Truck Stop Tryst

by Daniels, Krissy

  Veins bulged on his hands and forearms. His eyes never left the road, but when he backhanded me, his aim was spot on. “You’re crazier than your old man.”

  I only stopped taunting him because another cramp hit me hard. I faced the window, baring down, breathing through the agony. Tears of pain wet my face, but I hid behind the shield of my hair.

  I wasn’t naive. The baby was in trouble. Probably stress-induced. It was too early for her to come, so I convinced myself I wasn’t having contractions. Mind over matter, or some bullshit like that. I couldn’t buckle. I couldn’t break. I needed to buck the fuck up and push through the pain so I could take care of Rafael once and for all.

  We headed around the south side of Lake Willow and parked in front of room number five at the Eagle Point Motel. The sky was dark as tar, the stars hidden behind black snow clouds. Had I been with anyone else, or not chomping at the bit for blood, I might have enjoyed Mother Nature’s artwork. Instead, I plotted the death of my baby’s father. Bare hands, blunt weapon, or sharp object? So many options. Whatever I chose, the result would have to come swift, considering my uterus was trying damn hard to turn itself inside-out.

  Rafael hoisted Tuuli back over his shoulder, pulled a key out of his pocket, and led me into the small room. My senses were bombarded with telltale signs of bachelorhood. Stale pizza. Body odor. Dirty clothes tossed about. Porn magazines tossed across the counter of the kitchenette.

  Rafael had found my knives before stuffing me into the car. He pulled them out of his coat pocket and tossed them on the unmade, queen-sized mattress. Careless idiot.

  With a tight grip above my elbow, he forced me into the small bathroom and shoved me onto the toilet, ordering me to, “Sit still” before dropping Tuuli into the dirty tub.

  He stuffed a hand towel in her mouth, and pulled another rope out of his pocket, working it around her wrists and ankles.

  While he had his back to me, I worked viciously at the ropes binding my hands. He stood, moved to the sink, and proceeded to clean his bloody face and poke at the bruises and swelling around his nose.

  I wasn’t the only one who’d gained weight since the night I’d sealed Rafael’s fate. His once-defined muscles were now more fluff than buff. He’d shaved his head. His hazel eyes remained the same, though, wild and exotic against the backdrop of his rich, dark skin.

  “What’s the plan, here, Einstein?”

  “The plan is simple, Princess. I take care of you until you deliver my child, then I slit your throat.” He stuffed a wad of tissue up his left nostril. “You’re dead already, so no one will miss you. Especially me.” Rafael shot me a wink, studied himself one more time, then squatted at my feet, rubbing his large hands over my thighs. “Then I disappear with my child, and your fortune.”

  I threw my head back and laughed. “What fortune? Aida Voltolini is dead. I’ve got nothing.”

  His head tilted, brows pinching together in amusement, or perhaps dismay. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “I know you’re going to die today.”

  “That’s cute.” The bastard tapped my nose, then leaned down, resting his forehead on my stomach. He breathed deep and brought his hands up to cup my waist before lifting his head and continuing. “Aida Voltolini never had anything. Sure, aside from your own substantial bank account, you had access to your father’s money, but you were never meant to inherit his wealth. Since the day you were born, Daddy Dearest poured millions into offshore accounts under the name Aida Suarez.”

  “Bullshit.” I stared long and hard into Rafael’s eyes, desperately searching for signs of deception. I found nothing but cold, hard truth. “I don’t believe you.”

  “When’s the last time you checked the balance on your bank account? The fake one.”

  My heart dropped to my gut. I’d never checked my bank account. Hadn’t used the credit card even once. Between Tucker, Tango, and Slade, I’d had no reason. They’d taken care of every necessity. Food, clothing, housing, even baby supplies. I’d never seen a bill from the ob/gyn. I wasn’t even getting a paycheck from The Truck Stop.

  I worked viciously at the ropes binding my wrists, every string of willpower I owned stretching to its limit. I would not let him see me crack. I would not give him access to the devastation wreaking havoc inside my iron shell.

  Vile, vile hatred brewed in my gut, a dizzying blend of betrayal and revenge. “How do you know this, Rafael?”

  “Your father wouldn’t crack, but his lawyer, that guy squealed like a pig when I tore his flesh away, layer by layer. It’s shameful how easy it was to persuade him. No loyalty anymore.”

  “You killed them.” The ropes loosened behind me, and with careful movements, I worked on freeing one hand.

  “Killed them both in that damn basement. Then I lit up the Poughkeepsie sky like the Fourth of July.” He stretched his arms out wide, proud as a peacock. “It was beautiful.”

  I didn’t believe for one second that Turner could pull off my father’s murder on his own. Either he was lying, or someone was pulling his strings. A rival family perhaps? Didn’t matter, really. He’d played a part in killing my father, and most likely Tito. It was his turn to die.

  The fool had underestimated me again. He’d assumed a vulnerable position, squatting between my legs, his head level with mine, his attentions on my belly.

  My hands now free, I leaned away from him, only a fraction, enough to give me some momentum. Before his eyes met mine, I grabbed the collar of his shirt, tucked my chin and pulled hard, slamming his face into the crown of my head. I did it again, and again, releasing him only when his body slumped against me.

  Blood covered his face and hands, dripped warm and sticky through my hair. I pushed to my feet, stumbling over his large frame and catching myself on the towel rack.

  Blinding pain twisted my insides, the room darkened, and I doubled over. Time was critical. I couldn’t succumb to the agony. I pushed through the pain, one hand cradling my stomach, one bracing me on the wall, and forced my legs to carry me toward the bed where he’d dropped my blades.

  “Aida,” Rafael half-mumbled, half-screamed.

  Another cramp forced me to my knees. Heavy footsteps stomped behind me. I could see my blades. They were close. So close. But the pain. My God. The pain. My baby.

  “Fuck the money. Fuck your baby and that little bitch waitress. You’re all dead.”

  My baby. My princess.

  I pushed forward, on hands and knees, diving for my weapons.

  Rafael tangled his fingers through my hair and yanked.

  Too fucking late.

  I curled my fingers around the cold steel of one blade and swung blindly, catching him above his left knee. And then, I lost control. For my unborn child, for Tuuli, I stabbed. And I stabbed. And I stabbed.

  Stabbing pain clawed my chest, constricted my lungs, riled my thoughts. I drove in silence, ignoring traffic laws, navigating the treacherous roads like a man with a death wish.

  My skin no longer fit around my rage-riddled insides.

  The air inside the vehicle took on a life of its own, twirling and swirling around us like a demon—taunting, riling, whispering testosterone filled encouragements, infecting us with insatiable hunger for blood.

  I would end Rafael Turner. I would steal his last breath. I would choke the putrid oxygen from his lungs. There was no room for moral justification. Only murder. Only pain. Only revenge. My only purpose to protect my queen.

  “You sure that’s where he’s taken her?” I turned a hard left, the backend of the SUV sliding, narrowly missing a parked car.

  “Yes,” came from under the dark hood covering Tito’s face.

  “And you know this, how?”

  “Tracked him down this morning. Got caught in the storm or I would’ve gotten to him before…” Tito sucked in a breath and pounded his fist into the dash. “Fuck! He wasn’t supposed to find her.”

  “Listen, Moretti. Not sure what you’ve been through. Not gonna ask, e
ither. Right now, Aida is our priority, so you need to steady your shit. Got me?”

  Clearly hanging by a thread, Tito clasped his hands behind his head and covered his face with his arms, rocking forward and back in his seat, mumbling words I couldn’t make out.

  Whatever hell he’d survived, the damage was deep.

  We reached the Eagle Point Motel ten minutes later. I parked around the corner. The lot was barren, aside from one sedan parked in front of room number five and a new Ford parked behind the office. The hotel sign read, Closed for Renovations.

  Tito’s voice cut through my stupor. “Renovations, my ass.”

  Tango’s Rover pulled alongside us.

  I cut the ignition and slipped out of the seat. While Tito and Tango exchanged an embrace, and long overdue words, my legs carried me toward the only room with a light on, my thoughts solely on Aida.

  Tito jogged to my side, meeting me stride for stride, and with a pained growl said, “The fucker is mine. His blood, his pain, his screams, mine.”

  I didn’t respond. One way or another, by his hand or mine, Turner would suffer.

  Tango came behind us, gripping each of our shoulders. “We bleeding him for intel before ending him?” Tango asked with a snarl.

  “I’m bleeding him for pleasure.” Tito halted, pointed to the burn scar on his face. “This right here? That’s all the intel we need.”

  While the cousins shared a stare down, a bonding, or reunion, or whatever the fuck they were wasting their time doing, I closed the distance between me and that cheap-ass motel room door with the cheesy gold-plated number five nailed to its middle.

  One kick did the trick.

  One glance at the room, the bloodbath, cut me to the quick. Stopped me dead.

  I’d come to rescue Aida.

  Too bad no one had come to save Rafael Turner.

  Nothing, not even the hell I’d witnessed during two tours of duty, could’ve prepared me for the gruesome scene.

  Turner, at least I assumed the bloody mess was Turner, sat in a chair in the center of the small room. The only thing holding him upright was a bathrobe belt tied around his chest and the back of the chair. Flesh hung from his body in ribbons, blood decorated all four walls, even the ceiling. His face was swollen and bruised beyond recognition.

  Aida stood behind him, blood matted hair covering her face. One of her knives sat on the bed, she held the other to his neck.

  “Where’s Tito?” she mumbled.

  Rafael wasn’t moving.

  “Where’s Tito?” she screamed.

  Nothing but a garbled wheeze came from his swollen lips.

  “Motherfucker,” Tango groaned behind me.

  “Tito is safe, baby,” I whispered, unable to back my tone with any semblance of strength. “Look. He’s right here.”

  A large body pushed past me. “Princess. It’s me.”

  Aida twitched at the sound of his voice. Her murderous glare stayed trained on the bloody man beneath her hands.

  “He’ll never be safe,” Aida snapped, voice cold and hard. “My daughter will never be safe.” Hands trembling, she leaned forward and laid the blade across Turner’s throat. “Not while Rafael is breathing.”

  She pulled the steel across his throat, half an inch, then released a sob.

  “I can’t do it,” she cried, face crumpling. “I can’t kill him. I can’t do it.” Her knife hit the floor at her feet. “I don’t want to be a monster. I don’t want to be this ugly person anymore. I can’t kill him. I can’t with my baby girl inside me. I can’t bring her into the world this way.”

  Good girl.

  What she failed to realize, what I would never tell her, was that Turner, although still breathing, wouldn’t survive the wounds she’d inflicted. No doctor in the world could stitch him back together. Not in time to save his life anyway.

  I shot a quick glance over my shoulder. Tango stood in the threshold, gripping each side of the door frame, and taking in the scene wearing a stone-cold mask.

  “I don’t want this life anymore,” Aida whispered, stumbling backward, bumping against the wall.

  Rafael’s mouth worked frantically, his head lulling from side to side. I leaned closer, straining to decipher his mumbles. “My girl,” he wheezed. “My baby.”

  I met Aida’s eyes. Her lip was swollen, her cheek, bruised. Tears cleared a path through the blood on her face. Trembling hands gripped her stomach.

  I stepped behind Turner and bent low, pulling his chin up and pressing my mouth to his ear. I offered him the last words he would ever hear. “That’s my girl, and that child growing inside her, she’s mine, too.”

  “Take care of Aida,” came a gruff voice behind me. “I want his last breaths.”

  Tito took my place at the dead man’s back. He dragged the knife across Turner’s throat, opening the flesh ear to ear, and held his head while he jerked and spasmed, his body putting up one last fight before succumbing to death.

  Aida cried out in pain. I turned in time to watch her crumple to the ground. Eyes pinched tight, she breathed a loud, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  I dropped to the floor with her, pulling her to me. “What is it?”

  “It’s a cramp. Just a bad cramp.”

  Like fucking hell it was a cramp.

  “How long has this been going on, baby?” I asked, brushing clumps of sticky hair off her face.

  “Couple hours, I think.” She grimaced, her face contorting, nostrils flaring, breaths harsh and deep. “Not sure how long I’ve been here.”

  I breathed with her until her jaw unclenched, her face unscrewed, until I felt her muscles relax in my arms. “Aida, sweetheart. You’re about to have this baby.”

  “I’m fine,” she argued. “It’s just cramps.”

  Stubborn little minx. “You’re about to meet your daughter, Aida.”

  “No. Not here. Not like this. No. No. No.”

  She was right. I couldn’t let our daughter be born in a gore-fest.

  Huh, our daughter. I tucked that thought away for later.

  “Okay. Okay.” I kissed her forehead. “How often you having these cramps?” Maybe I had time to get her cleaned up. I couldn’t very well take her to the hospital looking like she’d just filmed a scene from the latest Saw movie.

  “I don’t know.” Her lips curled in a snarl. “I haven’t had time to find a fucking stopwatch.”

  There she was, my feisty girl.

  “Okay. We’re gonna get you cleaned up.” I helped Aida into the bathroom and tore back the shower curtain.

  A huge pair of blue eyes met mine from the bottom of the tub.

  “Jesusfuckingchrist!” I dropped to my knees and freed Tuuli from her bindings.

  Blood matted her hair. She groaned, but pushed my offered hand away and slowly lifted herself from the tub.

  “Fuck. Tuuli. You okay?”

  Tuuli stared at Aida, as if waiting for an explanation, or permission to speak, I couldn’t be sure.

  “He’s gone,” Aida mumbled, then sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, fuck. Here comes another one.” She leaned forward, gripping the sink, bracing for another contraction.

  “Tango. Need some help.”

  Rossi was at the door in a blink. He took one look at Tuuli and ordered her to cover her eyes while he scooped her off her feet and carried her through the carnage.

  Like the badass she was, Aida breathed through the pain with a litany of colorful words. When she could stand again, I helped her into the shower, stripped her soiled clothes, and washed the evidence, the blood, and hair, off her body. Her contractions were about five minutes apart so the shower took longer than I’d wanted. There wasn’t much time. There also wasn’t much I could do while she powered through the agony.

  Tito brought in a pair of sweats and a Knicks T-shirt. Last thing I wanted to do was dress her in Rafael’s clothing. Options were limited, so I stifled my protest and pulled the shirt over her head. I’d burn the rags later.

  I bundled her
in my coat and headed for the door. “Tucker.” Those big fat doe eyes lifted to meet mine.

  “Yeah, Aida,” I said, combing a finger through her wet hair.

  “I’m scared.”

  “I know, baby. I know. Me, too. Let’s get you to the hospital, okay?”

  She crumpled over as another contraction hit.

  I STOOD, HOLDING SEVEN pounds, eight ounces of precious, brand-spanking-new human, rocking and cooing and kissing her dark, chubby face, and doing my damnedest not to go nuclear on everyone who entered the room. We hadn’t had a moment’s peace since Aida screamed through her last push and collapsed in exhaustion.

  “You’re the father?” our nurse, Hillary, asked, lowering the blanket to check Aida’s abdomen one more time.

  “That’s right.” I dusted a finger over the baby’s shiny black hair before hitting Hillary with a challenging glare. The angel in my arms was mine, whether we shared DNA or not. The color of her skin would never be an issue for this proud dad.

  The nurses were still wary of me. Couldn’t blame them. Aida had been admitted with a fresh bruise on her face, a nasty cut to her lip, and one hell of a bump on the crown of her head. They’d jumped to the natural conclusion, as I would have, that I was a piece of shit abuser.

  Thankfully, we’d had Officer Caldwell to back up our story. He’d met us at the hospital shortly after he’d met Tango and Tuuli at the diner. Their statements must’ve been convincing.

  It was now a matter of public record that Aida and Tuuli had been attacked during an attempted robbery at The Stop, where an off-duty officer had been killed. Aida had gone into labor, and Tango and I had arrived in time to chase off the perp, whom, according to Tuuli, wore a black ski mask and had disabled the security cameras. We dialed the cops. I then drove Aida to the hospital. That was the official police report and the story we were running with. Tuuli was about to get a raise. A big raise.