Truck Stop Tryst

by Daniels, Krissy

  Maybe our mutual afflictions were the reason she haunted me.

  Most likely, I was insane.

  Didn’t matter. Tuuli was a no-go. Forbidden. A big, flashing neon sign: Danger. No Trespassing. Keep Out. And so I pushed forward, focused on the punch of my shoes against the wet ground, inhaling for four beats, exhaling for four. In. One, two, three, four. Out. One, two, three, four. In. One, two, three … continuing until I was nothing but movement, and sweat, and breathing. Until my mind numbed, the screams dimmed, and thoughts of an innocent, blue-eyed beauty faded to nothing.

  I ran across town, past The Stop, and halfway up the hill toward home before the unmistakable squeal of brakes set my nerves on rapid fire.

  Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Leave her be.

  “Fuck!” Pulled by an invisible force, I came to a halt, and turned, hoping to catch sight, just one glimpse, of my dangerous little obsession.

  Only Tuuli didn’t step off the number twenty-seven bus like she did every Sunday. The double doors swung open, paused for a beat, then slammed shut, and the vehicle pulled back into traffic.

  I stood, like a dumbass, wishing I’d waited by the church to make sure Tuuli had caught her ride. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” I sprinted to the top of the hill, busted through the door to my basement apartment, and snagged my keys off the counter. When I folded into my Mustang, I cranked the stereo to ear-splitting level and retraced my path home, hoping she’d followed the same route.

  Thirteen minutes later, I found her, walking with a spring in her step, bright red cheeks, and no fuckin’ coat. When I rolled to a stop, she walked right past. I honked. Her spine stiffened, and she continued, hurrying her pace.

  I sped to the intersection and performed a U-turn, pulling alongside her again, this time with my dark window rolled down. “Get in the car.”

  When Tuuli’s frightened gaze morphed into one of relief, topped off with a sweet smile, I damn near gripped my chest, shocked by the unusual rhythm knocking behind my ribcage.

  “Hey, Tito,” she said, teeth chattering. “Sorry. Didn’t know that was you. What are you doing here?”

  “It’s freezing. Get in.”

  “Oh. I’m okay. Thanks though.” Her pace slowed, but only a little.

  “I’m here to give you a ride. Get in.”

  She stopped. “Why?”

  Jesus effin’ Christ. Young. Naive. Definitely someone to steer clear of.

  “Slade said you didn’t get off the bus. She asked me to come and get you.” The lie left my lips with such ease, I even believed it. “So. Here I am. It’s cold. Get in.”

  As she scurried to the passenger side, I dialed up the heater, despite the sweaty mess underneath my workout gear.

  The girl slid in, hooked her belt, and sat, stiff as a board, arms curled around her purse, broken leather strap twisted through her fingers. Without looking my way, she mumbled, “Thank you.”

  It was impossible to ignore the tremble in her arms.

  “No coat?” I asked, gritting my teeth.

  “Left it at a friend’s house,” she said. “She’s supposed to bring it by later today.”

  Seems I wasn’t the only one weaving stories. I ate lunch at The Stop every day. Sometimes dinner, too. I’d yet to see one of Tuuli’s friends come through. She’d never talked about friends, or family for that matter.

  I took the long way around town, hoping to eradicate her shivers before dropping her at work. Tuuli didn’t seem to notice. She kept her eyes on the road, her bag close to her chest, and her lips pinched tight. Worked for me. I wasn’t much for talking. Then again, I’d never been one to run to the aid of a girl I hardly knew, but there I sat, the reluctant hero.

  And fuck me, but I wanted to hear more of that soft, sweet voice. “So, Tuuli is an interesting name. Is that German?”

  Her gaze sliced toward me, never connecting eye-to-eye, then shifted back to the road. “It’s Nordic. At least, according to Google.”

  “That would explain the blonde hair, blue eyes.”

  Tuuli wiggled in her seat, then cleared her throat. “Why does Aida call you Tits?”

  I almost laughed. No one had ever asked me that question. Out of fear, most likely. “Nickname Aida gave me when we were kids. We grew up together. In grade school, I paid a girl to show me her rack. Aida found out, gave me a fat lip. Told her I couldn’t help it; I was a tit man. The name stuck.”

  “So, you’re from New York, too.” A statement, not a question.

  “Born and raised.”

  The timid little creature turned to look at me. “What brought you to Whisper Springs?”

  “Needed a change.” Damn, she’d turned the tables. I’d meant to be the one asking questions. “You grow up here?”

  Her moment of bravery faded, and she dropped her head, knotting her fingers. “No. Born in Arkansas. Dad moved us to Idaho when I was five.”

  She was hiding something. Not very well, and it sure as hell wasn’t any of my business, but it bothered me nonetheless. Didn’t like that it bothered me. Didn’t like that I wanted to keep driving, and talking. Fuckin’ hated how I wanted to coax the truth out of her. Her life was none of my business. So, with equal parts relief and disappointment, I pulled into the parking lot of The Stop.

  Tuuli’s hand was on the door before I shifted the car to park.

  “Thanks, Tito,” she said, over her shoulder, as she pushed out of the car.

  I watched her dash to the back door of the diner. Stared long and hard at the empty passenger seat. I turned off the heater, because it was fuckin’ hot as hades. After a bout of arguing with myself, I decided to head home, rather than follow her inside. I needed lunch, but I needed a cold shower more.

  Tuuli Holt and her pretty little voice clung to my skin like a New York summer. Sticky, stifling, and unrelenting. Problem was, I wasn’t sure a shower could wash her away.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  Once again, thank you, thank you, thank you, to my readers. I appreciate every single one of you. It never fails to blow me away that you chose to read my book out of the millions of awesome stories out there.

  Debra, Dru, and Helena at Buoni Amici Press. You ladies rock!

  Julie Trisolini. There aren’t enough sweet eyes in the world for you, my beautiful friend.

  For all the kick-ass bloggers out there, my deepest gratitude and respect. Nichole Hart, I adore you the most! Shh … don’t tell anyone I said that.

  Mom. Thank you for always encouraging my love for storytelling.

  Share-Bear. Thank you for saving my honor by kicking those pesky boys in the balls. I couldn’t have asked for a better sister. There’s a little bit of you in Aida.

  SexyBoyfriend. Gah. There aren’t words. I just love you.

  My babies who are bigger than me. Stop growing up. And thank you for not having me admitted to the looney bin yet.

  And above all, thank you Jesus!

  How To Kill Your Boss

  Aflame

  Aglow

  Truck Stop Tango

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