Page 21 of Ride or Die

I lift my hand in a wave, biting back my grin. She’s a damn cutie-pie, that’s for sure.

Tom appears then, clutching the straps of his backpack and looking up at me with a small, wavering smile. “Hey, Cole.”

“How you doin’, man?” I hold my fist in the air for a bump, but then I see him flinch at the movement, and I quickly drop my hand, burying it into the pocket of my jeans, anger burning my chest at the realization.Fuck.

“Can I ride with you?” Tom asks after a few seconds.“I’ve never been in a truck before.”

“Uh—” I rub my stubbled chin, looking over his shoulder to where Clara’s inside the room, grabbing the last few things and shoving them into a bag. “I mean, if it’s alright with your mama?”

“Mom, can I ride with Cole in his truck?” Tom calls back over his shoulder.

Clara freezes then, the fearful look in her eyes hitting me like a slap to the face. And it’s only then that I understand it. I don’t know her, but she don’t know me from Adam either. I could be anyone and yet here she is, desperate enough to be accepting my offer of help.

“Why don’t you ride with mom and little sister?” I suggest after a silent beat, winking down at him. “I can take you for a ride in my truck another time.”

He seems to understand, and nods.

“Okay, we’re ready.” Clara walks out of the room pulling the door closed behind her, Billie’s hand clutched tight in her grip.

“Y’all follow me,” I call over my shoulder, walking back to my truck.

CHAPTER 8

CLARA

Ifollow Cole’s truck down the wide main street of town, panic and anxiety causing me to grip the life out of the steering wheel. I’m happy to get the hell out of that motel, especially after last night. God, I can’t imagine what might have happened had Tommy not found the receipt with Cole’s number on the back. But I also don’t know what I’m getting us into. I don’t know this man. He could be a serial killer. And here I am, following his big black truck as he takes us to his house. To stay.

I’ve never been this reckless before in my life. If it were just me, I’d probably be sleeping in the car—consequences be damned. But it’s not just me. I’ve got two innocent lives I’m responsible for. It’s my job to keep my kids safe, nobody else’s. God, I just hope I’m doing the right thing.

We continue driving south for about ten minutes or so, past fields of nothing. The occasional house or trailer fills the void, and a few oil rigs off in the distance, the big drills digging deep into the red dirt ground. And cactus. Cacti everywhere. It’s a whole other world than what I’m used to.

When Cole slows, his blinker flicking on, I do the same, turning onto a dirt drive surrounded by trees and bushes that opens to a clearing where a small house sits. It’s in need of apaint job, and possibly a new roof if the rust is any indication, but it’s got character and charm, and it sure beats the motel.

I pull up, waiting in the car and watching as Cole climbs down from his truck. And, as he does, I get a good look at him. Like last night, he’s dressed in boots and jeans, and a T-shirt that hugs his muscular arms and broad shoulders. Only today, he’s also filthy. From head to toe. And I suddenly feel bad because I can only assume I’ve pulled him away from his work.

Cole waves a hand for us to follow, and I unfasten my seatbelt, glancing at Tom with a smile I hope looks optimistic, yet one I can feel shaking with doubt. “Alright, well, I guess this is it.”

We file out of the car, meeting Cole by the steps that lead up to a small porch, Billie clutching my hand, Tom walking ahead and eyeing everything scrupulously.

“Welcome,” Cole says, tipping his hat before walking up the steps. “As I said, it ain’t much, but?—”

“No, it’s great,” I interrupt, smiling down at the kids. “Isn’t it guys?”

Cole opens the door and stands aside, letting us enter first.

“It doesn’t stink like feet!” Billie exclaims excitedly.

“Billie!” I hiss.

“Well, I mean, I do try.” Cole chuckles as he trails in after us.

“Sorry,” I mutter, feeling my cheeks flush.

Dismissing my apology with a wave, Cole walks through the front doorway, almost too big for the space, his presence overwhelming but not at all intimidating, just here, and obviously so.

“Kitchen’s in here,” he says. “And the bathroom.”

I follow him, getting a quick look at the small bathroom with nothing but a shower over a tub with a blue and white checkered curtain, a toilet, a small basin, and an even smaller mirror.