Truck Stop Tempest
Krissy Daniels
Copyright©2018 Krissy Daniels
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book in any form or by any means whatsoever without written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Kiss Me Dizzy Books
Cover Design by:
Julie Trisolini
Editing by:
Madison Seidler
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Proofreading by:
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Formatting by:
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Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
More Information
Acknowledgements
Other Books by Krissy Daniels
Connect with Krissy Daniels
To all those taught to stay silent
Find your voice
And fucking roar!
15 years ago
“STOP, JOJO! I’M NOT supposed to come here.” I dug my toes into the loose dirt, but my brother only jerked my arm harder, dragging me along the driveway toward the scary house. “Ow!” I cried, trying to pull away.
He stopped walking and squeezed my wrist. “Shut your fucking trap.”
My brother said the F-word a lot. I didn’t know what the F-word meant, but my mom said it was bad. “You’re not supposed to say that word.”
He stared at the cabin. Spit. Then started walking again, pulling me behind. “I’m a guy. I can say whatever the hell I want. You’re a girl. Girls keep their mouths shut.”
He sounded just like our dad when he said that.
Sometimes I didn’t like being a girl. I had a lot of things I wanted to say, but my dad always spanked me if I talked when I wasn’t supposed to, and he would spank me, for sure, if he saw me at his secret house. “I don’t like it here,” I yelled, squeezing my eyes closed, hoping he wouldn’t hit me.
JoJo stopped, took a deep breath, and made a fist.
Uh oh.
“Shut. Up.” He turned around and grabbed my arms, shaking me hard. “Anyone hears you, we’re fucked. Got it?”
I smashed my lips together and didn’t yell again, even when JoJo squeezed my hand too hard, and pulled me behind a tree, and pushed on my shoulders until I sat on the dirty ground.
“Now, stay here and don’t make a sound.”
I looked around and started to cry. There were big trees everywhere. I didn’t like the woods. Erik, the boy who lived next door to us, said there were monsters in the woods that liked to eat little girls. He always told me I had to obey him or he would drag me into the forest and leave me there for the monsters.
JoJo kicked the tree and said more bad words. Then he sat on his knees in front of me. “Stop crying. Do you want Dad or Erik to see you?”
I shook my head no. My brother was scary. But not as scary as Erik. Erik liked to make people scared. He liked to make me cry. He liked to make me do a lot of things.
My brother pulled a chocolate bar out of his pocket and dropped it in my lap. “Here. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. I’ll come get you when I’m done.”
“Where are you going?” I whispered, but JoJo just walked away.
I looked at the candy. My stomach made a loud noise. My dad never let me have candy. He said candy made girls fat, and girls needed to stay small if they wanted to keep boys happy. On my birthday, Mom always gave me candy bars. She said girls couldn’t get fat or spanked on their birthdays. I wished it was my birthday, then Mom would be home, and my brother wouldn’t have to babysit me, and I wouldn’t have to hide behind a tree in the woods.
It wasn’t my birthday, and I didn’t want to get spanked, so I threw the chocolate as hard as I could. Maybe the monsters would eat it, and then they wouldn’t want to eat me.
I waited, just like JoJo said. I kept my eyes closed the whole time because I didn’t want to see any monsters in the trees. I kept them closed until I heard a girl singing. She had a pretty voice, and she was singing about rainbows. I liked rainbows. Sometimes, I colored them for my mom, and she would hang them on the refrigerator.
I wanted to see who was singing. I opened my eyes, peeked around the tree, then snuck behind the cabin and stood on my tippy-toes to look through the window. On the TV, there was a girl singing to her dog. She had a pretty dress, and piggy tails just like me, except her hair was dark and my hair was white.
Then I heard crying.
I ran to the other window.
Erik was on the couch, watching the girl sing on the TV. His face was red and wet, and he didn’t have any clothes on. He had big black marks on his arms and tummy.
I didn’t like Erik, but he looked like he was hurt and sad. I didn’t like when people were sad. Maybe if I was nice to Erik, he would be nice to me. I knocked on the window and his eyes got big and round. He wiped his face, and then he didn’t look sad anymore. He looked scary and mad.
A door slammed, and Erik pulled his knees up high, then hugged his legs. He didn’t look at me anymore.
My dad walked into the room. He was singing like the girl, but he didn’t sound pretty. I never heard my dad sing before. He didn’t have a shirt, and his tummy was big and jiggly. He probably ate a lot of candy bars.
Dad sat on the couch and watched the girl. Then he put his arm around Erik and pointed to the TV. He laughed about something, and then he laid down and made Erik lay down, too. Erik tried to move away, but my dad hugged him and made him stay still.
My dad never hugged me. He never hugged JoJo either. Why did he like Erik better? Erik was the meanest boy ever, and I wished he lived far away.
“What the fuck are you doing, brat?” JoJo grabbed my piggy tail and pulled hard until I moved away from the window.
I closed my mouth tight because he looked really mad. Boys were not nice, but they really weren’t nice when they were mad. I wanted to ask what song that girl was singing. I wanted to ask why Dad and Erik were watching TV, but I didn’t because my brother’s face was all red and scrunchy.
He didn’t talk to me all the way home. He didn’t hold my arm, either. I was glad because my arm still hurt from before.
The next day, Erik found me in my room, under the bed. Every time he came to play with JoJo, I tried to hide. He always found me. I needed to get better at hiding.
Erik told my mom we were going outside to play, but we didn’t play. He made me go to my dad’s secret house. He made me watch the movie with the girl and the rainbow song. He scared me when the lion came on, and he told me I looked like the witch, the bad one, not the good one.
After that day, he made me go to the scary house a lot when my mom and dad were at work and JoJo was with his friends. Sometimes he hit me. Sometimes he yelled at me. Sometimes he made me sit on his lap. Most of the time, he made me lay down, and he laid next to me and wouldn’t let me move until the movie was over. Sometimes, he hugged me. His
hugs were not nice. They hurt, and sometimes I couldn’t breathe.
He always sang the rainbow song very loud. “Somewhere over the rainbow…”
He always made me walk home alone, through the woods.
I was happy when Mom told me we were moving far away. I asked her if there was a secret house where we were going, and she just looked at me funny.
I was happy that we were moving until JoJo told me Erik and his mom and dad were coming, too.
I didn’t like rainbows anymore.
15 months ago
Smoke billowed through the large space, seeping through the vents and down the stairwell, choking precious oxygen from the room. I fought unsuccessfully against my binds, thankful that I’d been thrown to the floor where I could still pull a small amount of clean air into my lungs.
Above my head, through aged floorboards and beams, came loud crashes, and screeching, the walls and windows releasing one last battle cry before succumbing to the flames.
Screams haunted me from the far corner of the basement, those of a dead man begging for mercy. Voltolini’s lawyer was their first target, and despite having lived the life longer than I’d been breathing, Mark Norton crumpled after a measly five minutes under the cut of Rafael Turner’s blade, spilling secrets not even I had been privy to.
He’d yet to give up the one thing Turner wanted, Aida’s location, not because he was a strong man, but because he’d been denied the vital details of her whereabouts. He did, however, spill a scarier truth, one that could bring Voltolini to his knees, and ruin a family. A truth I would most likely die for hearing.
That was if I survived the fire. Footsteps pounded around me.
A gruff voice yelled, “Time’s up, Turner.”
Rafael responded, “Who started the fucking fire?”
“Wasn’t us, boss.”
Rafael spit profanities. Fist hit flesh. A body fell inches from my head.
“The house is coming down around us. We go now.”
“Not until I know where they’ve hidden Aida,” Turner argued.
Dumb fuck.
“Won’t fucking matter if we’re dead. We go now. We go now!”
A deafening boom shook the foundation. Embers and shards of wood rained down. More footsteps. A boot caught me in the rib before a heavy body fell, cracking my ribs. The men surrounding me coughed and sputtered before heaving their fallen brother from the ground.
“What about Voltolini?” someone shouted.
“Let him burn,” was the reply. “Let them all burn.”
I fought to free my hands from the binds at my back. Fighting was useless.
“You win!” I shouted into the darkness, surrendering to my nemesis, my only worthy adversary, the Grim Reaper herself. “You win,” I rasped, ready for rest. Ready for peace.
Over the years, Death and I had shared a morbid courtship, dancing around in a twisted game of cat and mouse. Year after year, hit after hit, she would follow me into the dark shadows and offer a nibble of her sweet sanctuary, only to slink away, smiling, after I offered another soul in exchange for my own.
In my world, it was kill or be killed. I’d never been ready to die, and lucky me, there had always been someone ready, although never willing, to take my place. Death wasn’t biased. A soul was a soul, regardless of race, religion, or guilt.
As the old home above me crumbled, the acrid burn of paint and treated wood, old furniture, and flesh seared my nostrils. I choked on the metallic tang of blood and strained to see across the room through the sting in my eyes. I wondered if Lady Death was pleased that, for the first time, I had no alternative soul to offer.
Voltolini’s enemies would escape. I would not. I had led the Marcovic Cartel to the safe house. I deserved to die.
And so, I closed my eyes, conceding. Tapping out. My only request, that Death draw out my final moments, allow me to feel and suffer every agonizing detail of my final breaths, to hurt until my black heart thumped a final beat.
Lady Death heard me. The ceiling tore open, dropping heavy chunks of fire on my head. Death heard me. And she was more than happy to oblige my wishes.
All was going according to plan until someone tugged at my feet.
From across the room, a thick, hoarse voice commanded, “Get him out of here.”
More tugging. A hand lay across my chest. Heavy breaths blew in my ear. “Protect Aida, son. Take care of my princess. Then make them pay.”
“AND MAY THE LORD bless 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, ski
dding 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.
My morbid attraction to her wasn’t sexual, not exclusively anyway. No. Tuuli’s allure was soul-deep. Maybe the draw came from her eyes. She was young, late teens, I guessed, but her gaze, when I was careless enough to hold it for more than a blink, hid wisdom that was neither earned nor bestowed. I suspected that Tuuli’s erudition had been forced upon her, evident by the slump of her shoulders and the forced confidence she tried so hard to pull off.
Perhaps the unholy attraction was simply one broken soul recognizing another.
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