Page 6 of Truck Stop Tempest

I huffed. No one had ever asked me that question. Out of fear, most likely. “Nickname Aida gave me when we were kids. In grade school, I paid a girl to show me her rack. Aida found out, gave me a fat lip. Told her I couldn’t help it…I was a tit man. The name stuck.”

“So, you’re from New York, too.” A statement, not a question.

“Born and raised.”

The timid little creature turned to look at me. “What brought you to Whisper Springs?”

Death and destruction. Murder and revenge.

“Needed a change.” Damn, she’d turned the tables. I’d meant to be the one asking questions. “You grow up here?”

Her moment of bravery faded and she dropped her head, knotting her fingers. “No. Born in Arkansas. Dad moved us to Idaho when I was five.”

She was hiding something. Not very well, and it sure as hell wasn’t any of my business, but it bothered me nonetheless. Didn’t like that it bothered me. Didn’t like that I wanted to keep driving and talking. Fucking hated how I wanted to coax the truth out of her. Her life was none of my business. So, with equal parts relief and disappointment, I pulled into the parking lot of The Stop.

Tuuli’s hand was on the door before I shifted the car to park.

“Thanks, Tito,” she said over her shoulder as she pushed out of the car.

I watched her dash to the back door of the diner. Stared long and hard at the empty passenger seat. I turned off the heater because my car’s interior was fucking hot as Hades. After a bout of arguing with myself, I decided to head home rather than follow her inside. I needed lunch, but I needed a cold shower more.

Tuuli Holt and her pretty little voice clung to my skin like a New York summer. Sticky, stifling, and unrelenting. Problem was, I wasn’t sure a shower could wash her away.

Not good. Not good at all.

“Oh, this is not good at all,” The reflection glaring back at me was a grumpy, frumpy mess.

Thanks to Tito and his lead foot, I had fifteen minutes to spare before my shift started, enough time to grab a quick bite. I did not, however, have time to fix my hair. But really, when it came down to the nitty-gritty, a full belly trumped vanity by a gazillion points. So, instead of primping, I pulled my tangled mane into a low ponytail and called it good.

A wave of nausea washed over me. I folded, pressed my forehead against the cold sink, and waited for the hunger pang to pass before making my way to the kitchen.

“Hi, Charlie.”

“S’up Toodaloo?”

Toodaloo. Charlie had given me a nickname my first day on the job. I’d never had a nickname, aside from Brat. A term used too often and too enthusiastically by my brother and his friends over the years. I refused to acknowledge the moniker as any sort of endearment. Coming from Charlie, though? I couldn’t help but feel accepted, and somehow special.

I was about to ask for eggs when he pushed a bowl of soup my way. “I need your opinion. I might add this to the menu. It’s kale, with Portuguese sausage. Aida’s recipe.”

I cozied up to the cutting board and stirred the spoon through the gold broth with long shreds of green lettuce, perfect tiny potato and carrot cubes, shiny cuts of onions, and bite-sized hunks of some type of skinny sausage. The beautiful concoction smelled cozy, like a warm house on a cold winter day, inviting you to come inside and stay for a while.

I don’t remember much after the first bite, except for Charlie pushing torn pieces of bread my way, and then offering a second helping. I scraped the last piece of potato from the bottom of my bowl and sucked it between my lips. When I looked up, Charlie and Slade stood side by side, both with arms crossed, heads tilted, and brows pinched tight.

“So?” Charlie chuckled, his belly bouncing beneath his white coat. “You like it, then?”

Slade’s always cheerful face twisted in concern. “You okay, Tuuli?”

“Fine. Why?” I brushed bread crumbs off my mouth and carried my dishes to the sink.

“No reason,” Slade answered with a smirk. “Never mind.”

“Well?” Charlie asked as I made my way past him. “What’s the verdict? Yea or nay?”

I retied my apron strings tighter around my waist, to help hold up my pants, and pretended to debate the quality of his creation. “It beats Chicken ‘n’ Stars, gives Ramen a run for its money. I’m gonna go with a yea.”

“Hmmm,” he hummed, shooting me a wink. “I’ll dump this batch, tweak the ingredients, and see what I can come up with.”

“No,” I waved my hand in a desperate plea. “Don’t toss it. It’s perfect. I lied, okay. I lied. It’s the best soup I’ve ever had in my life. The best meal I’ve eaten in forever. Don’t tweak it. For the love of God, don’t change a thing.”

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