by Selah March
6470A Glenway Avenue, #109
Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
eBook ISBN 1-59426-551-8
Moondance © 2005 by Selah March
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover art © 2005 by Stacey L. King
Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.
www.Phaze.com
Zoey leaned forward and splashed cold water on her face, doing her best not to come in contact with the scum-covered sink. She used the front of her black tee shirt to dry herself, then checked her reflection in the mirror. The fluorescent light above her head flickered non-stop.
"It's enough to give somebody a seizure." She glanced at the floor and shuddered, wishing she were wearing sneakers and jeans instead of flip-flops and a too-long cotton skirt that tended to brush the ground when she moved.
"Who're you talkin' to?" The girl—Zoey couldn't recall her name, or maybe she'd never shared it—sounded sleepy. Weird. She'd been a twitchy, jittery wreck when she'd entered the bathroom a few minutes earlier, clutching an almost-empty cola can like it contained the key to the universe.
"Nobody," Zoey said, and banged on the stall door. "You almost done? We need to get out there before those truckers take off. See if we can score a ride or maybe—"
There was a loud thud as the girl's body fell against the door, then another, more muffled one as she hit the floor. Her short downward slide pushed her denim mini-skirt up to her waist, revealing grayish bikini panties with 'Tuesday' printed in red script across the ass. The panties looked like maybe they'd once been white. And anyway, it was Saturday, for another three hours at least.
"Hey! Get up. The floor's gross. You might catch something." Zoey put a hand over the top of the door and rattled it, but the nameless girl just lay there, curled on her side around the base of the toilet, not moving or making a sound.
"Damn." Zoey stepped into the next stall and squatted, breathing through her mouth. From this angle, she could see the girl's face. Her eyes were open, but the pupils were as wide as the starless black sky, and there was a string of drool running from the corner of her mouth to the floor. Only the slow, regular rise and fall of her midsection indicated she was still among the living.
"Damn," she said again. This would end up no place good. A nine-one-one call would bring the cops along with an ambulance, and she'd have to answer questions. Even if they believed her when she said she didn't know what the girl had taken or where she'd gotten it, they'd still run her name through their computer, wouldn't they? And if that son-of-a-bitch motel manager back in Burlington had gone ahead and reported her for assault...
And if he hadn't? Vagrancy was still a crime in New York State. The local fuzz could lock her up till Monday—longer, if the town was podunky and they didn't hold court but once or twice a week. And from what she'd seen as she'd passed through on her way to this godforsaken highway rest area, the town was plenty podunky.
Or she could leave the girl where she was. Grab hold of the first trucker she saw outside, filling his rig up with diesel and sucking down high-octane coffee like it was mother's milk. Promise him anything to get a ride to the next little town down the line. Worry about coming through on the pledge later. Not like it would be the first time.
After all, it wasn't like she knew the girl. Just another vagabond, on her way from here to there. But there was safety in traveling as a pair—the cops hardly ever found two bodies out in the woods, half decomposed, with their clothes all torn and their throats cut, did they?
"Damn, damn, damn."
She pulled open the bathroom door and stepped out, sucking in a gulp of sharp autumn air and not bothering to reach for the sweatshirt she kept tucked in the bottom of the ratty backpack slung across her shoulder. What the cold did to her nipples under the thin cotton of her shirt wouldn't hurt her chances of finding a ride.
She looked up at the sky. Somewhere behind the clouds rose a full moon, but it was playing bashful tonight. Thegas pumps were deserted, and glass-sided cubicle where the rest area's manager hung out stood empty. Two semis sat idling on the other side of the parking lot beneath the glare of the sodium arc lights.
She turned to her left and started down the dimly lit sidewalk toward where the payphones stood, just past the doors that led to the vending machines. Lifting her charcoal-colored skirt as she walked, she avoided the grimy puddles left by the recent rainfall. She was halfway to her goal when a man passed her headed in the other direction. She paused and glanced up into his face, which was illuminated for a long moment by the headlights of one of the semis pulling out and turning toward the exit. Out of habit, she took his measure, weighing him as a prospect for ride, or a meal, or a safe night's sleep.
He looked to be closing in on thirty, with short, dark hair and hooded eyes of indeterminate color. Clean-shaven and, except for a hell of a scar that ran from a spot over his right brow and across the bridge of his nose to his left jaw, sporting ordinary features. Maybe six feet tall, maybe slightly less. She tried to read his build and couldn't beneath the loose-fitting windbreaker that covered his upper body down past his hips. Then he was gone, walking with a quick, even strides toward the bathrooms.
Some potential there...but the look in his eyes was a little too shrewd to be taken in by a hard-luck story and the empty promise of a blow-job. Plus, she'd caught the distinct fragrance of whiskey on his breath as he'd passed, and you just never knew with a drinker—sweet and mellow, or nasty and quick with his fists? It was a crapshoot. And that scar...sort of creepy, frankly. She'd keep looking.
But first things first. She needed to get some paramedics moving in their direction before she could think about her next step. She lifted her skirt above her knees and broke into a jog. She'd just passed the doors to the vending machines and was within ten feet of the payphone when a hand shot out of nowhere and settled on her shoulder.
"Hey, beautiful. Where's the fire?"
She froze and spun on her heel, poised to hike her knee into the speaker's groin even as a voice in the back of her head screamed "No, stop!" Because who was gonna give a lift to the bitch who'd knocked some poor schmuck's 'nads into his nasal cavity for saying 'hello'?
Common sense didn't slow her down any, but it never had—wasn't that how she'd ended up at a rest area in the middle of nowhere, with a buck-forty in the bottom of her backpack and no plan beyond begging a ride to the next little dot on the map? It was the face attached to the voice that stopped her cold.
He was like something off a TV screen—the guy hired to play the hero in a daytime soap not because he could act, but because you just couldn't look away from all that beauty crammed into a few square feet of space. Pale blue eyes with good-humored crinkles at the corners peered down at her from below a riot of white-blond curls he wore stuffed beneath a backward painter's cap. Three day's growth of beard just a shade or two darker than his hair covered his broad, strong jaw. His perfectly sculpted nose appeared to be a work of art. He smiled, and when he moved his mouth to speak again, Zoey felt the muscles in her abdomen clench and ripple.
"What's up, Red?"
Red. How many times had she been called that in the span of her lifetime, and hadn't it always irritated her to the point of wanting to spit like a scalded cat? So why, wh
en this stranger said it, did it come off so charming and original?
"I...I need to use the phone."
"Yeah?" The stranger stepped forward and slid an arm around her shoulders. He towered over her—had to be at least six-two—and his body radiated power. Even dressed in a black thermal pullover and faded jeans, he looked like some textbook drawing of what heaven had meant man to be.
He leaned down and whispered in her ear. "What happened to your friend? The brunette with the big green eyes?"
An alarm—tiny and too far-off to make much of an impression on her dazed senses—buzzed in the back of her brain. When had he gotten close enough to notice the color of Miss Bathroom Stall's eyes?
"She's sick. That's why I have to use the phone." She shrugged her shoulders under the weight of his arm. He backed off instantly, making her feel bad, like maybe she'd hurt his feelings. She cleared her throat. "How did you—I mean, do you know her?"
He grabbed the cap off his head and ran his hand through his hair, making the curls stand up so the light over the door behind him shone through them. Sort of a like a halo.
"We got to talking while you were looking at the map over there." He hooked a thumb toward the illuminated, glass-enclosed map of New York State bolted to the building. "Seems like a nice girl. Little flaky maybe." He ducked his head, peeking at her through lowered lashes the color of sunshine, and grinned as if they were sharing a secret.
"Yeah. Flaky." Against her own better instincts, she returned his smile. "Maybe you could help me?"
"Definitely." He moved nearer again, but didn't touch her. "Would it be okay if I asked your name?"
"Zoey. Just...Zoey." She tried to tear her gaze away from his face, but it was impossible. He was so damned pretty.
His smile deepened, and he stuck out his hand. "Hi, Zoey. Louis Philip Homme, at your service. But you can call me Lou."
* * *
Johnny stepped around the corner and stopped to collect himself. The girl he'd passed on his way from his cubicle to do his hourly check on the restrooms had rattled him, but he'd be damned if he could say just why.
She was pretty enough, once you looked past the smudged rings of eyeliner, the chipped black toenail polish, and the fire-engine red streaks she'd dyed over top of her natural auburn color—all of which shrieked 'beware the scary Goth chick.' He'd looked long and far enough to see how her pink flip-flops, ancient My Little Pony backpack, and the lack of tattoos on the white flesh of her arms whispered 'don't be scared—I'm just trying it on for size.'
He'd like to try her on for size. She made him think of tart cherries dipped in dark chocolate, sunk beneath a layer of sweet cream...
But so what? His dick had a jones for redheads; this wasn't breaking news. Besides, she had that look about her—runaway, groupie, hooker, junkie, maybe all-of-the-above—and he sure didn't need that noise. So what was it that had him wanting to turn around and follow her, ask her name, where was she headed, did she need a hot meal, a shower, a place to stay?
The door to the men's room opened behind him, breaking his reverie. He nodded to the grizzled, heavy-set trucker who brushed past him on the way to his rig. Then he turned and went to make his rounds.
The men's bathroom was disgusting as usual, but empty. He filled the paper towel dispenser and noted the need for a general hose-down, preferably with undiluted bleach. Not that the janitorial staff would pay much attention.
He saw the girl lying on the floor of the stall as soon as he walked into the ladies' room. After making sure she had a pulse, he unclipped his cell phone from his belt and called an ambulance. Then he hightailed it out of the bathroom and down the sidewalk after Miss Cherries-and-Cream. He found her engaged in conversation with a blond trucker who reeked of attitude and...damn. Full moon, Saturday night. He should've seen it coming.
"Homme? That's French for 'man,' right?" she was asking as John got within earshot. They were standing far too close together for people who'd just met, though John would bet his next three paychecks it was the first time the redhead had ever laid eyes on Blondie. She was looking at him like she wanted to lick him up off the pavement, and Blondie was ducking his head in a show of embarrassment that had 'bogus' written all over it.
"Yeah...stupid name, huh? I'm actually French Canadian. Lots of us up here in the boonies."
John cleared his throat. "Pardon me, but do either of you know..."
The girl glanced at him with dazed eyes. Brown, but not so dark after all. Milk chocolate, instead—the good kind you couldn't get at the 7-Eleven—and a dash of freckles, like cinnamon, over the bridge of her nose.
The trucker's gaze was colder. "Can we help you, Mister?"
"Maybe. There's a young woman passed out in the ladies' room. I was wondering if either of you know who she is or what's wrong with her."
The redhead opened her mouth to answer, but her companion didn't give her the chance.
"Hey, buddy? Why don't you mind your own business, huh?" Blondie was smiling, but John could sense the underlying warning in his tone.
He shrugged. "It is my business. I'm the night manager of this rest area."
"Well, Mister Night Manager, why don't you go on ahead and manage the situation, then?" Blondie had begun running his fingers through his hair, stopping every fraction of a second to tug and pull at random curls. The gesture was unmistakable if you knew how to read it, and John did. He threw a glance over his shoulder and...sure enough. The moon had broken through the clouds just above the horizon, all fat and yellow and greasy-looking, like a scoop of butter thrown against a blackboard.
He tried again, catching the redhead's eye and holding it. "Miss? It would be good if you could tell me your friend's name, at least. For when the police get here?"
The girl's eyelids flickered a bit, but she didn't look away. "She's not my friend. I don't know her name, or where she comes from, or what she took."
"But she took something?"
The girl shrugged. "I guess."
"And you were going to let her lie there?"
She flinched at that. "No. I was on my way out to use the phone—"
"Yeah. I can see how far you got."
Her lips twisted, and a flush, bright enough to be seen in the dim light, spread across her cheeks. "Look, you can't—"
"Sure I can." Here was his chance. If he played it right, he could waste time till the cops pulled in. Sure, it would slaughter any hopes he'd harbored about taking her home, but if it meant ending her budding romance with Blondie, it was worth it. Something wasn't right about this dude, and his growing edginess as the moon rose full and bright was the least of it.
Johnny unzipped his windbreaker and removed a flashlight from his tool belt. "How 'bout if you show me some ID that says you're over eighteen, Miss?"
* * *
Zoey hesitated—not because she couldn't prove she'd just turned twenty, but because at that moment the faraway crooning of an approaching siren drifted over the parking lot. Its mate followed at a slightly lower pitch, about two seconds behind.
Before she could react, the blond trucker whose name she suddenly couldn't remember stepped between her and the night manager and poked a finger at the darker man's chest. "Look, asshole—"
"No, you look. I don't know what your story is, and I don't care. But if she's underage, she's not moving a foot off this sidewalk. Not with you."
Maybe it was something in the scarred man's tone of voice, or maybe it was something in his expression she couldn't see from where she was standing. Whatever it was made the trucker step back with his arms crossed over his chest and an ugly frown on his pretty face. She could practically smell the testosterone in the air.
The manager looked at her. "Miss? You can show your ID to me, or you can show it to the cops."
She fumbled in her backpack for her wallet. "Here." She handed him her Michigan driver's license. He shone his flashlight on it casually, as if they had all the time in the world. After an endless second or ten, he ha
nded it back with a curt nod.
The sirens grew louder. She could see the first flashing red and blue lights rising over the hill toward them, maybe a mile away.
"Mister? I swear, I don't know that girl. We were gonna try to hitch a ride together, that's true, but I never saw her before an hour ago." She dropped her wallet into her pack and clasped her hands in front of her. "I don't need any trouble. If you could see your way clear to letting me go..." She swallowed, caught on the ragged edge of begging.
He squinted at her. "Why don't you wait in my cubicle. I can't promise the cops won't give you any hassle, but I'll do my best to keep you out of it."
"She doesn't need your best." The trucker seemed to wake up from his petulant nap and take charge of the situation again. "She's catching a ride with me."
Without sparing the blond a glance, the manager stepped forward and slipped his hand around Zoey's arm, just above the elbow. It felt large and hot against her skin. "Bad idea. Come with me instead." His voice sounded flat—no note of pleading or coaxing, just a cold, inflexible order she was supposed to obey...why?
Hmm...let's see. Should she go with the gorgeous, helpful guy who actually seemed to like her, or the creepy, scar-faced jerk who plainly didn't think much of her, and couldn't protect her anyway? Shouldn't be a tough choice. So why was she struggling with it?
She shut her eyes, and a vision of the manager's body stripped to the skin assaulted her senses. Something deeper than imagination told her he'd be broad-shouldered but slender, with finely-sculpted muscles and soft, dark hair across his chest and down his belly. A pulse picked up low in her abdomen. Fear—that's what it was. Anything else would be stupid, and she couldn't afford to be stupid. Not again.
She swallowed against the lump in her throat and said, "No, thank you. I...I'm with him."
Only when she felt his hand drop away from her arm did she dare open her eyes, just in time to see some unnamable emotion cross his face and evaporate into the shadows.
