Page 4 of Truck Stop Tempest

“AND MAY THE LORDbless you and keep you…”

I closed my eyes and absorbed Pastor Davies’ benediction, letting the words wash over me, pretending, for the short reprieve, that I was clean and worthy of hearing them.

As the shuffle of feet and rustle of coats and mumbled goodbyes and have a good weeks and join us for lunch, closed around me, I hooked my purse strap over my shoulder, shrugged my arms into my sweater, and maneuvered through the congregation toward the door, stealing one last glance at the stained-glass image of Jesus before making my getaway.

I jogged down the cement steps and hurried to the corner, hoping to catch the early bus and make it to The Truck Stop in time to have a bite before my shift started. My stomach rumbled at the prospect of a real meal.

Rifling through my handbag in search of my bus pass, I continued along the uneven sidewalk and cursed myself for not keeping the damn thing in my pocket.

“Ah, there you are.” I snatched my card and looked up seconds before slamming into the figure standing before me.

Dear Sweet Mother of Mercy. My limbs locked, my insides sputtering and crackling like water dropped into a hot pan of oil.

Dark, turbulent eyes glowered down at me through the cover of his cloak. Out of habit, my gaze dropped to the ground. I hated that I still had that reaction around men. Pathetic and weak.

No more, I reminded myself, forcing my attention upward, over the scary body parked mere inches from mine.

I took in every detail, from his well-worn shoes to the running pants that clung to his thick thighs, to his signature dark sweatshirt. Tito, or Grim—as in The Grim Reaper—as I often referred to him in the safety of my private thoughts, once again had his hood pulled low over his head, hence the nickname. His chest rose and fell, sweat dripped from his half-hidden face, and puffs of white air blew from his lips with each exhale, reminding me how cold it was outside.

I shivered, as I often did in his presence, and pulled my sweater tighter around my middle.

“Hey, Tito.” I forced a smile. “Going for a run?”

He didn’t answer. He rarely did when I spoke to him unless reciting his lunch or dinner order. Instead, he glanced over my shoulder, then back to me, offering a nod in the building’s direction. “You one of those Jesus freaks?”

Shame slammed my chest. I was a freak, but not the kind he referenced.

“Oh, God no,” I said, folding, as I often did under the weight of peer pressure, or any pressure for that matter.

He shoved his hands in his front pockets, leaning back on his heels. “I saw you come out of the church.”

A nervous laugh escaped my lips. “Not everyone who goes to church is a Jesus freak.”

His eyes darkened. Narrowed. Burned a hole right through me. “Whatever you say.”

By some miracle, under the stifling weight of his scrutiny, I managed to squeak, “You don’t go to church?”

Stupid, stupid question.

“Rather be skinned alive.” Such loathing in his voice.

The heavy rumble of the bus reminded me of my tight schedule, shaking me from my Tito trance. I’d have to run for it. The Sunday driver waited for no one.

“Been nice talking to you, but I gotta go.” I took off at a sprint, breasts bouncing beneath my stretched-out bra, hair falling out of my meticulously pinned bun, and my purse beating viciously at my back.

I was a mere ten feet from my ride when my bag’s strap snapped, spilling its guts and my hope for a meal all over the muddy ground.

“No,” I screeched, skidding to a stop and gasping for air as the bus rolled away without me. “No. No. No.” I squatted to retrieve my things, plucked them from the newly thawed earth, and shoved them, muck and all, back into my thrift store handbag.

Tucking the pink leather traitor under my arm, I headed the same direction I’d just come and maneuvered through the slow flowing stream of churchgoers spilled onto the sidewalk. If I kept a brisk pace and didn’t die of frostbite, I could still make it to work on time.

Already a couple of blocks ahead, Tito continued to gain distance, his large, dark form growing smaller by the second. My insides warmed at the sight. What I wouldn’t give to own such a powerful air of self-confidence, such a fearsome presence. What I wouldn’t give for a taste of power, to instill fear rather than drown in it.

I wondered briefly, and shamefully, as I often did, how a man, more specifically Tito, would feel if he were to hold me, his thick muscles pressed against my small curves. How would he taste if I stole a kiss? Too often, I thought about his lips—whether they would be soft and gentle, or hard and forceful. I often thought about his other body parts as well, even though the little voice in my head reminded me it was wrong to have any thoughts about a man like Tito Moretti.

I hated that little voice.

That little voice. That pink, pouty mouth. Those wide, terrified, baby blues. Fuck. The girl was a damn child. A churchgoing child, no less, and, for reasons beyond my understanding, I couldn’t flush her out of my head, no matter how hard I hit the bag, or how many miles of road I tore up.

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