Truck Stop Tryst

by Daniels, Krissy

  Howe was the valedictorian of my graduating class. He’d also been my best friend, and the too-small kid I’d pulled out of many dire circumstances due to his lack of bulk, and his disdain for violence. No arguing, the guy was fucking brilliant, into some deep-web conspiracy theory shit. Conner had planned on joining the Marines alongside me. Instead, he’d been recruited by a private organization. The kind that operated above the law. The kind of agency the United States government denied existed, but called upon when they couldn’t get their hands dirty.

  “Anything.” His voice sounded gruffer than I remembered. I had no doubt his chosen career path had taken its toll.

  “It’s a big one.”

  He huffed. “I owe you big.”

  “I need someone to die. It needs to be brutal. It needs to be public.”

  “Send me the specs.”

  “Will do.”

  “Slade. You good?”

  Conner was the guy who’d helped me learn to navigate, and then manipulate the various means in which underage girls could be procured. Social media, deep web, over the radio waves, or via the local paper. The game was always changing.

  “I’m good. You?”

  “Never been better.”

  “All right. Happy to hear it.”

  We caught up with a short and to the point convo. I ended the call, pulled up the file I’d prepared weeks ago, and hit send.

  Fingers laced behind my neck, I paced the living room. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  Would she forgive the liberty I’d taken?

  After watching her interact with my family at dinner, and after she’d offered her body so selflessly to me, I had no other choice. Whether she recognized the change or not, Aida was adapting. Hell, she was evolving. Princess Voltolini, no matter her past, deserved a chance. At family. At freedom.

  What she needed most was a chance to succeed as a mother.

  What I needed most was to keep her alive.

  I had the power to give her the impossible.

  And so, I did.

  The deed was done.

  Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t take it back.

  THE HEADLINES READ SIMILAR across all media outlets.

  “The Body of Missing Mob Princess Found Dead on Father’s Gravesite.”

  “Pregnant Heir to Voltolini Empire Executed.”

  Merry fucking Christmas to me.

  I tore my gaze from the muted television, mind numb, ears buzzing, heart beating half its normal tempo. Tucker’s arm came around my shoulder, pulling me deeper into his heat. Tango’s worried face came into view. Slade’s blue eyes darted from me, to Tango, then back to me.

  I had no words.

  The old me would’ve erupted in a flurry of rage and wounded ego.

  The new me burrowed deeper into the arms of the man I loved, staring into the faces of a man and woman who’d welcomed me, adopted me into their family. As I sat in a warm home, on a cozy chair surrounded by shiny bows, torn Christmas paper, empty boxes, and toys, I sighed a breath of relief, and thought to myself, I’m free.

  Who was responsible? What was their endgame? “It had to be Tits. He’s the only person I know who could’ve pulled this off.”

  “I’m not about to make any assumptions, Princess.” Tango squatted at my feet, rubbing his hands over my knees, hope swimming in his green eyes. “I hope to Christ it was Tito. That’d mean he’s alive.”

  “Who else would benefit from pulling off this ruse?”

  “I hate to say this,” Slade chimed in. “But what if it’s someone trying to lure you out of hiding.”

  Tango nodded. “Someone who knows you. Knows your short temper. Maybe they’re trying to flush you out, hoping you’ll come forward to prove you’re alive.”

  “Like Turner, you mean.”

  He released a loud sigh. “Could be Turner. Could be whoever’s responsible for the explosion. Turner makes more sense. From what I remember, the guy was possessive as fuck, especially when it came to you. And now that you’re carrying his child? Who knows what the hell we’re up against.”

  “Does he have that kind of clout?” Slade asked.

  “We know nothing about him,” I reminded everyone. “Except that he wasn’t who we thought he was.”

  “So now what?” I dared ask.

  Tucker, who’d remained silent until that point, slid out from under me and pushed off the couch, cussing under his breath. “Now what? Simple. We don’t do a damn thing.”

  A phone buzzed. Tucker shoved his hand into his back pocket and retrieved his cell. After checking his screen, he stormed across the living room into the kitchen, and I assumed, by the slam that shook the walls, out the back door.

  “We can’t do nothing,” I mumbled.

  Tango dropped his head. Scratched his temple. Lifted determined eyes to mine. “Nothing is exactly what we do. You hang low for a bit longer. Give it some time. Wait for the story to fizzle.”

  “I want to go back to work with Charlie.”

  “Aida,” he argued. “We can’t risk someone recognizing you.”

  Slade claimed Tucker’s empty spot on the sofa, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “She’ll stay in the kitchen. Besides, she doesn’t look the same as the woman in those images. Chances are, no one will recognize her. If anyone does, we’ll blow it off. Everyone has a doppelgänger, right? Besides, we have proof that she’s not Aida Voltolini.”

  God, I loved her. Like, really, really loved her.

  She had my back, and she argued a good point—I’d gained weight, my face was fuller, and when I wore no make-up, I looked like a completely different person than the mob princess who’d arrived in town months ago. And besides, I had proof, in the form of ID and credit cards, that I was not Aida Voltolini; I was indeed, Aida Suarez.

  Whoever orchestrated my fake death, I wanted to hug them.

  “I don’t like this,” Tango complained, brows pinched, jaw set tight. “You know I’m no longer under obligation to protect you. You’re free to do whatever you want.”

  “But?” He wouldn’t loosen the reins that easily. He’d always been as protective of me as Tito had.

  “Fuck.” He pushed to his feet. Started pacing, then stopped in front of me again, hands to hips, releasing a frustrated breath. “Stay here. With us. The job. The apartment. It’s yours if you want it. I know it’s not what you’re accustomed to, but you have family here. And you’re safe.”

  “I’m not running back to the East Coast, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve no desire to put my baby at risk, Tango.”

  He studied me for long moment, then nodded. “I believe you.” He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “You should keep a low profile, though. Those Aryan fuckers haven’t come back, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t out there, biding their time.”

  “No worries.” Slade patted my thigh. “We’ll walk to work together in the mornings.”

  “Better yet, I’ll drive you,” Tango interjected.

  Slade’s lips disappeared between her teeth. Her lids closed, and she inhaled deep and slow through her nose before gritting a response, “Sure. That’d be good, honey. You could drive us to work.”

  Slade lived for her morning and afternoon walks. I hated that she was giving up her sacred time for me.

  “Perfect.” Tango helped Slade to her feet, then slid his arm around her waist. “Tucker or I can drive you home after your shift when we’re available. If we’re not, I’ll have whoever is on security detail give you a lift.”

  “Okay. It’s settled.” Slade flashed her mega-watt smile, rose on her toes, and kissed her man on the cheek. “Can we get back to enjoying our Christmas now?”

  Tucker walked back into the room, face red, eyes narrowed on me. It was obvious his phone call hadn’t been a happy one. He clapped Tango on the shoulder, hugged his sister, and announced, “We’re heading downstairs. Be back up to help with dinner in a bit.” He grabbed my hand, and off we went.

  He ope
ned my apartment door, moving aside for me to go first, as his chivalrous nature dictated. Only, he didn’t slap my ass as I made my way through, per his norm. Nor did he rip off my clothes and take me in the hallway as I’d hoped would happen.

  He gripped my hand tight, and with heavy strides, pulled me toward the bedroom. On the bed sat a present, rectangular and flat in shape, wrapped in shiny gold paper with a glittery red bow.

  “Tucker. We said no presents.”

  “I know. Just open it.”

  I picked up the gift and sat on the edge of the bed. Tucker joined me. Thigh bumping mine, he leaned back on his arms. Thick muscle bulged under his dark denim, pulling it tight across his leg, filling me with longing. I wanted that power between my legs. I turned, planting one knee into the mattress and hoisting my other leg over his lap. At seven months knocked-up, the maneuver was no easy feat.

  Thankfully, Tucker was strong, and instead of watching me struggle, he grabbed my hips and guided me into position over his thick bulge. He then laid back, hands clasped behind his head, making room for the baby bump.

  I admired his solid form beneath me while I untied the bow. “Did you wrap this?”

  “Sure did,” he rasped, offering a playful wink. “All by myself.”

  “You’re quite handy with the scissors and tape, I see,” I said, struggling to find a way past the wrapping paper.

  “I’m a handy guy.” Tucker’s hand snapped to the side of my stomach, fingers splayed, thumb rubbing a small circle. God, that small gesture did remarkable things to my insides.

  I ripped the paper and popped the lid off the unmarked black box, gasping at what lay inside, shiny and sharp and perfect. Handmade fixed blades, carved thin handles that fit perfectly in my palm and would be easy to hide under any outfit. My damn eyes started to burn, and before I could gather composure, tears spilled down my face.

  For the second time that day, I was at a loss for words. Words seemed insufficient. And as I stared into the eyes that peered straight into my soul, as the gravity of the day struck me hard, I buried my face in my hands and I cried. Cried for my first real Christmas. Cried for the man who truly knew me. Cried, mourned, and celebrated the me that no longer was.

  Aida Voltolini was dead.

  “Aida Voltolini is dead,” Connor announced. “Have you seen the news?”

  “Watching it now. What’s going on? Wasn’t supposed to happen until next week. We weren’t supposed to talk—”

  “Wasn’t me, Tuck,” Conner cut me off. “Someone beat us to the punch. This shit legit?”

  “No. Fuck. It’s not legit. I’m with her right now.” I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one had followed me out of the house. “Any way you can find out who did this?”

  “Already working on it. Don’t like being trumped. I’ll hit you up when I find something.”

  “Thanks, Conner. I have one more favor to ask. Money is no object.”

  “Fuck that shit. I’m not taking a penny for this gig. If there’s someone out there capable of pulling off this charade, I need to meet them. What do ya need?”

  “Can you make her photos disappear? If people recognize her, she’ll never be free.”

  “I can do better than that.”

  “Thanks again, Con. Merry Christmas, buddy.”

  “Ho. Ho. Ho.”

  My earlier convo with Conner played on repeat in my head, unease seeping deeper into my bones. Aida had drifted into dreamland at my side hours ago, clutching her sheathed knives to her chest like a security blanket.

  Sleep wouldn’t come for me. I rolled off the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress, slid the blades from her grip, and laid them on the nightstand.

  I envied the peaceful set of her face.

  There would be no peace for me. Not until I had answers. I was supposed to be the one to give her freedom. Not some ghost. Fuck. Fuck!

  Lola followed me to the living room and curled into a ball at my feet. I’d just settled on an episode of Ice Road Truckers when Lola started to growl.

  “Shush, girl. Don’t want to wake Bambi.”

  Lola sat up, growled, trotted to the front door, hackles raised.

  Lola’s nature was to protect her family, a job she’d always taken seriously, and at times, proven a bit overzealous, so I paid her little mind.

  Until I heard what sounded like a cough outside.

  Lola erupted, growls and barks and gnashing teeth. Mindless of my half-naked state, I crossed the living room and threw open the door. Lola took off at a dead run, up the steps and across the lawn, disappearing in the cluster of trees at the far end of the property.

  I saw no one. Heard nothing. The snow in the yard had been trampled from our fun and games earlier, so I couldn’t make out any fresh footprints. Must’ve been a raccoon, another dog maybe. I whistled for Lola to come back and turned to head inside, my feet painfully cold, my nipples hard enough to cut glass, when I spied a cigarette butt laying near the back porch of the house.

  “Fuck,” I muttered, bending to cover it with snow. There’d been a rash of home robberies around town. Maybe someone was casing the place. Tango had given his security team the night off.

  “What are you doing out there?” Aida’s silky smooth voice warmed me instantly. “It’s freezing. Come inside.”

  God, she was irresistible, drowning in my flannel jacket, wiping sleep from her eyes. Bare legged and sexier than fuck. I jogged down the steps to greet her, sliding my icy hands under the coat.

  “You bastard,” Aida sputtered, laughing her deep raspy laugh, wiggling to free herself from my frozen fingers. “Your hands are like ice.”

  I tortured her for a few beats longer before letting her retreat into the warmth of the house.

  I shut the door and watched her fall into the cushions of the couch. “What were you doing out there?” she asked, tucking her legs under herself and my coat tighter around her chest.

  “Thought I heard something. No big deal. Probably just a critter.” I settled next to her and pulled her into my lap, her back to my front, and wrapped my arms around her middle to warm myself.

  We sat, unspeaking, in the dark, Aida warming my arms with her delicate, soft hands. I cherished the comfortable silence, the steady pace of her small breaths.

  Aida quieted the noise in my head.

  When she laid back against my chest, resting her head on my shoulder, I asked, “Was Rafael a smoker?”

  “No,” she answered through a yawn. “Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  She tensed. “Tucker. Why?”

  I didn’t want to worry her, so I attempted to change the subject. “Why are you out of bed?”

  “Lola’s barking woke me.” Aida stood, stretched, dropped my jacket at her feet, and sauntered, in all her naked spender, down the hall. I followed, and after I’d fucked her silly and we settled under the blankets, she asked, “Why did you ask about Rafael?”

  I wouldn’t lie. But damn, I wanted to. “I found a burning cigarette outside.”

  “And your first thought was Rafael?”

  “Just covering all the bases.”

  “It might belong to one of Tango’s guys. Or maybe a crow or a critter dropped it in the yard. It’s probably nothing.” She patted my chest, giving me a good ol’ there, there.

  “Yeah. You’re right. I’m sure it was nothing,” I said, only to appease her. I didn’t mention that fact that whoever had been outside picked the one day Tango’s security detail wasn’t on duty. It wasn’t a critter, and it wasn’t coincidence. But I wouldn’t mention that to her. Those were particulars I was sure she’d work out on her own.

  She hadn’t clicked her nails in weeks. I wanted to keep it that way.

  Aida snuggled against me, her sweet ass nestled tight against my sated dick. “Tucker,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, Bambi?”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  I pulled her closer and kissed the back of her head. “Merry Christmas. I’m sorry w
e didn’t get you a tree. We’ll have to do that next year.”

  Next year. He said, next year.

  Tucker was talking long term. His words made me ridiculously happy, even though he was confident in a future that, when I tried it on, didn’t seem to fit. I couldn’t think of next year. I couldn’t think past what would happen one or two days in front of me.

  I’d never dared allow myself the luxury of planning too far ahead. My life hadn’t room for that nonsense. Live for the moment. Live for the thrill. Me. Me. Me.

  How wrong I’d been. How single-minded. How self-indulgent and foolish.

  I fell asleep between two powerful arms, against a chest that seemed to beat in sync with mine despite the ocean of moral disparities between us.

  I woke to the rapturous sound of Tucker’s voice, singing above the low volume of the stereo, a soulful rendition of “Hallelujah,” from my small galley kitchen.

  I freshened up in the bathroom before joining him. He stirred something on the stove. When he turned to greet me, and I drew him in for a hug—a gesture that’d become second nature—he rocked us back and forth and continued to belt out the lyrics, his chin rested against the top of my head, my cheek pressed to his bare chest.

  He was singing to me. To me. Or maybe he wasn’t. Perhaps he was just singing along to the stereo like he always did. Regardless, I pretended his performance was for my ears only. Like a love-struck teen, I allowed every word to seep through my skin, burrow deep, fill my peaks and valleys, and smooth my sharp edges. And I felt no shame in basking in the glow of a beautiful man and his gorgeous voice and the giddiness that accompanied his attentions.

  The song ended, and Tucker kissed my forehead, then leaned back and studied my face. “Prettiest damn corpse I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He drew me close again, to kiss my temple, my nose, and lastly my lips.

  A corpse. Funny. I’d never felt more alive.

  He turned, grabbed two bowls out of the cupboard and proceeded to fill them with oatmeal. I hated oatmeal, but my stomach rumbled at the maple smell, so when he offered me a bowl, I smiled, said thank you, and followed him to the small kitchen table.