Page 82 of Truck Stop Titan

“The fuck you talking about?” I stood my ground, though unsteady.

Sirens in the distance drew the bastard’s attention toward the highway. Two blue and whites heading our way.

Hammer hung his head, gave it a shake, then tossed a set of keys at my feet. “I’ll be in touch.”

I stared at the gravel under my boots, watching the earth absorb drop after drop of my blood. After the rumble of Hammer’s engine faded, I fired up my baby, and hit the open road.

# # #

What do ya know, the tin box from hell still stood, looking like a rotten tooth sprouted in the otherwise untainted landscape. Mother Nature had done her best to hide the eyesore. Yard was overgrown, though that was nothing new. Weeds and wildflowers reached almost to the windows. Years’ worth of dead foliage and moss coated the roof.

A quick inspection revealed a broken window around back, most likely caused by a fallen branch, but the shithole didn’t look like it’d been ransacked. Front door was boarded over, but easy enough to break through.

The second I stepped inside, prepubescent emotions rolled through me like acid, unwanted memories stinging my pulverized psyche. My sorry ass dropped to the moldy carpet, the polyester fibers clumped and hardened from years of abuse, spilled libations, piss, and vomit.

I’d taken beating after beating in that shithole. Covered my father’s crimes. Witnessed and been victim to degradation most wouldn’t survive.

Only reason I’d stuck around was for Addy. Wasted energy. My father had ruined her regardless. Looking back, maybe she would’ve been better off in the system instead of the rotten metal cage and its ever-changing parade of guards.

When my head stopped spinning enough for me to stand, I stumbled to my old room, pausing at the hole in the wall that had marked my turning point, changed my path, branded me abuser. No longer the victim.

The Slayers had come to collect a debt from my father on my tenth birthday. A bastard three times my size had tried to get “friendly,” and I’d beaten the sick fuck to a bloody pulp. He’d only stopped me by shoving my head through the wall. The Slayers had threatened to kill me then, but after a private conversation with my father, the club had taken me under their wing. There was never any doubt I was nothing but a grunt. From that day on, until years later when they’d patched me in, I’d been called “trailer boy.” A reminder that I was trash, like the heap of tin and sin I’d come from.

After I had proven myself loyal, and indispensable to the club, the derogatory nickname was upgraded to “Trailer.”

For a short time, I wore that name with pride. Not anymore.

Face a pulsing, throbbing mess, I rifled through the closets, the cupboards, the hidden compartments under the carpets, coming up with a hefty stack of dear ol’ dad’s dirty money. I found a few photos of Addy that hadn’t been destroyed and shoved them into my breast pocket.

Out back, the tool shed stood crooked, half the roof missing. I collected anything flammable—a canister filled with old gasoline, paint cans, turpentine, motor oil, then dragged that shit back to the metal shack, and made a pyro’s version of pick-up-sticks in the center of the living room.

Giving the shithole a final fuck you, I raised my middle finger, made my way outside, lit a cigarette, took a long drag, then ignited the rest of the pack. I tossed the burning Marlboros through the open door, waited for the orange glow of flames, then kicked my bike into gear and left that putrid, piece of shit to burn.

Fuck my father. Fuck the Slayers. Fuck Trailer.

Moriah

“FUCK THAT TRAILER TRASHpiece of shit, fucking Reynolds.” The stairwell door flew open, scaring a squeal out of me, and Tango barreled my way, face bloody, clothes dirty and disheveled, murderous glower aimed straight ahead.

Before I could muster a greeting, he grunted, “Clear my schedule. I won’t make any meetings today.”

“Sure.” I paused, then before his door slammed shut, blurted, “Are you all right?”

Stupid question.

From behind the heavy wood, I heard, “Not even close.”

Awkward situations were nothing new in my profession but having my new boss of two days storm through the building beaten to a bloody pulp was definitely a first. No protocol for that occurrence.

Instinct led me to the employee lounge, where I found hot coffee, ice, and a first aid kit. Then I dug a bottle of pain relievers out of my handbag. I found Tango slumped in his wingback chair, a fancy crystal tumbler full of amber liquid in his hand, attention aimed at the family photo on his desk.

Tango ignored me while I opened the shades, filled a plastic bag with the ice cubes, then got busy with the bandages and antiseptic. He didn’t protest while I cleaned his face and winced only once while I dug dirt and pebbles out of his chin. The guy was either a rock, or he was in shock.

“I’m a good listener if you feel like talking.”

“What I have to say, you don’t want to hear.” Shrugging away from me, he tipped his head and downed his liquor. “You know what? Fuck it.”His glass landed on the desk, heavy bottom landing with a crack. “Dane is bad news. You and your niece need to stay the fuck away from him.”

A punch to the gut would’ve been less surprising, painful, or nauseating. And because I fought a constant uprising of bile, and wonky hormones, and because I was already on edge from that strange encounter at breakfast, I slammed my hand on the desk and met him nose to nose. “I’m going to keep my mouth shut about that comment, considering the shape of your face. But I would appreciate if you don’t talk to me in that tone ever again.” A huff. A deep inhale. “I’m grateful for this job, but not dependent on it.” Lie. Lie. Lie. “So I would have no problem walking away.” I almost gagged on my verbal diarrhea.

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