by Anne Conley
He swung himself into the truck, and suddenly, the cab shrank exponentially. He was everywhere. His smell especially. Sandalwood and sawdust. Charlie’s mouth suddenly started manufacturing saliva, and she swallowed hard as she started the truck.
Charlie watched him slide his sunglasses down over his eyes and quirk a smile at her, oblivious to her discomfort. She offered a weak smile back, regretting her hasty decision to offer a ride, but what else was she going to do? They were going to practically the same place and they were sort of friends; she couldn’t leave him out here alone.
But she’d never really spent this much time with someone she wanted to avoid. And why avoid him? Because she couldn’t date him. And she didn’t know how to do anything else.
Eyes forward, she put her truck in gear and started driving. Easing onto the highway, she turned the radio on to fill the silence.
“Nope.” He reached over and turned it off. “I’m stuck in a truck with you for fifteen hundred more miles. The least I get is your name. I can’t call you Sweetness the entire trip.”
She’d forgotten. Throwing him her sweetest smile, she said, “My name is Charlotte Booke, but my friends call me Charlie.”
The look on his face, as his grin melted to shame, was priceless. She could see the memories flit across his face of every time he’d implied she was nothing more than hired help, calling her the secretary, calling her boss an idiot. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Charlie couldn’t help but giggle, a sound she couldn’t ever remember making.
Chapter 5
One out of three runaways are approached by a trafficker within forty-eight hours.
—www.refugeoflight.org
Les was going to lose his mind. He was such a freaking idiot. Thinking back, it was obvious Sweetness was Charlie; she ran the place. She made the deals. She knew where everything was. And he’d never met the boss man. How could he just assume Charlie was a man? He was better than that, wasn’t he?
He looked over at the woman next to him. Her shit-eating grin split her face open like a ray of sunshine. It was nice. Usually, her face held shadows of something darker. Something he couldn’t put his finger on, though it was familiar. Right now, the shadows were gone, and she looked radiant. Les had to admit he liked that he’d put that radiance there, even if it was through his own monumental stupidity.
“So, what got you started with Recycled Restoration?”
She exhaled like she was excited to tell a tale to a kindred spirit, and Les felt something swell inside him. He acknowledged he was already half in love with her because that was his modus operandi. She was single and gorgeous. He was Les. Of course he’d fall in love with her. But that sound she made had him feeling like he was looking over the precipice, about to jump in feet first. Bad idea.
“I’ve always loved the permanence of old houses. When they’re torn down or remodeled to be updated, it’s sad to me. So I started collecting the old architectural pieces for remodelers to use to put a little old-world charm in their newer buildings, or remodeling the old ones. It’s my way of keeping historical homes…historical, I guess.”
“Yeah, the builds and remodels that want that historical flavor are definitely my favorite to work on. I really enjoy bringing those details into a home with modern conveniences. And I’ve got a great supplier to work with.” He couldn’t stop the wink and smile that accompanied those words, even though she either chose to ignore them or just didn’t see.
They drove in silence for a little while, digesting each other’s words. Les was afraid he’d intimated too much with his last comment, but it was the truth. Charlie got great stuff, and he was excited about this trip because he’d get to see her in action.
“So, this auction’s in California? Do you drive cross country often?”
She shrugged. “I have a client who has been looking for some specific pieces, and there’s going to be one coming up at this auction. Stained glass.”
“Cool. He must be paying a pretty penny for you to drive this far.” Probably none of his business, but he didn’t want conversation to lag. He loved her voice.
“Yeah, he pays pretty well, but if I’m going to actually see a decent profit, I’ve got to be frugal in my travel expenses. You don’t mind rest stops, do you?”
“No, rest stops are important to stay alert. Keeps you safer.”
“No, I mean, I spend the nights there.” She looked at him sideways, gauging his reaction, which wasn’t a good one.
His voice filled with indignation, and he could hear it rising in the tiny cab of the truck in spite of himself. “Are you crazy? A woman traveling alone, sleeping at a rest stop? No way.”
“Well, I’m not alone now, am I?”
God, he loved beds. He couldn’t sleep in the truck on a week-long trip. Looking around the interior, he tried to suppress his distaste, lowering his voice in capitulation. “I’ll pay for a hotel. After all, you’re using your gas to drive me to Santa Barbara.”
“I would have to drive through there, anyway. I’m not letting you pay for a hotel.”
“I would have paid for one, anyway. No way do I sleep in my truck on trips like this.” He crossed his arms in a ‘so there’ gesture, but she ignored him.
“You would pay for yourself a hotel room, not one for me, too. And we’re not sharing. If you have to have a room, I’ll still sleep in my truck, although it’s not as safe in hotel parking lots as rest stops.”
“What makes you think rest stops are so damned safe?” He could not believe this. She actually didn’t stay in hotels? What was her problem?
“I’ve never been messed with in rest stop parking lots and I have in hotel ones.” Her tone brooked finality, and the set of her jaw told him she’d said her last words on the subject. He should just be grateful he had a ride.
“Fine. But I get the front seat. It’s bigger.”
“Whatever.” She turned on the music and cranked it up, presumably to end their conversation.
Les looked around the truck where he’d be living for the foreseeable future. At least it smelled good. It was odd—the truck was a big, masculine thing, top-of-the line, with black leather seats, a built-in GPS, and every amenity his twenty-five year-old diesel truck didn’t have. Looking at it, one would think a man owned it. Except for the toy dinosaur stuck to the dashboard, and the fruity smell wafting from little plastic things stuck in the air conditioning vents. The scent reminded him of her; she wore fruity scents, too. She must like them.
“What’s the story behind the dinosaur?”
She shrugged, her eyes cutting to the creature in question—a green, rubber baby dinosaur from some movie, he thought. Damn. The shadows came back across her face. They reminded him of the girls at the refuge; the same shadows marred their features. The dulling in her eyes, the set of her jaw, the way her mouth firmed down at the corners. He shoved that thought back into the recesses of his brain. No way was she like the girls. Okay, so no more asking about the dinosaur, Les made a mental note.
“Not really a story. I’ve just had it a long time.” The vulnerability crossing her features gave her an air of attainability, a rare vulnerability. The look softened her features remarkably, and he couldn’t let go of the feeling she needed him. He just wanted to hold her in his arms and erase that look.
He watched her singing along to some top-forty hit on her iPod plugged into the truck’s speakers. She was dressed comfortably—worn jeans, tank top with a plaid button-down top over it. She wore sneakers on her feet, which she had toed off to drive in her socks. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head in messy waves.
Her tattoos on her arms looked like a mish-mash of images, instead of one large scene emblazoned on her skin. There were flowers, flames, angel wings, tribal figures, and what looked like a constellation or two. He assumed, like everybody else he knew, that each image held something personal for her, but after the dinosaur, he was afraid to ask. So he just kept looking at her, realizing he was enjoying it immensely.
Les couldn’t see the curves, hidden under her comfort clothes, but he knew they were there. He’d seen hints of them in her work clothes, but he’d seen the irrefutable evidence last week when he’d walked in on her and her boyfriend on her desk.
And he’d had trouble sleeping ever since.
Honestly, after wrecking his car, he’d thought he’d died when Sweetness’ face was the first one he’d seen. He hadn’t been able to get it out of his mind. Since walking in on her with that guy suckling her breasts, her mouth open in a breathy moan, he hadn’t been able to curb the jealousy, the desire, the need that welled up inside of him.
Les didn’t particularly care much for the boyfriend, even before he’d interrupted their foreplay. The guy was a possessive asshole, although Les couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t be one, either, where Charlie was concerned. She was stunning. Even over there, driving in jeans, singing along to some song by a teeny-bopper.
“Gorillas? Making love like Gorillas? Really?” He’d just started paying attention to the words she was singing and was appalled at them. Was that a joke? Maybe like a new Weird Al type thing?
“What? It’s a good song.”
He snorted. “If that’s a good song, then song-writing has really gone downhill. Why do you like it?”
She thought a minute, listening while her teeth tortured her bottom lip. “It’s about the primalness of lovemaking, about losing control, about pure animalistic sex.” Les nearly choked on his tongue at the expression on her face—eyes wide, pulse racing in her throat, pink stain on her cheeks, like she was in the throes of said animalistic sex right now.
He cleared his throat to lessen the lump. “Yeah, well there are tons of sexy songs out there that are way better written. I wish I’d brought my iPod.” He started ticking off on his fingers to distract himself. “Roberta Flack, The Beatles, Marvin Gaye… Jeez, the list is endless.” Pointing at the radio, he continued. “That’s just icky. That guy doesn’t even sound like his voice has changed yet. What the hell does he know about animalistic sex?”
She laughed. “The Beatles? They sing about holding hands and stuff. That’s cute, but not necessarily sexy.”
He couldn’t help himself. He busted out with the simple, yet soulful, lyrics of Why Don’t we Do it in the Road, and she stared at him, slack-jawed. Gotcha.
When he was finished, she said, “Okay, you have an amazing voice, and yes, that was sexy.”
He couldn’t let the opportunity pass. “So, you don’t do relationships. Do you have sex?”
She smiled ruefully to herself. “Every chance I get.”
“So, we’ll be on the road for a week, at least—”
She interrupted him, “You don’t seem like the type.”
Not even trying to feign shock he countered, “What? I’m a dude. I’m totally the type.”
She laughed at him, and the husky timbre of her voice made his pants tight. “You’re not the type to have casual sex. And I don’t do relationships.”
“What about your boyfriend? Just the fact he calls himself your boyfriend indicates a relationship of some sort.”
“Yeah, well…Justin’s complicated things a bit. I was trying something new with him; it was a mistake, and now he’s making it a sticky situation to get out of.”
“So, he is your boyfriend?”
“Not for long. In fact, I’ve been trying to break up with him for a week, but he’s not getting it.”
“Well, I’m the expert on being broken up with. What are you telling him?”
She looked at him with a question in her eyes, and he willed her to ask it, but she didn’t. “I’ve told him we’re not working out, this isn’t what I bargained for, there is no us, he has no say over what I do, I’m not relationship material. All the old standards that typically work when a guy gets too needy. They’re just not working on him. Thick-skulled.”
As if on cue, her phone buzzed, and Les saw a picture of Justin come up—a sickeningly sweet selfie of him holding a paper heart with Charlie’s name on it. She sighed. This time, it was an annoyed, fed-up sigh, and he relished that it wasn’t caused by him.
“That’s the fifth time he’s called me since I left this morning.”
She pushed a few buttons on her phone, leaving it in the console. “Listen to this.” She made sure Les was paying attention and spoke toward the phone. “Hey, Justin.”
“Oh thank God, baby. I’ve been so worried. Why haven’t you answered?”
“Because I’ve been driving. I told you I might call you tonight when I got across the state lines, but if I stopped to talk to you every time you called, I wouldn’t ever get there.”
“I miss you so much. It sucked eating lunch alone today.” Les hated the whiny tone of his voice coming through the phone.
“Well, I’m sorry about that, you’re just going to have to get used to it.” Charlie’s voice was patient and calm, as if she’d already said the words before.
“When are you coming back?”
“Next week sometime. I’ll have a better idea on Saturday. Okay?”
“Like, early in the week or late in the week?” Jesus, this guy was a wheedling asshole. How long did he think it took to drive to California and back?
“I’m not sure, Justin. You will just have to be patient. By the way, I wanted to clarify something with you.”
“Okay, go. I’m ready.”
“Are you listening carefully?” She glanced over at Les to see if he was listening, which he was. Raptly.
He nodded at the same time Justin said, “Yes.”
“We. Are. Not. A. Couple. Anymore.”
“Aw…baby. Don’t be like that. I love you.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t know me.” Now she was getting pissed, and Les’s body tightened in anticipation of what was coming next. He could see this woman turning fiery in a heartbeat, and as long as it wasn’t directed at him, he was anxious to see it. It was hot.
“I know which places to kiss to make you come undone.” His voice lowered to a husky murmur and Les felt his insides coil into a knot of pure jealousy, at the same time resisting the urge to plead with the man to tell him the secrets of Charlie’s body. He coughed instead.
“Who was that?” Uh oh. Busted. Charlie shot him a look and he shrugged nonchalantly.
She sighed in annoyance, and this time, she was annoyed with him.
“You remember my customer, Les Paul?”
“I hate that guy.” Les bristled, even though the feeling was mutual.
“Well, he had some car trouble, and he’s going to the same place, so I’m giving him a ride.”
“You’re riding to California with him? For a week?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Oh my god. I’m losing you.” Les rolled his eyes dramatically for Charlie’s benefit, although he was glad Justin was losing her. That, coupled with a week minimum in her truck alone with her, gave him a fighting chance.
“I was never yours to begin with, Justin.” Her voice was rising in frustration. Les could see a vein pop out on her forehead. As bothered as he was by the fact she was so angry at this asshole, he thought it was a little cute.
“Oh please, don’t fuck him.” Lurid images filled his mind at the man’s words, and Les’s body reacted. He managed to put an affronted look on his face. Why had she stayed with him as long as she had? He seemed like the type to be dumped after the first time he opened his whiny mouth.
“Justin, I’ve got to go. Goodbye.” She reached over and pushed a button on her phone. “See what I mean? Every conversation we’ve had for a week has been like that, and I’m at my wit’s end.”
“Sounds like you need a restraining order.”
“He’s not dangerous. And I don’t like to get police involved, unless it’s necessary.”
“Well, he sounds sick in the head. He has a different perception of reality and is unwilling to hear the truth. It could lead to a dangerous situation, Charlie. Be careful with him.”
Her
knuckles were white, clenching the steering wheel, and she didn’t answer him. Les wondered what was going on in her mind, and didn’t want to let it go, but her body language was telling him she was finished talking. So he turned up the radio and leaned back, wondering exactly where he could kiss her to make her come undone…
Chapter 6
From the Serendipity Herald —
Serendipity has a new hero in town, but nobody seems to know who she is. The Refuge of Light has had a new influx of teen girls that have been rescued and left on their doorstep. While The Herald hasn’t been able to get permission to speak to the girls themselves, a representative of the organization, Rachel Owens, spoke to us briefly. She runs the intake aspect of the Refuge, and also heads the therapeutic rehabilitation of the girls.
“Nobody has really seen her except for the girls, and for various reasons out of their control, their descriptions have proven to be unreliable.” Owens goes on to say that The Liberator, as they’ve unofficially named her, seems to have insider information as to the girls’ whereabouts. “She takes them from rooms at a local motel, and brings them to my house in the middle of the night. At least she doesn’t have the location where we currently house the girls. That’s top secret. We don’t want the traffickers getting wind of where they are and causing them harm.”
When we asked her if she was worried for her own safety or that of her family, she simply shrugged. “I worry, sure. My husband and I talked about it at length before we decided to become involved with this organization. But in the end, the risk seems worth it to get these girls out of the hands of madmen. And honestly, the risk we put ourselves in pales in comparison to the risks The Liberator’s taking in rescuing these children.”
The description of The Liberator is vague: an older woman, possibly thirties or forties. She’s thin and tall. The only people to see her fully are the rescued girls, and they say she always wears a cap to cover her hair. She has no visible tattoos, although she’s said to always be wearing long sleeves and long pants, so that may be to cover identifying markings on her body.