AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A girl can dream, can’t she? It’s the least I can do before returning to the nightmare of my harsh reality.
Once I’ve scrubbed my skin raw and rinsed away all the soap, I step out of the shower and look at myself in the mirror. The light has dimmed in my green eyes, and tiny red veins thread through my sclera. I’ve lost weight. A little too much, at that. I turn away from the mirror and grab my backpack. I don’t want to look anymore.
My fingers dig through fabric until I find a clean jean skirt and a shirt that’s a little too big for me now. I miss my fuller figure. Like a typical woman, I see the beauty in myself only after time has passed and changed me once again.
My eyes land on the shirt and shorts I discarded on the floor before my shower, and a decision begs to be made. I have enough money left to buy a little food, or I can wash my dirty clothes. Most people don’t have to choose between eating and cleanliness. I wish I were most people.
With a sigh, I gather the clothes and stuff them into the side pocket with the rest of the shirts and shorts and panties that will have to wait until I make enough to clean them. I’m not even sure this truck stop has a laundry area anyway. Not all of them do. But I know they have an attached diner. I smelled the chicken grease as soon as I walked in.
After drying off my body, I dress and exit the shower room. Once I’ve eaten a cheap meal to stave off the gnawing feeling in my gut, I’ll need to scope out the lot for my next patron. And my next ride. I can’t stay where I am forever, even if I’m not entirely sure where I’m headed. The plan has always been to travel toward home.
But sometimes plans change.
Chapter Three
Jax
I can only think of one thing as I take a seat at the bar in the truck stop’s diner: Kane was—is—out of control. There’s only so much I can do to stop his homicidal tendencies. He’s fucked up and I’ll be the first to admit that, but he’s gone through things no child should. That’s why he created me. Not just me, either.
When I can’t break through, I try to stop him by derailing his thoughts, which is ultimately an impossibility. He becomes so hyper-focused on his rage that by the time I realize what’s happening, by the time I feel the excitement and the dopamine, it’s too late. He’s already committed yet another homicide. He’s done what he’s done, and there’s no taking it back.
Even if I could somehow stop him, that would mean his victim would live, and that creates a different problem entirely. If they live, they’ll turn him in. As his protector, I have an obligation to protect Kane—to protect all three of us—and that means I can’t step in once he’s gone to a certain point. Which is fine, since I usually don’t know what’s happening until he’s well past the point of no return.
While our system worked well in our youth, it isn’t very effective now that he’s an adult. I should have more control now, but Kane still holds the reins in a tight grip. And he shouldn’t. Not until he gets ahold of himself.
A waitress approaches the counter. A few strands of bleached hair fall over her face, and she blows them away with a frustrated exhale. Dark bags under her eyes showcase just how tired she must be.
“What would you like to drink?” she asks.
“Coffee and water, please,” I say.
She offers a curt nod and turns toward the coffee machine sitting atop a grimy counter behind her. If her shuffling gait and the way she keeps rubbing her lower back are any indication, she’s probably been on shift all day. She grabs a faded red cup and fills it with water. No ice. Instead of bothering her with another request, I let it go. The poor thing has enough to think about.
As I wait for the coffee—which has to be made, much to the waitress’s displeasure—I spin around on the stool and study the pokey diner’s sparse decor. Glossy red vinyl covers the bar stools, which are bolted to the floor in front of the counter. Some of the covers have ripped, revealing their yellowed foam innards. The red-plastic booths have seen better days as well. Scuffs and scratches from years of trucker butts scraping across them mark their once shiny surfaces.
Another trucker sits at one of the booths. He’s double-fisting coffee mugs, and I understand him. When you work for a company, you have to stick to the hours of service, including mandatory ten-hour breaks. Technically, we’re all supposed to stick to that, but when you drive for yourself or a lackadaisical company, there’s pressure to fudge your logs and keep driving. That guy looks like he’s done more than a bit of fudging.
The waitress brings over my lukewarm water and a mug of fresh coffee. As I pull the glass toward me, I motion her closer before she can speed away. “Can I pay for his meal?” I ask, jerking my head toward the trucker in the booth.
She nods and trudges over to him to let him know. He leans back with an appreciative grunt and raises one of the coffee mugs toward me. I lift my glass of room-temperature water back at him, then continue scanning the diner.
An older couple sits at the other end of the counter, each of them picking away at a plate full of greasy food. I don’t see that kind of relationship very often in my line of work, but they’re more common these days. Couples who travel together. It would be nice to have someone to share the lonely hours on the road with, but Kane wouldn’t let it last very long. His house, his rules.
I’m about to turn back to my coffee when a young woman catches my eye. She sticks out in a place like this. Her legs are crossed, causing her jean skirt to ride up her thighs, and her wet hair hangs over her shoulders, dampening her shirt. One sleeve falls from her shoulder and reveals several small bruises. The way they form a line, it almost looks like fingers gripped her there.
Maybe they did.
She imprints on my memory, and I know Kane can sense my physical attraction to her because he knocks at the mental image. That’s how it works for us. He can’t see her through my eyes, but he can see the vision I’ve burned into my brain. Well, our brain.
Kane comes through as a burning behind my eyes. An intensity that sears the nerves resting close to my brain. I wish he’d let it go. He just fucking killed a girl. He doesn’t need to come out and take another so soon. But the knocking gets harder. As he throws his consciousness against the mental barrier, I know it’s only a matter of time before I’m pushed out of the driver’s seat. I have no control over this. None of us do.
I just want to sit here and enjoy my coffee.
As I grip the warm mug, I search for something else to focus on. Fractured lines run through the glass, but they don’t compromise its integrity. From the looks of things, this place plans to hold on to each aged item until it’s broken past the point of usefulness. I continue staring at the cracks in the glass, counting every line branching from the main fracture as I try to will Kane away.
I squint my eyes as I pour creamer and a hint of sugar into my mug. I bring it to my mouth and take a small sip. It’s the same trash coffee I’ve gotten used to at places like this. The same bitter bite. The same hint of something left over from the last twenty unwashed pots that have come before this one.
The burning behind my eyes intensifies, regardless of how I try to pretend it doesn’t. Usually we communicate with notes. Very rarely do our thoughts overflow into each other. But this time, on this night, they do.
