Page 27 of Wait in the Truck
I take my time, letting the pause stretch, then finally relent, giving her that slow tilt of my head she’s waiting for. It’s barely a movement, but it’s enough. Enough for her to know that yeah, I see you, Sage. Always have. Always will.
The thick layer of foundation she’s caked on can’t mask the yellowish tinge I know is lurking beneath, a testament to the life she’s survived. It pisses me off—the molten lava in my blood simmering—but it’s her call how she handles it.
“Evenin’, Sage,” I whisper, fingers grazing the brim of my hat in salute. My words are simple, but they carry the weight of everything unspoken between us.
Her response gets cut off by a holler from across the room. “Sage! We don’t have all night!”
The impatient shout severs the building tension. It’s not right, her being rushed when she’s clearly dealing with more than her fair share of demons. But this isn’t the place nor time to dive into that mess. Not with prying eyes and wagging tongues itching for the next piece of gossip to spread through the dusty trails of our small town.
I raise a brow, the gesture as much for her as it is a reminder of reality biting at our heels. “You heard them. They’d like their drinks.”
Her lips twitch, a rebellious spark igniting in those deep-set eyes that always seem to be challenging the world. “Okay, but…” Her voice trails off, hesitant, and it’s clear she’s got something on her mind that’s eating at her more than the impatient calls for alcohol.
But that conversation, whatever it is, will have to wait. There are rules in places like this, and this watering hole isn’t the ground for heart-to-hearts or laying out your soul. Not with the jukebox wailing its country sorrow and the clatter of pool balls playing counterpoint to the hum of voices steeped in liquor and smoke.
“Later,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument, hoping she understands that later means just that—there will be a time, and it’ll be ours.
Her shoulders stiffen, the tautness in them telling me she’s not happy about it, but she nods once, curtly.
“It’ll wait. I don’t plan on leaving until you do tonight.” My words are low, meant for her ears alone amid the rumble of the rowdy crowd.
She pauses, and, for a heartbeat, she looks as though she might crumble under the weight of whatever’s eating at her. Her lips part, vulnerability flickering in those deep-set eyes, but then the shutters come down hard. She snaps her mouth shut as she strides away, the clomp of her boots beating out a rhythm against the floorboards worn smooth by patrons over the years.This floor has stories lodged deep in its grooves, tales of joy and desperation, soaked in beer and blood.
I watch her weave through the crowd, balancing thattray as if it’s second nature. There’s gotta be a way to smooth out the jagged edges life continues to throw at her. I’d do anything to keep her from needing to barricade her bedroom door and from having to layer on makeup to hide bruises she doesn’t deserve.
As I sit on the barstool, nursing my drink, I know I won’t rest until I’ve figured out exactly how to do that.Sage leans over the table, all grace and efficiency, placing drinks before each patron. To them, she’s the last drop of water in a desert, their gazes heavy with thirst that isn’t just for the booze. A flash of fury ignites within me, a primal urge to protect what’s mine. No hands reach out, but if they did, well, let’s just say there’d be hell to pay.
I watch, muscles tight, as she moves from table to table, the ever-dutiful waitress. But my mind’s back in her room, stuck on her door, and how it screamed of fear and a need for safety. And now, here she is, putting on a show, pretending all’s right when we both know it’s not.
My skull echoes a promise that hangs in the air, thick as the smoke that curls above the heads of the drunks lining the bar—later. When this charade of normalcy fades and the real shit begins, we’ll talk. It’s gonna be a long night, but I’m planted here, steadfast as an old oak, until she’s ready to leave. We’ll deal with what lies beyond the neon lights and rowdy laughter, where the shadows hold truths much darker than what’s poured from a bottle.
Until then, I wait. The dim bar lights cast a glow on hertanned skin, highlighting the curves hugged tight by those damn jean shorts. I let out a low groan, feeling it vibrate through my chest like the rumble of an engine in need of a tune-up.
This is a game she’s mastered, every step she takes just knots my insides tighter. There’s something so damn entrancing about watching her move, but with it comes this surge of something darker, something possessive that I keep tamped down deep inside.
She finishes her loop, her boots clicking against the floorboards. The sound is a damn metronome to the beat of my heart. She slides over to Jeb, who’s busy mixing someone else’s poison, and lays out a ticket covered in her scrawl. Her handwriting has personality, all big loops and quick slashes, like everything about her: bold and unapologetic.
My eyes don’t leave her as she does a slow scan of the room, her head turning on that slender neck. She’s searching for something, or maybe someone. For a moment, the idea that she might be looking for me lodges itself in my gut, an unexpected warmth spreading through my veins. But no, she knows where I’m stationed, and her gaze moves past me without a hitch.
Then she just stands there, still as the calm before a storm, not rushing off to the next table or disappearing back into the shadows of the kitchen. She’s just there, atthe edge of the bar, and I can feel the pull of her with every fiber of my being.
I take another sip of water, the coolness doing nothing to ease the heat unfurling inside me. Watching her is a kind of torture and pleasure all rolled into one—a hunger that never quite fades. And as she lingers by the bar, thumb rubbing absentmindedly over the edge of the counter, I know it’s gonna be a long damn night. I lean back on the stool, my boots propped up against the rung. She’s a storm in a teacup, that girl, all fire and brimstone wrapped up in a package that could make a preacher man forget his Bible verses.
“Hey,” I call out to her when she’s done passing out drinks. She looks over, and I swear there’s a flicker of something soft in those eyes before her expression morphs back into her work face.
“Kade,” she says, her voice threaded with the wear of a long shift. “What’s up?”
“Got a proposition for you,” I start, tipping my hat back a bit so she can see me straight. “And no, not that kind. Get your mind outta the gutter, darlin’.”
She smirks, but I see the tension in her shoulders ease.Good. That’s good.It means she trusts me enough to joke around, and trust is something I know is hard-won with Sage.
“Shoot,” she invites, leaning her hip against the bar, arms crossed.
“Figured I’d follow you home tonight,” I say casually, watching her reaction closely. “In case Toby decides to come back.”
Her eyes widen, just a fraction, before she huffs a laugh. “Toby? He’s probably halfway to Timbuktu by now.” But there’s a tremor in her laughter that tells me she isn’t as sure as she’d like to be.
“Maybe,” I concede with a shrug. “But maybe not.”
