by Dee Palmer
“You already know the answer to that one, princess.”
I grunt each word. “You don’t care.” The muscles in my stomach tense to try to ease the impact until he stops at the truck.
“Now you’re getting it.” He swings the passenger door open and dumps me unceremoniously on the seat, knocking the wind from my lungs and the delusions from my head. I console myself that the latter needed to be done. It’s not the job of a stranger to rescue me; I have to do that myself.
I SHIFT THE STICK AND pull away with a jerk. The truck lurches, and its wheels spin with the force of the acceleration. Anger, irritation, and something else I’m not sure I can identify surge through my veins like a liquid flame, burning from my heart to my lead-heavy right foot, which is planted on the gas. The truck judders and rattles with the speed I’m driving, and as reckless as it feels, it has at least done one good thing: It’s shut her up.
I glance briefly to the side. Her eyes are like saucers. She’s sucked in a breath that has her chest puffed like a frightened tropical fish, her pale pink lips tight. If she doesn’t exhale soon, she’s likely to pass out, and an unconscious woman in my truck would not look great if I get pulled over in these parts. Not that an unconscious woman in a stranger’s truck looks good in any part of the country, it’s just especially true of small towns in nowheresville, where everyone is related and even the kindergarteners are packing.
I ease off the gas. Tension visibly leaves her body, evaporating with the soft sound of her letting out the air in her lungs. She’s still clutching the side of her seat with white knuckles on slim fingers, but at least she’s breathing now. Her face is screwed up as she squints against the sun’s glare through the windshield.
“Pull the damn visor down if the sun hurts.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine, thank you.” Her tight smile is as fake as her statement. Still, even in my mood, I can see the potential she has to dazzle, even challenge the midday sun when it comes to shine. Not that that matters. I’m a taxi, and the sooner I can get her to where she’s going, the quicker I can get gone.
An easy kind of silence settles between us. The crack in the window allows nature and sounds from the open road to drift in and rattle around the cab of my ancient truck. We pass two tiny, one-shop towns before she ventures to break the quiet.
“Where are you heading?” she asks.
“How should I know?”
“You don’t know where you’re going?” She smiles, and a gentle laugh rides her words as she turns easily in her seat to face me. She hitches one leg up, which she hugs to her chest, careful to place her foot on her ruined dress. I’m not sure if it’s to stop the blood dripping onto my worn vinyl seats or to protect her foot from the heat of the cheap material. I think it’s the former because her feet are way beyond protecting now. They’re a real mess. I’m so damn curious about her, it’s taking all my focus to not give a fuck.
“I mean I’m not a mind reader, thankfully.” I sniff.
“I’m lost.” She starts to rub her temples, confusion and exhaustion evident in the tiny lines on her forehead and in her troubled eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that shade of blue before, crystal clear azure and stormy gray at the same time. Her fingers thread into the mess of dark glossy hair that is dulled and lifeless by the sheer amount of grit and twigs it’s harboring.
“I don’t care,” I repeat even if the sentiment is losing a little of its fire to my own ears. I don’t …
“Would you just stop saying that for a gosh darn flipping second. I meant I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t you know where you’re going?”
“Because, ma’am, I don’t know where you live.”
“Could you call me by my name? Ma’am makes me feel like an old maid.”
“Maids don’t tend to wear wedding dresses.” I tug at the edge of her dress. The lace is torn and dirty, but she gets the idea.
“Lucky them.”
“Why then…fuck!” I cut my own question dead, slamming my hand on the wheel and making her jump. I swallow the acid churning up my stomach and force myself not to ask. It’s going against my nature, and my body is in revolt. I can feel it in every uncomfortable nerve as I force myself to change the subject and, hopefully, end this entire interaction. “Where do you live, and where am I dropping you?”
“See? You are curious, aren’t you?” Waggling her finger, she wiggles her brow knowingly, high and playful. An impish grin lights her face, and I have to clench my jaw to prevent myself from joining her in a grinning competition. Even in the state she’s in, the ordeal she must have experienced to be where she was when I picked her up, dressed like she is, she still manages to look like a breath of mountain-fresh summer air. She tucks her hands under her butt and bounces nervously. “I mean you have to be wondering just a tiny bit what the heck I’m doing stranded on the side of a road, looking like the bride of Frankenstein and it ain’t even Halloween, hmm?”
“Address?” I let out a long, bored breath in an attempt to not engage.
“Fine, I’ll tell you, if you tell me where you’re heading?”
“I could just drop your ass on the side of the road,” I quip.
“But you won’t, so how about you cut the Mr. Nasty guy act and just tell me where you’re heading?”
“What makes you think it’s an act?”
“Well, for one, you didn’t cop a feel when you hurled me over your shoulder. You haven’t once looked at me like I’m your next meal, and you did, in fact, stop to rescue me.”
“I might be abducting you.” Tilting my head, I hold her gaze longer than I should.
“Are you?” She tips forward conspiratorially and with way too much excitement dancing in her eyes.
“Fuck no. The sooner I can get you out of my damn truck the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Do you have to cuss?” Her slight shake of her head adds to the disappointment in her tone, and my jaw all but hits my lap.
“Excuse me?” I snap. The judgmental tilt of her head is too much, and I’m about to explode with a litany of words only a retired Navy SEAL would have in their extensive cuss dictionary when she visibly deflates in her seat. She hugs both of her legs like she needs the protection or maybe she’s just holding herself together. Don’t…
“Nothing, never mind.” Rubbing her eyes roughly, I’m not sure if the glare from the sun is irritating them to the point of tears or it’s something else. I feel it’s something else, and all I can offer is to lean over and pull the visor down. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And thank you for stopping. I was having a real bad day.”
“Buttercup…” I have softened the edges, but the warning tone when I say her name is clear.
“Fine, but I promise, by the end of today, you’re going to be begging to hear my story.” Her confidence holds an undercurrent of hope in her voice, and at any other time, I might’ve taken her up on wanting to know. This isn’t that time.
“Don’t hold your breath, princess.”
“So?” she says after only a moment of quiet. I wonder if it actually pains her to be silent.
“So what?”
“Where are you heading?” She taps the map on my phone screen, which is clipped on to the dash for easy reading.
“I’m not sure. It’s a road trip.” I shrug because I gave it little thought when I first got in the truck back home, and I’m no clearer a few days down the road.
“On your own?” Her query comes out in a gasp and a sudden soulful sadness in her expression. My eyes narrow even as I keep looking at the road ahead. Not that I was going to answer the damn stupid question, but she continues when I remain tight-lipped. “Sorry, yes, of course. I get it.” She reaches to touch me and my head snaps round, causing her hand to freeze and hover dangerously close to my thigh. She slowly curls her fingers back in and retracts her arm.
“Get what exactly?” Irritation clips my words.
“Y
ou’re running away too.” Her tone is wistful, and her sad gaze meets mine for a second when her shoulders look too heavy to shrug. All of a sudden, she seems completely defeated and turns to look out of the window. She winds it all the way down and closes her eyes when the hot air hits her full in the face.
“I’m not running.”
“Of course you’re not. Men don’t run; they road trip.” She sniffs, flattens her smile and opens only one eye to look at me.
“And women run?”
“Like the flipping wind, if given the choice.” She puffs out a deep breath, stretches her arms in front of her, and drops her head as if the weight of the world is resting right there and it’s just too much.
“What?” It’s out before I get the chance to suck it back in.
“No, no, I’m not telling unless you beg,” she teases, and it’s my turn to exhale heavily, exasperated.
“Buttercup…”
“All right then. I’m supposed to get—”
“I don’t care, Buttercup. I wasn’t begging you to tell all when I said your name; I was warning you, and I’m not sure how many times I have to say that. This”—I wave my hand to encompasses her and everything around her vicinity—“has nothing to do with me. Yes, I’m getting away for a while. I’m not sure where I’m heading. I’m just driving until I figure I find a nice place to stop, get some work, and figure shit out.”
“What about here?”
“Here?”
“If you’re really wanting to get away from it all, then, yeah, it sure ticks that box, because, trust me, there’s is nothing to do around here. It’s just nature for miles and miles. No good if you’re a townie, but I figure you for a farm boy so you’ll fit right in.”
“What gave it away?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, you’re not like any farm boy I’ve ever seen, but you don’t look like you’d be afraid to rough it a little.”
“You get all that from my beat up truck and my friendly demeanor.” I arch my brow sardonically, and she chuckles, with a light sound that fills the truck.
“Nah, but I’m good at reading people.”
“Really?” I know I shouldn’t be encouraging her. I should be shutting this conversation down and getting her out of my truck. Yet…
“Well, you’ve got callused hands and clean fingernails. So you’re not afraid of hard work, but you’re not a slob. Your hair is long but in really good condition, and you keep very fit.” Her gaze flits from my eyes to anywhere else in the truck as her cheeks start to flame bright pink. It’s so fucking cute, I can’t help stare. I have to snap myself out of it, or I’m going to have us in a ditch. She coughs and swallows whatever is clogging up her throat.
“You’ve got bits of equine tack and farrier tools in the back of your truck, and that means you work with or at least know a little about horses.”
“It might not be my truck?” I offer.
“You’d steal a wreck like this?” she blurts.
“Hey, Berta’s my baby. Don’t go hurting her feelings.” Patting the dash of my truck and my soothing tone make Buttercup sigh.
“And you named your truck. You’re not like anyone I know.”
“I’m nothing special,” I state emphatically. I’m not looking to garner any type of rebuttal, and the last thing I need is some woman with more baggage that a Black Friday shopper thinking I’m some sort of white knight.
“You stopped.”
“I didn’t want to.”
“But you did.”
“And I’m regretting every single mile of it, I promise.”
“Liar.” Her quip makes me laugh. The banter is natural and so easy, and with every attempt to shut it down, she flips and coaxes more from me.
“So, where’s here?”
“Masonville, Texas.” She emphasizes the state with such pride and thick Southern accent I can’t help myself.
“As opposed to Tennessee, you mean?”
“You know, sarcasm ain’t really necessary. You said you didn’t know where you were heading. How was I supposed to know you had any idea where you are or how long you’ve been on your ‘road trip’. You could be in Washington by now, for all you know.”
“Not with that accent, I couldn’t.”
“No, I guess not. Anyway, this is Masonville, or that was, back there. We’re now heading right on into Austin.”
“And where do you live?”
“Oh, I live on a ranch way back the other side of town.” She points over her shoulder and briefly looks through the rear window, then settles right back to being comfortable heading in the opposite direction.
“And you let me keep on driving in the wrong direction?”
“It’s not the wrong direction for me. You’re not the only one who needs to get away.” She folds her arms and jolts upright, slamming her palms flat on the dash when she feels the momentum of the truck change. “Wait, what are you doing? Don’t slow down.”
“I’m taking you back.”
“No, please…please don’t. Not just yet. I know I am going to be going back. I have to, but just give me today, please.” Her eyes surge with fat tears that burst onto her dirt-stained cheeks, refreshing the dried marks from earlier. Wiping the stream dry with the back of her hand, her voice is frail and broken. I feel her agony like a twisting pain deep inside my chest. Fuck!
“Fine.” I ease back on the gas and, although her smile is tentative, it still lights up the cab like a supernova. I grumble my concession. “But I’m still turning around so we are at least aiming in the right direction.”
“Okay, that’s fair I guess.” She sniffs and rubs her nose. The noise is enough to make me hand her a fresh tissue from my back pocket. She takes it and blows her nose, dries her eyes, and cleans some of the dirt from her cheeks. She doesn’t bother to check her reflection. I don’t think she cares about anything other than not going back.
“Anywhere in particular you’d like me to drive, ma’am?”
“Just head for the interstate and I’ll direct you from there.”
“As you wish.” Our eyes meet for a second, oh shit.
PANIC TORE THROUGH ME WHEN he started to turn the truck around. My heart nearly jumped into my throat, and I felt physically sick at the thought of having to go back home. I know I have to face Grampa at some point. I know he’s going to be beside himself that I freaked the way I did. I couldn’t help any of it, though. One glance in my mother’s gilt-edged, full-length mirror was all it took. The sunlight caught the side of my face, and I looked just like her: slight and a little too slim, with my black hair reaching to my waist, and big blue, empty eyes staring right back at me. I saw my whole life flash before me, a life I don’t want and one I can’t escape. I started to cry and couldn’t stop. Then I screamed, until my throat was raw and I had no breath left in me.
I keep trying to remove the image in my head of my Grampa’s expression, beaming with pride at me standing in my grandmother’s wedding dress, the dress she wore to marry him all those years ago. When the first tears started to trickle down my face, he tried to comfort me. I couldn’t tell him they weren’t tears of loss for a lady we both loved so dearly. I couldn’t tell him they weren’t tears of joy. Not that I really needed to. I think my reaction and subsequent disappearing act were evidence enough that perhaps all was not well in my picture perfect world.
I screw my eyes shut and force the flashback to vanish, for now. When I open them, I’m greeted by a pair of deep blue eyes boring through me and a comical expression of confusion on his handsome face. And he is handsome. Even with the semi-permanent scowl and cloud hanging over him like a category five storm, he’s quite stunning. Choppy blond hair peeks out beneath his hat, and he’s sporting some seriously sexy facial hair, which I’m not sure is a result of his road trip or if he is a beard type of guy. He’s tall and fills the large driver seat with wide, strong looking thighs and broad shoulders. And his hands. Hmm, what is it about a man that works with his hands?
&nbs
p; What the heck is wrong with you, Buttercup? You’re in your grandmother’s wedding dress for a reason, for goodness sake.
“So what should I call you?” I shift in my seat and face him, lifting my legs to cradle my feet.
“Do you really think we need to do this?”
I scoff and brush off his reticence. “We’re going to be spending the day together; I think I should at least know your name.”
“I never said we were spending the day together.”
“You got somewhere else to be?”
He meets my quirky quip with another scowl. “Not the point.”
“No, the point is: I’m a wreck and I need this. You’re a good guy and you’re going to give it to me.” He had turned his head to face the road while I was speaking, but it snaps right back to me, and he fixes me with a glare and steely silence.
“Don’t look at me like that. You know you’re a good guy; you rescued me. It’s just one day.” When he turns away, I feel the temperature drop in the truck and gooseflesh prickles my skin. Perhaps I’m wrong. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath for a response, until, after several long seconds, he speaks.
“One day,” he muses, wavering, and before he can retract, I jump in and happily agree.
“Yes, thank you.” I beam and wait expectantly for him to reciprocate. He doesn’t, but he does the next best thing: He engages.
“My name is Pink.”
“Really? Did your momma not like you too much?” I snort, because, honestly, I don’t think I’ve seen a more manly man. I’m mortified when he doesn’t laugh with me. I was only teasing, trying to get him to smile. I really like his smile. His hands tighten on the steering wheel and he stares out way beyond the horizon.
“I don’t have a mom or a dad.” His soft words slice me open. Me neither. I reach to touch his arm and instantly regret it when he practically bites my hand off, snarling. “Look, I knew this is where this was going to go, and I don’t want to talk personal shit, okay? You want a day playing ‘let’s pretend’? Fine. I’ll tag along, but this is not a soul sharing situation, understand?”
