The icing on the cake? It was fifty-cent taco night at Buck’s.
At least she didn’t puke in my truck.
“I think I’m done now,” she half-sobbed.
“I’ll take you home,” I said, patting her back.
“Nooooo,” she moaned. “My parents can’t see me like this.”
Shit. I forgot she still lived with her parents.
I led her back to my pickup truck and helped her into the passenger seat. “You can stay at my place. I’ll take the couch,” I said as I buckled her seatbelt.
“You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” she slurred. “We can share the bed. I can take care of your little problem…”
“My problem?”
She giggled. “Yeah, you know, your V-card.” She giggled again.
Damn Colton and his big mouth. My virgin status wasn’t a secret, but I didn’t go shouting it from the rooftops either. I bet he told Tara and Tara told Kendra.
I made my way around to the driver’s side and got in.
“Kendra, I don’t think you’re in any state to be offering. You’ve had a lot to drink.” I made the excuse, but didn’t bother to tell her I wouldn’t take her up on it sober either. Ever.
I didn’t think she’d appreciate that and I didn’t want to piss her off.
“God, you’re such a tease!” she screeched.
So much for not pissing her off.
“Besides,” I went on, “I don’t see it as a problem. I’ve gone this long. When I’m finally with someone,” I paused, knowing I was going to sound like a complete pussy. “I want it to mean something.”
I heard quiet snoring and looked over to find Kendra passed out, her head leaning against the window.
I wasn’t surprised by her offer. I wasn’t conceited, but I knew girls thought I was good-looking. After joining a gym a couple years ago, my once-lanky six-foot frame was now filled out from weight-lifting. I noticed—and appreciated—the appraising looks girls sent my way.
Kendra hadn’t exactly been shy about her attraction to me, either. Throughout our date, she had repeatedly complimented me on my dimples. Repeatedly. Plus, I wasn’t oblivious to ‘fuck-me’ eyes and she eye-fucked the fuck out of me all night long.
When we got back to my apartment I tried to wake her up, but she swayed on her feet so badly that I had to carry her. Grunting, I fumbled with the keys while trying not to drop the dead-weight body in my arms.
By the time we made it to the bedroom, she seemed to perk up a bit. “Ooooh, you have a big bed. This is going to be fun.” She giggled.
“I’ll give you a minute to change,” I said, ignoring her comment as I got a T-shirt and gym shorts for her to wear. Thinking it was better to be safe than sorry, I grabbed the trash can from the bathroom and held it up for her to see before setting it beside the bed. “In case you get sick again.”
She just giggled and kicked off her shoes.
I left the room to grab her a bottle of water and a couple Advil. I had a feeling she would need it in the morning.
By the time I got back, Kendra was passed out face down on the bed with her legs dangling halfway off. Her skirt was caught around her ankles and it looked like she had unsnapped her bra but couldn’t get it all the way off her arms.
Letting out a deep sigh, I took a second to shoot Colton a text.
Me: You’re a fucking dick. Never again.
After getting a couple blankets from the closet, I moved Kendra’s legs onto the bed and covered her with one.
I took the other blanket out to the living room and settled in on the couch. I’d slept in less comfortable places.
I was just glad the date from hell was finally over.
I was officially a runaway.
At first, the idea of being on my own was intriguing. The freedom. The independence. The adventure.
The reality, however, wasn’t living up to the hype. The uncertainty. The hunger. The smelly bus rides.
Before Claire passed away, I’d lived with her for five happy years. Abandoned by my mom at seven and orphaned by my dad at twelve, she didn’t even hesitate to take me in. Claire was my dad’s sister, and we’d always been close since she didn’t have any kids of her own.
It wasn’t my dad’s fault, the way he died. There were risks that came with being a police officer—risks I’d often worried about every time he left for a shift. I’d imagined bank robberies or drug busts gone wrong. My worries never involved him getting shot during a routine traffic stop.
Although Claire wasn’t much of a parent, she was my friend. My best friend. No one could’ve predicted she would have a massive stroke at the age of forty-three. She was active, ate the right foods, and she had a Zen-like quality about her. She was the picture of mental and physical health. Her death was so unexpected and, honestly, I still hadn’t come to terms with it.
With just one month until I graduated high school, my life was uprooted. They said I was lucky they found a foster home willing to take me in. Unfortunately, the family lived forty-five minutes away and I had to finish my senior year in an unfamiliar school with a bunch of strangers.
One month in foster care, and I decided I’d had enough. In the beginning, I’d been worried about what I would encounter there. I’d heard the horror stories of abuse and neglect in foster homes before.
But the family I got placed with wasn’t that bad. Actually, they were pretty nice, although they seemed overwhelmed by the kids. I was one of five in the home, the youngest being seven, and the oldest being myself, at seventeen. While I was grateful for a place to live and food to eat, it was always crowded and I had zero privacy.
And although I was constantly surrounded by people, I’d never felt more alone.
I was lonely. Painfully lonely.
It was a sense of longing I felt deep inside. I ached for a place to belong. A place to call home.
I’d planned on staying with the family until I aged out, but with only two weeks until my eighteenth birthday, I didn’t see the point in sticking around.
I had big plans, and my dreams weren’t going to pursue themselves.
On the last day of school, instead of stuffing my backpack full of books, I’d packed the essentials—several changes of clothes, a toothbrush, some travel-size toiletries, and some pictures I couldn’t bear to part with. Dressed in skinny jeans and my favorite Beach Boys T-shirt (in honor of Claire), I left the foster home and didn’t look back.
When I was a kid, I read a short story about a very resourceful homeless woman. She washed herself in gas station bathrooms and collected free make-up and perfume samples from department stores. She walked through the grocery store filling her cart with items she didn’t intend to buy while eating a banana and grapes, looking like a leisurely shopper. Then she would suddenly realize she ‘forgot’ something in her car or have an emergency and would have to abandon her cart—without paying for what she’d already eaten.
For the past three days, that’s basically what I’d been doing. I hadn’t actually stolen anything yet, but I needed to make it across the country while spending as little as possible.
While getting to California was the ultimate goal, being homeless was not. From what I’d heard, living expenses weren’t cheap.
After emptying my savings account, I had roughly $1,700. My short stint as a waitress and all those summers of dog-walking and pet-sitting were finally paying off.
The first night on my own was spent on a bus, which took me from Portland, Maine to Philadelphia. The twelve-hour ride was long, but I slept for a good part of it.
The next night I found a cheap motel where the guy working the desk didn’t care that I wasn’t eighteen. He barely glanced up at me from the newspaper he was reading as I handed him cash and he tossed me a room key, no questions asked. It was a seedy motel and I was sure questionable things went on there, things I didn’t want to know anything about. I knew I was spending my money faster than I should, but I’d desperately wanted a bed and a h
ot shower.
After taking another bus to Columbus, Ohio, I toyed with the idea of hitchhiking. It was the most obvious solution if I wanted to save my dwindling funds.
Letting out a sigh, I stopped walking along the busy street to take an old postcard out of my back pocket. It was one of my most prized possessions.
Vehicles whizzed by as I studied the tattered piece of paper. The edges were worn and the corners curled from the thousands of times I’d looked at it. It was from the San Diego Zoo and it had a picture of otters on the front.
There was no message on the back. No well wishes or words of love. Only my mom’s name was written there in faded ink—Deeana.
I shoved it back into my pocket as I resumed walking while contemplating my next step.
As I approached a Holiday Inn, my nerves set in because of what I was about to do. I wasn’t good at lying. In fact, I was just about the worst liar ever. Always had been.
I tried to mentally psyche myself up. I just had to walk in and pretend like I belonged there. My growling stomach reminded me of why I had to do this. I hadn’t had much food in the last few days. Granola bars only went so far.
Walking through the automatic sliding doors, I tried my best to seem nonchalant. The desk clerk was on the phone and didn’t even notice me as I made my way straight to the elevator. I went up to the second floor and searched for a room with a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door.
Ah, room 221.
Next, I took a peek around the corner to find the maid making her rounds with the cleaning cart.
Bingo.
“Excuse me.” I approached the woman. “My parents and I are in room 221 and they want to sleep in, but wanted me to see if I could get some more shampoo and stuff?”
“Sure, honey. What do you need?” she asked in a thick accent. Her curly brown hair, streaked with gray, was pulled into a neat bun at the back of her head. She was probably in her fifties and she had kind, brown eyes.
I felt bad for lying to her. When she looked at me, she probably saw an innocent girl, not a sneaky, lying thief.
“Um, three of everything?”
She gathered the shampoo, conditioner, soap, and lotion, and handed them to me with a bright smile. “There you go.”
“Thank you so much,” I said with a relieved sigh.
The amount she gave me would get me through the next couple of weeks.
Going back to the elevator, I took it down to the lobby where the smell of the continental breakfast made my mouth water.
I looked like any other hotel guest coming down for a late breakfast. I reassured myself no one had any reason to suspect me of deceit, but that didn’t stop me from being paranoid about it.
Keeping my head down, I went straight for the bagels. After piling on some bacon, scrambled eggs, and a banana, I sat down to enjoy my meal.
As I looked around, I noticed I was the only person sitting alone. The table next to me was a family of four, and the two children were bickering over who got to have the last mini cereal box of Apple Jacks. Being an only child definitely had its perks, but when I was a kid I would’ve given my right arm for a sibling.
Too afraid someone might realize I wasn’t a hotel guest, I finished my food quickly. Before leaving, I grabbed a couple more bagels and an apple and stuffed them in my backpack.
I walked away from the hotel with a sour feeling in my stomach, and I recognized it for what it was—guilt.
I had lied. I took something that wasn’t mine and I felt bad about it. I’d never stolen anything before, at least, not on purpose. One time, I forgot to tell the cashier at Walmart about the case of water on the bottom of my cart, so technically, I stole that.
But this was different. What I did at the hotel felt wrong.
It solidified my resolve to hitchhike. If I wasn’t spending money on bus fare, I could afford a little food here and there. Forcing the guilt to the back of my mind, I thought about my next step—find somewhere to wash up.
I saw several options as I walked down the street, away from the hotel. There were some fast food restaurants and a large convenience store, but I knew the bathrooms would most likely have several stalls and a lot of people going in and out. Not the best idea since I was going to be washing my hair in the sink.
Grimacing, I ran my fingers through my hair, which was wild from sleeping on a bus all night. The long blonde strands were also getting oily. I wasn’t one of those people who could skip a shower and get away with it. With quick work of my fingers, I put it in a braid to tame it down.
I’d been walking for at least an hour when I saw a truck stop. It was so generic-looking. There wasn’t even a name—the faded yellow overhead sign just simply said ‘Truck Stop’. The store was small, and I could see it had the kind of bathrooms around the back where you needed a key to get in.
Perfect.
While I was in the store, I decided to splurge on a protein bar and a bottle of water. I was going to need the energy with all this walking.
The cashier was a man, probably in his thirties. His curly brown hair was grown out to his shoulders and with the tie-dye shirt stretched out over his large stomach, he totally had the hippie vibe going on.
He looked incredibly bored as he rang up my items and told me the total. I couldn’t help wondering if I would end up in a job like this when I made it to California. With only a high school education, it’s not like I’d have many choices.
After I paid and got the bathroom key, I went around to the back of the building. I was ready for my shower. I just hoped they had one of those automatic hand dryers.
It didn’t have a dryer.
The sink was tiny. Soap got in my eyes. The floor got soaked. I slipped and almost fell on my ass. I ran out of paper towels.
As I did my best to wring the excess water out of my hair, I felt like maybe my naivety was catching up with me. Honestly, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
I realized now I didn’t really put much planning into the plan. I didn’t have much real-world experience. I’d never even been camping before.
And now I thought I could just travel across the country spending little to no money? Did I really think I could pull this off? Claire would have said I was ‘winging it’ or ‘Flying by the seat of my pants’.
Not exactly the best motto for success.
Panic clawed at me when I considered the possibility that I’d made a big mistake. A mistake so big I wouldn’t be able to dig myself out of the mess I’d created. A mistake that left me feeling even more lost than I did right now.
The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as I gazed at the forlorn expression reflecting back at me in the small, square mirror.
Taking a deep breath, I shook the negative thoughts from my mind. I refused to let the fear and doubt creep in.
Besides, it was too late to turn back now.
The sound of ‘On the Road Again’ by Willie Nelson started blaring from my phone just as I got into the driver’s seat of the semi.
“What’s up, Hank?” I answered without even needing to look at the caller ID.
“Travis, what’s your twenty?”
I chuckled because he’d really taken a liking to trucker lingo. “Just filled up outside of Columbus. Made the delivery. I’m taking a lunch break, then I’ll be back on the road.”
“Copy that,” he said as if we were really talking over a CB radio. “You dropping the trailer off in Mount Vernon on your way back?”
“Yep,” I confirmed. “I’ll spend the night at a rest stop and go by there first thing in the morning.”
“Ten-four. See ya back in Tolson.” He ended the conversation and hung up.
Tolson, Illinois. Population 320.
It couldn’t keep a grocery store in business, but for some reason the tiny town could support two taverns. And the taverns didn’t just do well, they thrived. The good people of Tolson were social butterflies. Any day of the week (except for Sunday, of course) you could go into either ta
vern and find familiar faces, a cold drink, and good food.
Over the years, many other businesses had tried to make a go of it and failed. Hair salons, convenience stores, even a gas station.
A few years ago, Hank’s Auto Shop was struggling, offering only mechanic services, so he decided to add a truck testing station as well.
That’s where my love for the truck-driving industry began.
The rumble of the engine. The hiss of the brakes. I loved the power behind a semi. Loved the idea of long hauls on the open road.
After high school, Colton and I both attended the community college automotive program to become certified mechanics. It seemed like the most logical step since we planned to stay on at the shop. Plus, I didn’t have the money to go to a four-year college.
Sure, I could’ve applied for financial aid, saddled myself with student loans, and spent four years getting a degree I didn’t even want. But I knew that wasn’t for me.
A year ago, Hank had the idea to buy a rig and start a transportation company. The shop still wasn’t bringing in enough money and he needed to expand his business if he wanted to keep it going.
I’ll never forget how excited I was when Hank told Colton and me we needed to get our CDL so we could start truck-driving.
Hank & Sons Transport was born. Sons.
I wasn’t too much of a man to admit that my eyes got misty when he announced the name. He wasn’t my dad, but he was the closest thing I had to it.
The business was genius. We were basically a moving company, but we didn’t have to pack and unpack people’s crap. I simply dropped the trailer off at the client’s house for a day or two while they loaded it up with their belongings. Then, I hooked it back up to the semi and delivered it to the new location.
The thing about moving? Most people had a lot of stuff. And not everyone felt comfortable behind the wheel of a giant U-Haul.
I enjoyed driving across the country, so I usually took the long-distance hauls while Colton did most of the local business.
The Good Guys Box Set: TRUCKER, DANCER, DROPOUT, and A Trucker Wedding Page 2