Page 65 of Truck Stop Tempest

I didn’t bother memorizing the license plate. I knew everything I needed to know about the owner. Name. Address. Bank accounts. He had a mother, a sister, and three children with two different women. And he’d not paid a lick of child support in the past seven years. The videos I’d found on Morrison’s computer had already been forwarded to the proper authorities, along with the shithead’s three addresses, and records of every exchange he’d brokered online over the past five years.

It wasn’t meat grinder retribution, but as Aida reminded me time and time again, we were no longer in the murder and maim business. Blah, blah, blah. Atoning for sins, or something like that.

I would never admit to Aida that I enjoyed taking someone down for the sheer pleasure of saving a child’s life. I let her believe I was helping Tucker because she’d begged me to join their plight to get these babies off the street. I knew from the beginning she was only trying to get me out of my own head, offering me a new life. What she didn’t know was that Tuuli had already taken care of that.

My Bunny. Damn, I needed to get home.

While I provided the distraction with the fake police car, Tucker moved the unconscious girl to our third vehicle. As per our plan, he would drive her back to the Compton Ranch, where she would be well cared for, we would meet up at his parents’ home, get a good night’s sleep, then head back to Whisper Springs.

I was halfway down the freeway on-ramp when Tucker’s voice broke through my reverie. “Tito. Fuck, man. Get your ass back here. We have a problem.”

“What’s up?” I snapped, cursing myself for failing to turn off the earpiece.

“I’ve got ten bikers up my ass. Pissed off fuckers by the looks of it.”

“Fuck!” I pounded the dash, pulled over, snagged my SIG out of the holder under the seat, and jogged in Tucker’s direction, careful to stay in the shadows.

Sure enough, Tucker’s truck idled, half pulled out of its parking space, surrounded by a shit ton of angry, leather-clad, Harley-riding motherfuckers.

Fuck me. I just wanted to get home.

When one of the men stepped under the light of the street lamp, I caught the symbol on the back of his vest, a skull and snake. Fucking Satan’s Slayers.

Well, shit.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” I apologized profusely and mopped-up the spilled coffee, catching the runoff before it hit my customer’s lap.

The man simply lifted his plate and scooted to the safety of the next stool. “No harm, no foul,” he said, continuing with the thumb to screen action on his cell like I hadn’t almost ruined his dress shirt. Calm and collected.

Unlike me, the bumbling mess.

One week had come and gone. Six days of eight-hour shifts, dinners for one, and worry. One hundred and forty-four hours of no Tito. Two broken glasses, three dropped trays of food, and four jumbled orders.

Good news? The weather had taken a turn for the better. Spring had sprung, evident by the bright leaves decorating the trees and the bright flower baskets hanging from every storefront lining downtown Whisper Springs. Bad news? My heart had seemingly sprung too—one horrendous, unbearable leak.

I missed Tito.

Hard as I tried to stay busy and focused, I couldn’t keep that slow leak sealed.

“Hey, Tuuli.” Aida’s greeting shot a shiver through my limbs. Despite her beauty, the woman terrified me. Maybe because I’d witnessed what she could do to another human on the night we’d been attacked. Maybe because she was strong, where I was meek. Perhaps because she could crush me with little more than a glance.

Tossing my dirtied towel in the sink, I turned to greet Aida. I’d expected her usual disapproving scowl but instead found myself face-to-face with chubby cheeks, pouty, heart-shaped lips, and giant doe eyes.

“Hold her for a sec? I need to pee.” Aida shoved the bundle of pink fluff into my arms and dashed around the corner.

Lucia squealed, babbled, and cooed. Clearly, she was conversing with me, and undoubtedly, she was saying, “Hi, Tuuli. My mom is really scary, and I’m happy you’re holding me.”

I buried my nose in her hair, inhaling her yummy scent, then whispered, “Yes. Your mama is scary, sweet pea.”

I cradled Lucia in my arms and plopped my rear onto an empty barstool. Before I could stop myself, I peppered those puffy cheeks with kisses and studied her perfect skin, her tiny fingers, all ten of them, and the double rolls of baby fat around her wrists.

The angel in my arms, so perfect and innocent, so vulnerable and full of potential, smiled up at me, her big eyes bright and full of wonder. My heart swelled, knowing Aida trusted me to care for her daughter, despite my upbringing, knowing what I’d been born into, knowing the baggage I dragged around like shackles.

She trusted me.

In that moment, with that realization, came the snap of strings, untethering me from my morbid family ties. Snap, snap, snap. My soul felt a little lighter, but I also seemed to dangle. When the last strings snapped, would I float, or would I fall?

Slade spun through the double doors like a ballerina on crack and shouted, “Where’s that little niece of mine? Hand her over.”

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