Page 21 of Truck Stop Titan

Not sure what she meant. Regardless, I said, “So do you.” Last time I’d seen Moretti’s lady, she was half-naked and bloody, holding a rifle to the racist, pedophile motherfucker I’d had the pleasure of dismembering, limb by limb.

Her beige sweater upped the wattage on those crystal clear, ice-blue peepers. The blonde beauty shifted in her seat, her gaze dropping to the table, then bouncing back to meet me head on. “You brought in that poor girl.” The look she gave me was pure adoration.

I only nodded, foreign feelings washing through me like acid. Was that little lady still sleeping? Was her aunt in town yet? Nerves jetted through me, agitation prickling my skin. Why did I care? Kid wasn’t mine. Wasn’t my responsibility. Fuck. I needed sleep.

“Listen, uh.” I hooked a finger on the first envelope, shoved it Moretti’s direction. “I don’t need a job. How much I owe you for the other thing?”

“Nothin’ man. Just consider my offer.” He grabbed the money, shoved it in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. Then handed me the other envelope. “Take this.”

I took his offering, waved it, testing its weight. “This being?”

“New name, new life. In case you ever find yourself in a jam.”

Fucking guy was doing me a solid. A way out in case any demons came back to haunt me. I hadn’t a clue why. He owed me nothing.

Athankyou, ormuchappreciatedwould’ve been the proper response, but I was Dane fucking Reynolds, asshole extraordinaire, social misfit, deviant, criminal, and I was suffering one pisser of a hangover, so instead I grunted, “fuckin’ prick” while I slid from the table and made my exit before all the damn shit going on in my head erupted like a geyser.

“See ya ’round.” Tito laughed.

Not if I could help it. Whisper Springs and her fucking residents belonged in my rearview.

After I caught some shut eye.

Moriah

“YOU JUST NEED SOMEshut-eye. A good night’s sleep.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to take more than that.” I slumped against the wall, afraid I’d crumple into a heap without the support.

“You’re right. It’s going to take time,” Dr. Slade consoled, wiping my cheek with a tissue. “But she’s warmed to me, and she’ll warm to you.”

“She’s terrified.” Raw scratches decorated my arm, red and angry, evidence of my failed attempt to connect with my niece.

“She needs more time. You did good today, talking to her, telling her stories about her mother and grandparents.” Leticia pulled me into a much-needed embrace, rescuing me from my reverie. “The man who rescued her is coming to help us with lunch. Why don’t you head back to the hotel for tonight? Get your bearings…and some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll start fresh.”

God, how I wanted to stay, ached to assure that child I would die to protect her. But the doctor was right. Healing took time. I whispered a goodbye to my niece and followed Leticia down the back hallway, so the man who’d given me Mickey’s daughter could come to the rescue, his presence being the only shelter in her storm.

Disheartened, bearing the weight of failure, I retreated back to town and locked myself in the lonely room.

The mattress caught my weight, bouncing me twice then stilling, offering meager comfort in what was undoubtedly the most physically, mentally, and emotionally challenging hours of my life. I studied the welts on my arms, the angry grooves carved by a traumatized child—my own flesh and blood who couldn’t stand the sight of me. My vision blurred, and I briefly considered a revisit to the corner bar, to drown my sorrows and numb my spinning brain. Although, I doubted nothing short of a lobotomy would wipe the images from my head. Her tiny body, sunken cheek bones, the dark circles consuming her eyes. Eyes like her mother’s.

The tears I’d refused to acknowledge finally fell, sobs ripping loose. I cried. For my sister. My mother. My niece. I cried until I had nothing left.

A heavy knock yanked me from dead sleep to the upright position, fuzzy-headed, overheated, and for a few scary seconds, unsure of my whereabouts. Until the EXIT sign over the door came into focus.

My cell told me it was almost midnight.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

I padded toward the intrusion, heart racing, and peeked through the tiny hole, my body heating at the sight. Trailer’s face filled the space, eyes red and swollen, from drink or lack of sleep, I wondered, not that it mattered, because the raps in my chest propelled me to action, the barrier between us a horrible nuisance that needed to be removed.

I tore open the door without considering the consequences.

His perusal, deliberate and maybe a bit hesitant, lingered at my mouth before licking every inch of my skin, waking every nerve, all the way down to my bare feet, and back up before our eyes met. As if he couldn’t help himself, he leaned into me, stopped a hair’s breadth from my face, bracing himself with one hand on the doorjamb.

“Tell me you don’t want to be alone tonight,” he commanded. That voice. Thick and jagged. A promise. A warning.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

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