“In a minute.”
A long sigh. “How was Liz tonight?”
“She talked more today. But it wore her out.”
I could practically hear his eyes rolling, screeching in their dried-out sockets. Although he was obliged to ask about my day, I knew he hated hearing my woes.
“I want to have a baby.”
“We’ve talked about this.” He rolled to his stomach, burying his face in the pillow.
“I want to have children, Matthew.”
“You want to replace your mom and sister.”
Maybe he was right on some level. And so what if he was correct? My childhood had been amazing. I had nothing but beautiful, cherished recollections of our family. I wanted a family, too. I wanted to build those kinds of memories with my own sons and daughters.
Matthew huffed. “You know work is my priority right now. I want kids, too, eventually. But I need to focus on my career first.”
And me, I wanted to scream. You need to focus on me.
Silence weighted the air between us.
“Are we ever going to get married, or am I just convenient?”
“Moe. It’s late. I have an early meeting. Come to bed.”
“I need you, Matthew. I need a hug. I need you to make love to me. To make me feel good. I need you to tell me you love me, and that you can’t live without me, and that if I want babies, you would do anything in your power to make that happen because that’s how much you love me.” I gasped for breath, then continued. “I need you to tell me that you’re sorry my mother is dying, that you’re so, so sorry, and that you wish you could make everything better.” Another pause to wipe the tears off my cheeks. “But you don’t. You don’t ever tell me those things.”
“You’re exhausted. Come to bed. Everything will be better in the morning.”
Defeated, wiped, aching, I crawled back into bed. I didn’t fall asleep.
Things were not better in the morning.
# # #
“Ready to go?”
“Not yet. Few more minutes.”
“Everyone has left.” His voice carried a hint of irritation.
“I don’t care.”
Matthew checked his watch, the gold catching in the rays pouring through the high, stained-glass windows. He sighed, then dropped a chaste kiss on my head. “I’ll be in the car.”
I sat in the pew, wadded tissues in hand, and stared at the photo of Mom. Her golden hair, the freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. Her crooked tooth that suited her quirky smile. God, I missed that smile. And her laugh. Nobody laughed harder than Elizabeth Peterson.
The church was mostly empty, save a couple of flower arrangements. That crushing weight barreled down on my chest again, overwhelming me from the outside, suffocating me from the inside. What came next? Mom was gone. Mickey was nowhere. My father had passed when I was sixteen. I was utterly alone. Drowning in grief, and I’d never been more ready to throw in the towel.
A throat cleared behind me. Matthew, rushing me along, most likely.
“I said I need a minute.”
“Moriah Peterson?”
I turned in my seat to address the deep voice behind me. “Yes?”
A tall, mountain of a man with piercing blue eyes and a kind smile stood behind me in a green dress shirt and dark jeans. A woman stood next to him, barely reaching his chest, her gray hair pulled into a neat bun, dressed for a day at the office.
I stood, used tissues rolling off my lap and landing at my feet.
The woman extended her hand first. “Hi, Moriah, I’m Dr. Leticia Slade. This is my son, Tucker.”
Tucker offered his hand, and I gave him a firm shake.
“Did you know my mom?”
Dr. Slade looked over my shoulder, studying the portrait of my mother, her eyes glossy. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She cleared her throat. “And we’re sorry for coming to you today, but what we need to discuss with you is time-sensitive.”
My hands trembled. Mickey. Their untimely visit had to be about Mickey.
“Is she alive?”
The doctor raised her face to meets her son’s worried expression. “You know about her?”
The knocking in my chest grew painful. “My sister, Mickey. This is about her, right?” I clutched my chest, tears welling. “Is she in trouble?”
The sadness in the woman’s eyes told me all I needed to know. I fell into the chair behind me, curling into myself, the truth turning me inside out. I’d known deep down that she was gone. I’d known, but I’d clung to faith, the pathetic hope that someday I’d get my sister back.
The man coiled his arms around me—strong, warm, comforting. He held me while I cried silent, painful sobs. He held me against a solid chest while I bled, the grief pouring out of me, the pressure releasing, finally releasing.
When I was coherent enough to speak again, I pushed out of his arms. He held tissues at the ready.
“Thank you.” I wiped my eyes, blew my nose. “How did it happen?”
The man, Tucker, cleared his throat, scratched the back of his head. “Drug overdose. But that’s not why we’re here.”
“Why then?”
“Her daughter.”
My heart stopped beating. The world stopped spinning. “What do you mean, her daughter?”
“You don’t know about your niece?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from my sister in over seven years.”
“Moriah.” Dr. Slade sat next to me, pulling my hand into her own and settling it on her lap. “Your niece was found a few days ago. She’s in bad shape.”
“Where’s her father?”
“We don’t know.” Tucker growled.
“Wait. I. Um.” I rubbed at the pinching pain in my temples. “I don’t understand. She was found. Where is she?”
“That’s the, um, sensitive part.” Mother and son exchanged glances. Tucker nodded for his mom to continue.
I listened while they explained how my niece was brought to them. How she hadn’t spoken a word since they’d found her. How she’d bonded with her rescuer, and he was the only person she’d allow near. They explained that my niece needed me, and how there was no legal record of her birth, nor of my sister’s death. They explained that if I came to claim my sister’s child, more laws would be broken.
They spoke as if they were giving me a choice. As if I might not want Mickey’s daughter. Because, of course, there were people who wouldn’t take in a troubled child even under normal circumstances.
“When can I see her?” I asked, my heart a thousand pounds lighter, despite the heaviness of the day.
“Moe,” Matthew’s voice echoed through the room. “We need to get going.”
Protective instincts welled inside me. I didn’t want Matthew knowing anything about these people, or anything about my niece. And God, that spoke volumes about our relationship, didn’t it?
“Go.” I waved him off. “I’ll Uber home. Be there soon.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I have a few things to take care of here,” I lied, knowing he didn’t care enough to question.
“Okay.” He eyed Tucker, then Dr. Slade, offered a smile, then turned to leave. “See you in a bit.”
“When can I see her?” I asked again.
“How fast can you get to Idaho?”
“As fast as I can book a flight.”
“I’m so happy to hear that.” Dr. Slade pulled me into a hug. “Come on, we’ll give you a ride home. I can answer any of your questions on the way.”
# # #
“What’s your poison?” The bartender asked, tattooed arms planted on the bar, twisted grin lighting his features.
“Whiskey sour,” I said without hesitation because that’s what Mom used to drink, and I needed to drink in her honor.
“You new in town?” He snatched a tumbler from under the counter and got busy mixing my drink. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
“My first time in Idaho.”
“Yeah?” he asked, cocking a brow, like everyone had been to Idaho. “Where you from?”
“Shelbyville, Illinois.”
“Well.” He slid the yellow concoction my way and offered a killer smile. “Welcome to Whisper Springs, Shelbyville. First drink is on me.”
“Thank you.” I noted the playful lilt of his smile. A well-practiced grin, for sure. That Hollywood mug had to earn him a killing on tips. “What’s good to eat?”
He made a quick assessment of my figure. “Buffalo sliders. You could use some meat on your bones.” His insult could’ve been mistaken for a compliment, paired with that show of white teeth and that heady gaze, so I gave him a pass. Besides, he’d hit the nail on the head. I’d lost more than thirty pounds since Mom got sick. I’d neglected my health worrying about hers. “Perfect. I’ll have the Buffalo sliders.”
He nodded and headed to the service window. I looked around for a table. When I found none, I claimed the closest barstool. My phone buzzed the moment I sat down.
Matt: You left?
Me: Yes
Matt: UR flight was scheduled for tomorrow
Me: Couldn’t wait another day
Matt: We need to talk about this
Me: Nothing to discuss. She needs me
Matt: What about us?
Me: Us ended when u made me choose
Matt: We’ll talk when U get home
Nothing more to talk about. I had a niece to take care of. Matt wanted nothing to do with the bastard child of a drug addict. I wanted nothing to do with a man who would abandon a child in need. So, I’d left a day early. Gave me time to get my bearings before meeting my sole living relative.
“Here’s to you, Mom,” I mumbled to myself before taking a sip of my drink. Ah, so good. “Here’s to you, sis.” I chugged two more swallows. “And here’s to finally kicking Matt to the curb.” Which reminded me…
Me: In case UR unclear. We’re done. Have UR things out of my house by the time I get back.
He didn’t reply. Then again, I hadn’t expected a response. Matt had never fought for me.
My cell hit the counter with a dull thud. The glass touched my lips, liquid scorched my throat, fire hit my gut. The burn helped clear the static from my head.
Glass raised to the sky, I mumbled, “Eff you, Matthew.” I took a long swallow, then another. “I don’t need you. I can do this by myself.”
A deep chuckle came from my left. I turned to find the profile of a large man. His shoulders were so broad they left no room for anyone to sit on either of the stools flanking him, and the glower he wore expressed he wanted it that way. His hair was shaved on the sides, the top long and fallen to the left, blending with a full beard that nearly reached his broad chest. His jeans hugged what looked to be a great ass and thick thighs, and the sleeves of his black T-shirt stretched tight around lumberjack, solid arms.
Forcing my gaze to his face, I found the same hard edges. “What’s funny?”
“Nothin’, sweetheart.” The man brought his glass to his lips, sipped, then set it down, without so much as a glance my way.
Rude.
“If you’re gonna laugh at someone, you can at least look them in the eye.”
Not a grunt, a huff, or a subtle blow-off. Although I was pretty sure his jaw clenched.
Men sucked. Okay, not really. I liked men. A lot. Especially the bartender because he made a damn fine whiskey sour, but the beefy dude? He could kiss my ass.
I threw back another long swallow, twisted to face the guy, and released my ire. “You know what? Eff you, too.”
That got his attention, and he shot me a sideways glance. “Eff you? Really?” He gestured to the bartender for another drink. “You’re gonna insult me, at least do it right. Don’t give me that half-assed shit.”
“Half-assed?”
“That’s what I said, baby.”
“Baby?” That just made me angry. Matthew didn’t even call me baby. “‘Eff Matthew, and eff you.”
“Is this a joke?” he asked the bartender. “You got hidden cameras or something?”
The bartender shook his head, gaze dancing between the two of us, then hustled to the other end of the bar. Smart guy.
“I’m not being funny,” I assured him, leaning closer, certain that if he actually gave me the courtesy of eye contact, he would see the magnitude of my seriousness.
The man ignored me and stared at the plethora of bottles decorating the wall behind the bar. When he lifted his drink to his lips, the muscles under his colorful arms bunched and coiled, doing all kinds of crazy things to my insides. Or maybe the alcohol was doing its job.
Regardless, I pretended to ignore him, too, while I picked at my food and ordered another drink. I drank for Mom, I convinced myself, not because I’d rather sit next to grumpy guy than sit alone in a hotel room and fret over my future.
Two sips into my third drink, a tall man shuffled beside me, leaning one elbow on the bar, resting his free hand on the back of my stool.
He told me I was beautiful, asked if I would join him for a drink. I politely shot him down. He persisted, scooting closer, caging me. “C’mon sweet thing. You and I both know if a woman comes to a bar alone, she’s looking for company.”
I readied to protest and give the dickhead a piece of my mind when a thick voice came over his shoulder. “She isn’t alone, Bub. You wanna keep your head attached to those bony fuckin’ shoulders, you’ll walk away, right the fuck now.”
Dear God, that voice, thick and dangerous, like he gargled shards of glass just to prove he could, just to show the world he was badass.
Bub raised an eyebrow at me, straightened his spine, turned to face Mr. Grumpy, and shrank two sizes when he got a good look at his “competition.”
Hands raised in surrender, he backed away. “Hey, man, sorry. I thought she was alone.”
The bartender made his way closer, watching for trouble. He nodded, silently asking if I was okay. I smiled and gave him a nod back.
Grumpy’s eyes, weary and red-rimmed, but lethal nonetheless, finally met mine. He seemed to glare right through me at first, but his focus moved from my hair to my lips, then lingered on my freckled nose. A warmth softened his stone-cold features, as if he were seeing an old friend for the first time in ages.
Toes to scalp, every muscle that was capable clenched. Even my skin joined the party, vibrating in response to his feral power.
Beautifully brutal. Hard edges. Dangerous. The man was terrifying in size and aura. Unapproachable but mesmerizing. Fading bruises on his cheek, angry scar above his brow. A hot heap of sexy trouble.
Oh, God, I was staring.
And blushing, my cheeks blazing hotter than my grandfather’s old pot belly stove.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, my throat too dry considering the amount of liquid I’d consumed.
He only nodded, one corner of his lips pulling to the side.
Was that an invitation? Did I care? “Bartender, I’d like to buy this man an effin’ drink.”
Grumpy smiled and shook his head. “You’re killing me, sweetheart.”
“My name’s not sweetheart.” I offered a hand. “It’s Moriah.”
# # #
“Tell you what,” Grumpy said, sliding to the stool between us. “I’ll buy the next round, you do one thing for me.”
His thick, warm voice was like an orgasm for the ears. “What would that be?”
He nudged his empty glass out of the way and turned to face me. “Give me one proper fuck you.”
“I don’t like that word.”
“Jesus. H. Christ. Are you for real?”
I couldn’t help myself, the guy was too damn serious. “Fudge yes, I’m for real,” I said, unable to stifle a laugh.
“Fudge,” he huffed. “Not even close.” He gestured to the bartender for another round. “Come on. Just one good, old fashioned fuck you.”
I shook my head.
“Okay. Okay.” Grumpy perched one elbow on the bar,
leaning closer. “Who’s Matthew?”
“Why?” I asked, not missing Matthew one iota.
“Because you said his name earlier, and you seemed upset with the guy.”
“He’s my ex.”
“Okay then, obviously he’s a douche if he let you slip through his fingers. So, for Matthew, let’s hear it.” He tilted his head toward mine, drawing out the words. “Fuck. You. Matthew.”
“Oh, God. You’re not gonna relent, are you?”
“Not a fucking chance, sweetheart.”
“Okay. Fine.” I lifted my glass toward Grumpy and waited for him to clink, because for some reason, the moment seemed monumental and toast-worthy.
His scowl bounced between our glasses, then back to me. “I don’t do that shit.”
“Fine.” I reached over, our shoulders bumping, and tapped my tumbler to his, then raised it to my mouth for a long swig before slamming it on the sticky wood.
I winced through the burn, cleared my throat, and shouted, “Fuck you, Matthew!”
“Fuck yeah,” Grumpy growled, raising his glass in salute. “Good girl.” He chugged his drink and hooked his finger at me. “Keep ’em coming.”
So, I did. “Fuck you, Matthew. Fuck you, cancer. Fuck you, drugs. Fuck you, douchebags who prey on women in bars…” And I continued with my list of grievances.
Grumpy started to laugh, and oh sweet Jesus, what a beautiful sound.
“See?” He chuckled. “Feels good, right?”
Perhaps it was the overindulgence of libations, or the release of pent-up frustration, or maybe the company, but the weight on my shoulders lifted, and I did feel better.
“Feels great.” I straightened my spine. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His hand landed on my thigh, an innocent gesture between two people sharing a laugh, but the heat his fingers ignited was anything but moral.
Obviously, we were both drunk. Had my head been in the right place, had I not just buried my mother, dumped my boyfriend, and agreed to take-in my dead sister’s daughter, I would’ve chosen that moment to say goodnight. Knowing that could very well be my last moment of freedom, my last chance at wild abandon, I threw caution and sanity to the wind.
Truck Stop Titan Page 3