lots and lots of time.

If only there were a way to slow time so I could catch up before the floor falls out from under me. Both literally and figuratively.

I give the key another turn, and my car sputters to life. I throw my hands in the air and cheer. One more day that I’ll make it to work. Here’s hoping I make it back home tonight too.

* * *

After filling up my car, I rush toward the entrance of Kochs to grab some chips and jerky. The jerky will be enough to hold me over most of the day if I graze at it.

Koch’s Pit Stop is one of two gas stations in Beaver. It’s not exactly in Beaver, more like on the outskirts near the highway. That it’s right off the highway makes it more convenient for me than driving into town to go to the other one.

I hate supporting the Kochs, but sometimes convenience wins out over loyalty to a feud that has nothing to do with me. But in this town, everyone picks a side, and I am firmly on Team Mutter.

The Mutters and Kochs have been feuding for at least three or four generations. It’s a story that everyone in three counties knows and loves to gossip about. I believe it was the great-great-grandfathers on both sides that were playing a heated game of poker. Grandpa Koch was dumb enough to put their land and house on the line. Grandpa Mutter won the hand and, in turn, won the homestead. It caused a rift between the two families that’s never settled down.

Tanner Koch, the one I went to school with, owns this place. He’s never really paid any attention to me. We ran in different circles in school, and we never connected after we graduated either, which is fine by me.

Before I reach the door to the convenience store, a low rumble fills the air. I glance over my shoulder just in time to see the reason I am firmly on Team Mutter.

Christian Mutter.

I’d recognize his sleek black Ducati and worn leather jacket anywhere. He rarely drives anything else, rain or shine, and he never takes off that jacket until the temperatures reach at least seventy-five. Even then, he wears it when he rides.

After pulling up next to the side of the building, he turns off the bike. The silence that follows is enough to pull me from my daze. I always lose myself when Christian is around. It’s hard not to. He’s gorgeous beyond words—all the Mutter men are—and his bad boy, I don’t give a fuck, attitude is like kryptonite to me.

He steps off the bike and lifts his helmet off his head. His disheveled hair falls over his eyes and my hand itches to brush it away so I can see the warm chocolate abyss of his irises. All the Mutter men have the most beautiful, expressive brown eyes.

I quickly turn for the door and continue my way inside before he catches me staring. I’ve tried like hell to hide my lifelong crush on Christian, but it’s been hard. He’s just so damn mysterious and intriguing. It’s impossible not to stare at him when he enters a room.

Once inside, I rid my head of all thoughts of Christian. Fantasizing about him is just that—a fantasy. And I don’t have the time or luxury to indulge in fantasies.

I’ve got bills and Dad and responsibilities that require my full attention. Like my job. I’m not late for work yet, but I will be if I don’t get moving.

One slip up and my dad could suffer the consequences. He has enough issues with health as is. We can’t afford to lose out on a paycheck because I can’t stop staring at the cute boy in town.

I head toward the cooler to grab a pop when I catch sight of Betty Jo Brigner trying to lift a case of root beer from the top of a stack that’s taller than her.

I rush to her side to help. “Here. Let me get that for you.”

She turns her eighty-year-old smile on me. “Thank you, dear.”

I force a smile in return. “It’s no problem. Happy to help.”

Betty Jo is spry for eighty. She just might be the most active elderly person in town next to Mila Mutter, Christian’s grandmother. But she has no business trying to lift a case of pop off a stack this high. She could hurt herself.

Betty Jo taught history at the high school until she retired a few years ago. She was easily a favorite, despite the boring subject matter. Her ability to connect with people from all demographics and backgrounds is remarkable. Everyone loves her.

She worked way past normal retirement age because she said she had nothing else to do and sitting around waiting to die sounded far worse than going to work. Her husband passed away years ago, and their kids moved and started their own lives before that. They visit her often, but otherwise, she’s alone.

She probably taught most of the residents of this town and knows more dirt on local families than most of the families themselves. But she doesn’t gossip. That’s one of the things I like the most about her.

I turn toward the register where Tanner Koch is leaning against the counter, scowling at something a few aisles over from where I helped Betty Jo. I follow his hard stare to where Christian is standing in the candy aisle.

My gaze meets Christian’s, and he winks. He fucking winks at me. He never winks. And I swear there’s a hint of a smile lifting his lips. That’s something else he never does.

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