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I head east, but I don’t plan to stay on that course. Like purchasing that meal for her, this is just to lull her into a false sense of security until I get her handcuffed in the back. Until then, I’ll go the way she wants and keep her comfortable. I’ve got a tank full of diesel and all the time in the world.
That’s part of my problem. I have too much time on my hands at the moment. I drive a reefer unit, which means I transport temperature-sensitive items in a refrigerated hold, but my supplier bailed at the last minute. A downside to being a private trucker is that I can’t just whip up an order out of thin air like the drivers for the bigger companies can, but I sure as fuck couldn’t kill while driving a company rig. Not easily, at least. In that way, it’s a fair trade.
That huge loss in shipment is also why it would make more sense for me to sell her to The Nameless instead of putting her in the ground.
A group of brothers runs The Nameless, and I grew up with the oldest of the three. I call them The Nameless, but I know each of their names and what they’re capable of. I’ve kept their business at arm’s length, but when I had the opportunity to purchase this truck, I couldn’t pass it by. I dipped a finger into their world, and I can’t pull myself from their dirty dealings until I’ve paid them off.
I don’t want to know any more about what they do than what I know now. I keep them nameless for a reason. Aside from the occasional business transaction, I want nothing to do with them. I bring them a bitch, and they carve a few chunks out of the debt I owe.
I eye the girl again and wonder just how much she’ll go for. And if it’s really worth it.
Chapter Six
Aurora
I glance at him as his powerful hands clutch the steering wheel. The little dog jumps into my lap and places its paws on the door so it can peer out the window. She’s missing one of her front legs, but it doesn’t seem to hinder her at all.
Kane and Pup. What an odd combination.
A few miles down the interstate, he pulls off his flannel shirt and tosses it onto the back of his seat. His white t-shirt rides up his taut abdomen. With his torso twisted and his head craned backward, I notice the word “Daddy” scrawled on his skin in traditional tattoo lettering. A tattoo like that would normally make me cringe, but this guy oozes the daddy vibe. Like he’d bend you over his lap and spank you while you call him that.
More tattoos paint his arm, peeking from beneath his shirtsleeves and traveling down to his wrists. I’d probably find him attractive if he weren’t so grumpy. And if the hard set of his jaw didn’t set off warning bells in my head. Unfortunately, I’m not very good at listening to the warning bells. I have a bad habit of waiting until they’ve become blaring sirens.
I almost got out of the truck before we took off. When he said he wasn’t interested in my services, that was somehow more unsettling than if he’d tried to rip off my clothes. The drivers are usually more than happy to get me underneath them as soon as possible. This one? He seems like he couldn’t be less interested.
I suppose he might be a nice person who wants to give me a ride, but that feels highly unlikely. No one is nice just to be nice these days.
Clearing my throat, I try to think of something to talk about to ease the growing tension in my gut. “Which company do you work for?” I ask. “Not a lot of companies let people take pets along or pick up hitchhikers.”
“I don’t work for a company. I work for myself.”
Conversing with him is like fucking myself with a dildo. I’m forced to do all the work. I try to think of a question that would force him to talk a little more. Private drivers aren’t very common, and I’ve never gotten in a truck that didn’t belong to a big company, so I decide to stick with that line of questioning.
“Why do you drive private?” I ask.
“I’m a felon,” he says without breaking eye contact with the road. But it’s still a short answer, and now I’m intrigued.
“What did you do time for?”
“Mind your questions, girl.”
The stern way he speaks is exactly what I mean when I say he has a daddy vibe. It’s the type of tone that makes you shut the fuck up real quick, but there’s also an edge of something sinister to his words. My fingers move toward the door handle again, and I seriously consider leaping from the rig and onto the interstate. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve leaped from a moving vehicle, though it wasn’t moving anywhere near this fast.
I take a deep breath and force myself to calm down and remember the clientele I’ve chosen to associate with. Most are gruff. Most aren’t big on talking. And more are unsavory than not.
So far, they’ve just gotten a little rough with me, but I’ve always been able to handle myself. My father was a long-haul trucker for most of my life. Then my mother wanted him to settle down, so he gave it up so he could be home every night.
I liked my father better when he was a trucker than when he was retired. Alcohol became his crutch once he was home every day, and he’s a nasty drunk. But because of him, I’m more comfortable around truckers than I am with other random men, so that’s why I’m a truck stop whore. Well, that’s what other people call me. I call myself a working girl. These are merely my dates—a way to eat, sleep, and eventually go back home.
Eventually.
We’re currently in Ohio, and I don’t know how far he’ll take me. Or how long I’m willing to ride with him. I still don’t know what he wants from me, and I’m not sure I could handle the unease for more than a day or two.
Maybe he’s not even attracted to me. Maybe he’s just a nice guy who will drop me off at the next truck stop and I won’t have to think about any of this. But then again, nice guys aren’t often felons with Daddy tattooed on their necks.
To my left, Kane rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and blinks a few times. I have to do a double take, because he looks...different. I can’t quite put my finger on what’s changed, but something about his face isn’t quite the same as it was before. His jaw is still as clenched as ever, and he’s the same person, but somehow not.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
