Handled

by Angela Graham

  “I believe ya.” He grins, both hands held up in surrender. “There’s a truck stop about twenty miles from here that’s been looking for some help. They can’t keep girls for shit, other than Ole’ Viv, not a girl.” He chuckles to himself. “Anyway, I could put your name in, but…” his eyes skim down my body and back up, slower and more deliberate than the last time, “workin’ with all that, you better be tough enough to keep the dogs away. Some of the truckers can be pretty crude. And the others are deviant fuckin’ perverts, plain and simple. You think you can handle that?”

  It’s me grinning now. “Oh yeah, I can handle men. Plenty of practice.”

  His brow quirks in curiosity before he can stop it, but he’s quick on the recovery. “Alright, well then expect a call from a guy named Joe soon. He’ll have you starting next week.”

  “You sound confident.” No way would a job just fall in my lap. Nothing ever comes easy for me.

  He blatantly ogles my breasts. “Oh, trust me, you’ll get the job. Gonna need your number, though.” He widens his stance and crosses his arms, a cocky smirk on his face as he…almost…here they come…now meets my gaze.

  I tilt my head and pout. “Ah, poor thing. Tell ya what, you get me the job, and I’ll help you practice asking for a girl’s number without all the hoops. Deal?”

  A beaming smile is slow to break out on his face, his gaze locked on mine as though he’s searching for something. “Whatever you say, Paige.” He blinks twice, then clears his throat and steps away. “I’ll go get Amelia. Text me your number. She has mine.”

  I watch as he grabs a shirt from the sofa and some keys from a small table by the door.

  “Thank you, Vaughn,” I mutter, throwing in some genuine kindness. It’s in there, it just rarely shows itself. “It was nice meeting you.”

  He turns his head and winks. “You too, very. And Paige?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not everything will bounce off ya. Some things stick.” And he’s gone.

  Chapter 2

  Turns out Vaughn doesn’t just talk a big game, he actually backs it up. Consider me slightly impressed.

  After finding a parking spot, I grab my bag and sprint inside, right on time for my third shift at Jake’s Break, the infamous Route 393 truck stop.

  “Finally!” Harlow, whom I suspect is a very lost cheerleader, squeaks out a greeting as I shake off the remnants of the freezing ice storm that made an abrupt appearance halfway into my commute.

  I tug off my gloves as she’s ringing someone up, at high speed and with a brisk smile, obviously ready to punch out. As soon as the customer walks away, Harlow’s attention is back on me.

  “I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my entire freaking life.” Her usually vibrant eyes are red and glossy and the natural immaculate state of her hair has been demolished by the rats seeming to have built a nest there.

  “Rough day?” I ask, shoving my stuff under the counter.

  Harlow snorts, arms crossed. “Joe swore that the day shift was slow, something about the drivers being asleep or whatnot. I don’t wanna call the man a liar…” she jerks her head around, scanning for stray ears, then whispers, “but I think he may have lied to me.”

  I can’t help myself; a burst of laughter floods out, loud and hearty. This girl belongs in a truck stop like I belong in a congeniality contest. Against Amelia’s protests, I’d accepted the night position, but I already know Harlow’s day shift is the busiest.

  The new, pesky empathy thing that keeps creeping up on me in flashes chooses now to make a surprise visit. Palm itching at the thought, I reach out and pat her shoulder. Yes, it’s awkward and probably too hard, but I’m trying and hoping my smile’s closer to looking believable than uncomfortable.

  “Harlow, maybe this isn’t your thing. Have you thought about looking for a different job?”

  She shrugs, bending to grab her sweater from under the counter while I start to switch out the register drawers.

  “I don’t know, I should probably answer Oakley’s calls or texts or something.” She shakes her head, downcast and miserable.

  See? Precisely why I don’t “reach out.” I suck at it. Now she’s worse off than before, eyes are all watery, glossed bottom lip quivering as she waits for my obligatory “Who’s Oakley?”

  I remove her cash drawer and hand it to her, damn near sprinting in the back to get mine, hoping to look occupied and deter her from further bonding. But the second I walk back out, she starts spilling her personal baggage.

  “Oakley’s my high school boyfriend. My everything. First crush, first dance, first kiss.” She looks away wistfully. “First—”

  “Got it,” I interrupt, slamming the readied drawer shut. I did my best, but drowning in her issues because I made an effort to be friendly seems an unfair trade. “Lots of firsts. Awesome. Totally see why you’d want to give him a call. So you go do that and I’ll—”

  “He went away to play ball.” She sniffles, eyes on me, sad and begging for something I can’t offer.

  I don’t do the whole “bestie, let’s open up and share thing.” Still, I’m not all-out cruel, when I can help it, so I give a slight nod for her to continue and she dashes through the open door.

  “He made it big, real big, and now he’s been trying to send for me,” she explains quickly.

  Send for her? I check my invisible watch—yep, still the twenty-first century.

  “How thoughtful of him,” I grit out, already nauseated. To my relief, there’s a guy approaching the counter, officially marking the end of the “kept woman” convo. “Harlow, you probably need to go do your count before you’re stuck here for the night. The weather’s getting nastier by the minute.”

  That gets her ass moving.

  “And where the hell is Viv? Does no one else care that she’s always late?” I throw up my hands, asking no one in particular.

  “Red Fox?” the male customer asks. “She’s ‘bout done, I’d figure. Should be waltzing in any second.”

  “Anything else?” I ask him curtly, sickened.

  He digs out a credit card. “Yeah, lemme get a shower ticket.”

  I ring him up, ducking to pull a stall number card, and find a frazzled Viv buzzing in when I stand back up. “Twelve is empty now,” I tell him.

  I’ve yet to check towels back there, so I snag him one of those too. “Enjoy,” I dismiss him with an excruciating smile.

  He doesn’t even notice, his eyes pinned to Viv, a wolfish grin on his lips as he captures her attention.

  “Not happening again, Dusty, so you go take that shower alone,” Viv snaps and I watch as he shakes his head, snickering as he walks away.

  “Hey, Sweetie.” Viv lifts the latching partition and joins me behind the counter. “Sorry I’m late. Peter was passing through.” She shivers dramatically. “And I do love me some Peter.”

  You remember that really old show with Mel’s Diner? Used to re-run on TBS? Flo the redhead, foul-mouthed, and always smacking her gum waitress? Viv is her long lost twin, I shit you not.

  She’s a hoot and I won’t ever admit it, but I don’t hate working with her. “Alright, Red Fox.” I roll my eyes. “Could you go,” I wave an aimless hand toward the back, “help Harlow? She’s doing the distraught pep squad thing again.”

  “You’re not fooling me, Paige. Soft as a kitten inside that heart of yours, I know it.” She shakes a finger at me. “But yes, I’ll go see about her.”

  Crazy town. I’ve been here just inside a half hour and I’m already exhausted. I drop my forehead on the countertop with a thud and groan. No sooner has my diastolic fallen back down under 200 when I hear it…his noise, the muffled amusement he tries to cage.

  “Watched Stanley flop his junk out on that counter once,” Vaughn comments and then laughs aloud, raucous and uninhibited, when my head flies up.

  I use my sleeve to wipe furiously at my forehead, glancing around for one of those squirt bottles of Germ-X. Of course we don’t have one�
�why would we? The possibility of residual Stanley junk on my face obviously didn’t come up in the OSHA action plan.

  Before I’m able to reply, he’s walking over to an aisle and I’m left wondering where the hell he even came from. We haven’t seen each other since the one time at Amelia’s and although we were bound to have another run-in eventually, I wasn’t expecting it so soon.

  Why I even care is beyond me, yet I can’t help but stare at those immense shoulders stretching his black tee, or the ass perfectly encased in “just the right tight” faded jeans. I’d forgotten how built the man was.

  Almost hypnotized, I watch as he snatches something from the shelf, then returns, falling in line behind the man who’d slipped into his spot.

  “You new?” the guy asks, his creepy leer and asinine one-liner reminding me not all men swim in the deep end of the genetic pool.

  “Yup, what can I get ya?”

  His lip rises at one crusty corner, eyes darkening. “Oh, I’m thinking of several things. What’s your name, Sugar?” He leans forward, elbows on my counter.

  “Herpes,” I deadpan and Vaughn barks out a laugh from behind this tool.

  Not easily discouraged, the dude smiles, flashing all six graying teeth. And to think…seven and my panties would have flown right off. Damn healthcare. “I gotta cure for that,” he sneers, lifting a hand toward my face. “Let me show you what a real man can do to that body of yours.”

  Before I even withdraw two steps, his arm’s lowered and curled behind his back for him…if the police ask. If not, jerked down and yanked is more accurate.

  “That’s enough, asshole. Apologize to the lady and disappear quicker than I can catch ya. Feel me?” Vaughn growls, pulling up on the man’s arm, which I can’t see but I know must be painful, judging from the creeper’s harsh wincing.

  “S-sorry,” the guy sputters. “There, I said it! Let go!”

  Vaughn turns him to the door, releasing and shoving him forward in unison. “One warning is all ya get. Might wanna drive the extra thirty to the next stop from now on!” he yells to the guy’s retreating back just before the door falls shut.

  Holy shit. Vaughn has a temper. And instead of scaring me off or bringing out the grateful little girl buried within me, I’m plain pissed.

  “So,” he spins to face me, bright eyed like nothing happened, “I see you got the job. Oh, here,” he offers me the wipes he’d grabbed before the pissing contest. “Disinfect your forehead, Herpes.” He laughs.

  “I could have handled him myself!”

  “I’m sure you coulda,” he winks, “but now you don’t have to. Ring me up for those and whatever I have in fuel please. Pump thirty-seven.”

  I slam my hands flat on the counter and lean forward, ready to make it clear to him that I’m not the type of girl that needs protecting, when he smiles, looking past me.

  “Viv! Where’s my lovin’?”

  Rolling my eyes while grumbling a few choice words under my breath, I rip a wipe out of the package and begin scrubbing.

  “Vaughn, you never have to ask, you know that.” She flings herself over the barrier between them, wrapping her arms around his neck and peppering his face in kisses. “Where you headed?”

  “Up north.” He trails a hand through his black hair to fix her damage when he breaks away. I’d call him pretty boy and offer a mirror, but it’s rude to interrupt. “Couple days. How’s your help?” He nods my way with a devious grin.

  Her gaze follows, smile brightening. “Paige? I love this lil’ hardass.” She slings an arm around my shoulder. “Ya’ll know each other?”

  “No,” I snap at the same time as he insinuatingly drawls, “Oh yeah.”

  Viv arches both brows…she can smell the story.

  Fuck it. I sigh. “Vaughn and I have a common friend, or, uh, cousin. Whatever.” I wave it off. “He did get me the job, though.” I look directly at him. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” he mouths and winks.

  “Oh, ho ho!” Viv’s jibing hoot crawls over my skin. “I’ll just go check the stalls. You two have fun.”

  “Did Harlow leave?” I call out as she moves to leave.

  “Yup, walked her out the back and to her car. I swear this winter will be one of the worst we’ve had in a decade. You drive safe out there, boy!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Vaughn salutes, eyes glittering, smile sincere.

  Viv’s gaze bounces between us once more before she gives a slight shake to her head. “Byeee.” She rolls her fingers in a wave and saunters off.

  Unsure what I just saw sparking in her thoughtful expression, I turn my focus back to Vaughn. “Your total comes to $6.66, got a card?” It’s actually $184.56, but it had to be said.

  His eyes remain on me as he reaches in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, handing me a Visa. I concentrate on the machine and processing the transaction, but look up when he clears his throat.

  “Paige,” he uses two fingers to slide a slip of paper across the smooth counter, “this is my handle. If you ever need anything, I’ll answer this faster than my phone if I’m driving. Like with that guy earlier. Just holler at me and I can talk you through, or him out, loud enough that he’ll get the message.”

  I return his card and receipt for him to sign, stealing a glance at the scrap. Jawbreaker, Channel 2.

  “Jawbreaker?” I snort. “Really?”

  “What?” He grins, wide and wickedly charming.

  “Why that? Seems silly. Or…”

  His brows slowly raise, a smugness to his features that I take in and catalogue beside everything else I know of the man so far, then gasp, biting back a fit of laughter.

  “Oh, please!” I hound him, eyes rolling back. “Are you…” my humor is hardly contained, “possibly trying to insinuate…” my gaze drops to his crotch, “that your cock could break someone’s jaw?” I clutch my side, slap my other hand on the counter, and howl madly.

  “Hey, Chuckles.” He taps my hand, so I pull it together, albeit an unwavering vibration in my shoulders, and force myself to look at him. “I like the way your mind works, and watching you laugh—I fucking adore that even more—but you’re off point tonight. Although,” he lifts the lid on the huge glass jar at the end of the row of impulse buys and plucks out a handful of huge gobstoppers, or…jawbreakers…and flashes me one of his winks, “you may be on to something. Holler if you need me.” He slaps the counter twice, pops one of the candies in his mouth, and strolls away without a backward glance.

  Chapter 3

  Even if I sleep during the day, which makes my entire body think something’s off and battles me on it, I still start dragging ass around 4:00 am every night. Or morning, depending how you look at it. Which I almost can’t, since my eyes won’t stay open.

  “Firecracker, come back.”

  And now I’m suffering hallucinations. Good stuff.

  “My lil’ Firecracker, you out there? Come back.”

  Who? Come back where? The place is practically dead tonight and I look around, up, and down, cursing Viv the likes to shame a sailor for taking another “break”…right when the ghosts start talking, no less.

  Johnny, this one’s called, I think. Hope he’s worth a fucking poltergeist.

  “Paige!”

  The goblin knows my name. Fuck. My. Life.

  “Paige, the CB. If you can hear me, pick it up and press the button on the side to talk, then let go for my turn. Come back.”

  I gotta start drinking coffee. Hopping off my stool, I pick up the walkie talkie and press the button.

  “Tupac? Is that you? Can you tell me where you are?”

  “Hey, you,” he says, absolutely not Tupac. I’d know this cocky hum anywhere. Once I ruled out paranormal activity, that is.

  “Hey yourself, Vaughn. What are you doing, and who’s Firecracker?”

  “You. Your name.”

  “What?” This whole radio weird name thing in the middle of the night isn’t processing so quickly.

>   “Don’t press the button,” he rushes out. “Let me say come back before you press it. Woman, I swear,” he grumbles.

  “That it? Roger, Lost Sheep, Bo Peep, over.” When I release the button for his turn, all I hear is his very sexy, can’t be denied laugh.

  “Paige, sweetie, what are you doing?”

  I drop the hand device, watching it swing back and forth on the spring cord, and spin to face Viv. “Nothing, and I didn’t break it.”

  She laughs, lifting the latch to join me in the upraised register area. “That—”

  “Ohh, Firecracker…”

  Viv’s head turns to the sound of the voice then back to me. “That Vaughn?”

  I nod, rolling my eyes; a nasty habit I knew I had, but all these new “friends” purposely antagonize me to do it ten times more often.

  “Oh,” her voice and chin drops, enlarged eyes pinning me, “no.”

  “No what?”

  She sighs and pats the top of the stool. “Have a seat.”

  Leery, because much like Vaughn, the verdict on her sanity’s still out, I slowly slide one hip up and back until I’m atop the seat, eyes on her.

  “Paige, deep down you’re a sweet girl,” she begins, “and—”

  “No, I’m not.” I snap. No need to confuse her.

  “Ah, honey, I get the defensive thing. Young girl, life lessons hardened you. I was there once, but you listen to old Viv now.” She pats my knee. “Vaughn ain’t a one woman kind of man. And tangling with him,” her red head shakes as she tsks, “is only gonna leave you feeling more beat down, alone, and used than before.”

  “Paging Paige,” he snickers over the channel, “are you okay?”

  “How would you know?” I stand, brushing by her. The adrenaline pumping through me is bothersome; I barely know Vaughn, but her hopping truck bed to bed then judging him behind his back isn’t sitting well with me. He got me this job and he didn’t have to do that. So he can’t be all bad. And even if he is… at least say it to the man’s face so he has a chance to defend himself.

  “Paige?” Vaughn’s voice is no longer playful but edged with an unsettling concern. It’s something new for me to hear in a man’s voice.