My blood boiled. My heart, though, remained a fucking glacier.
Aida had bolted. Again.
“Fuck!” I tore jeans and a tee out of my duffle bag and yanked them on. I should’ve known. Should’ve fucking been ready for it. I hadn’t convinced her not to go back to New York. She’d only been biding her time. Waiting for the perfect chance to disappear.
I fumbled with my boots, the tremble in my hands making it difficult to manipulate the laces. God damn, the woman was dead set on getting herself killed.
My vision blurred, rage taking hold, and I searched the small room for something to decimate. Shit. There wasn’t time for a meltdown. How many hours did she have on me? Three? Four?
I gathered my bag and stormed out the door, blinking against the bright sunshine.
“Morning, Cowboy.”
I skidded to a stop. Aida held a coffee cup in one hand and the end of Lola’s leash in the other. Lola trotted up to me and offered herself for a rub. My bag hit the ground with a thud, my heart hit my gut with a splat.
Sweet Mother of Mercy, what a sight.
Aida’s long, raven hair framed her face in soft, loose waves. She wore her moto boots and black leggings, a black turtleneck sweater, and my damn flannel jacket. Red flannel was definitely her color. The damn thing was three sizes too large for her, but somehow, it worked.
“You were sleeping so soundly. I couldn’t bring myself wake you. I walked Lola. Fed her, too. Brought you coffee. Stole cash out of your wallet, but I didn’t think you’d mind. You know, ‘cause it’s coffee.”
When she smiled up at me with her rosy cheeks and nose, clueless to the hell I’d just put myself through, I ran a hand through my hair and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, gifting me with her own raspy chuckle.
I closed the distance between us and cupped her cold cheeks. “God damn, woman. What you do to me.”
Her eyes searched mine, brows pinched in confusion.
“When we get home. I’m fucking you in this jacket.”
That earned me a smile.
I plucked the coffee from her hands and kissed her forehead. “Where’s your suitcase?”
“In the truck,” was her simple reply.
“You’ve had a busy morning.”
“I’ve never slept better. Woke up full of energy.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean.”
Aida rolled up on her toes and whispered, “A good fucking will do that to you.” She slipped my keys and Lola’s leash into my hand. “Put the dog in the truck and drink that coffee fast.” Her palm grazed my crotch. “We have half an hour before we have to check out. You’re fucking me in this jacket now, Cowboy.”
“AIDA. THIS IS MY friend, Jim Calloway.” Tucker stood taller than usual, eyeing me with an expression I couldn’t read.
“Nice to meet you, Aida.” Jim gave my hand a hearty shake. His grip was soft, his voice softer. He studied me through his gold-rimmed glasses and tilted his balding head. “Have we met before? You look familiar.”
“No,” I mumbled as I took in the magnificent surroundings of the building we occupied, nestled dead center in what may have once been farmland. Blackened anvils and hammers. Steel presses. A machine that resembled a guillotine, a large, brick forge, and various other daunting gizmos and gadgets. “You’re a bladesmith?” I asked, barely able to contain my glee. I stepped closer to the small table standing next to us and ran my finger along the cold, smooth steel of one of the many knives laid before me.
“Master Bladesmith for over twenty-five years,” Tucker chimed in with a proud grin, patting his friend on the back.
“May I?” I asked, picking up a small fixed blade with flip-flop patterned steel and a handle made of a pale wood. “It’s gorgeous.” I flipped the knife in my fingers, inspecting the fine workmanship, admiring the hours that went into folding and cutting the metal. “It’s light, too.” A bit heavier than my babies at home, but those had been custom made for my hand, designed to hide inside my shirtsleeves.
“The scales on that lady are spalted birch. Beautiful, huh?” Jim asked. “The unique coloring comes from fungi in the trees.” He picked up a matching pair from the end of the table. “These are my favorite. Six-and-a-half-inch with Desert Ironwood scales. Two-and-three-quarter-inch blades. Made them a few years back. I was playing around with a new folding pattern. I call it crisscross; my wife calls it kaleidoscope.”
I dropped the knife I’d been holding and snatched one of the sets from his fingers. Truly a thing of beauty. It had a darker handle, but the steel? Sweet Papa. The steel had been folded into a pattern that, yes, if you held it at the right angle in the light, resembled a design you would see through a kaleidoscope.
I spun the knife in my hand, between my fingers, tossed it gently in the air, tested its weight, pulled my thumb across the edge of the blade. A shiver of pleasure rocked my body, and I hoped to God neither of the men had noticed.
“We’ll take those,” Tucker blurted, a heady gaze boring a hole through my soul.
He’d noticed.
I turned on my heel to face him. “You’re buying me knives?” My heart raced erratically. “But I thought … But Tango said. I mean. What?” Oh God. Tears were building. If I’d any question whether I had feelings for Tucker, that moment sealed the deal.
He got me. He understood. He knew what I needed. But more important, he trusted me.
“I knew she’d fancy those.” Jim smiled wide, his shoulders straightening with pride. “The ladies love those pretty designs.”
Lady? If he only knew. I laughed and shook my head.
Jim handed me the second knife and paused before releasing the fruits of his labor into my care. Our eyes met, and, for a second, I feared he had changed his mind about parting with his creations.
With brows pinched, he asked, “You sure we haven’t bumped into each other somewhere?”
I blamed the tingles prickling my spine on the pure joy of being surrounded by sharp metal objects. Not the fact that the barista at the coffee shop had asked me the same question earlier that morning.
Tucker shot me a nervous glance before shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, dropping his head, and rocking back on his heels. “Aida. Head back to the truck. I’ll finish up with Jim. We need to get back on the road.”
I nodded and looked again to my new favorite person, Jim the Master Bladesmith. “Don’t suppose you have any sheaths laying around?”
“Aida,” Tucker snapped. “Truck. Now.”
Jim cleared his throat, clearly catching Tucker’s not-so-subtle hint for me to leave them alone. “Of course I have sheaths. I’ll send them along with Tuck.”
Not sure what came over me. Gratitude. Joy. Relief. Whatever it was, I threw my arms around Jim and planted a big, loud kiss on his scruffy face. “Thank you, Jim. You’ve made me a happy girl.” And then I whispered so Tucker couldn’t hear, “Wrist or ankle sheaths if you have them, ‘cause a girl’s got to have her secrets, if you know what I mean,” and slipped away before he could respond.
I waited for Tucker in the truck, feeling light and airy, and a little like my old self again. The knives were heavier and clunkier than I was used to, but they would do. And they were mine. And as I watched Tucker approach, in all his rugged sex appeal, I thought to myself, thank God he’s mine. Thank God.
“Thank God for greasy burger joints.” Aida dabbed a napkin to her lips and sat back in her chair while pure bliss settled across her gorgeous, glowing face.
She had coiled her hair in a loose knot on top of her head. She still wore my jacket, and she hadn’t stopped smiling since we’d left Jim’s place two hours ago.
I was responsible for that smile. No better feeling in the world.
The diner we’d happened upon was small, maybe ten tables, and quaint. A married couple owned the place. They were friendly, and well matched. Jennifer ran the counter, while her husband, Ron, flipped burgers in the back. We’d learne
d all this from our waitress, Katie, who had an infectious personality and a gift for gab.
“Did you enjoy your burgers?” Katie asked as she refilled our drinks. “Can I get you dessert? Auntie Jen makes a killer pecan pie.”
“No, thank you,” Aida said, rubbing her stomach.
Katie tilted her head, and lowered her brows, attention fixed on Aida. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”
A rosy hue tainted Aida’s cheeks. She faked a grin. “No. Sorry. We’ve never met.”
Click. Click. Click.
Fuck. Jim had asked her the same question that morning.
Aida’s gaze sliced to mine.
Click. Click. Click.
My chest caved in.
Looking unconvinced, our happy server shrugged her shoulders. “Could swear I’ve seen you before,” she mumbled and headed to her next table of customers.
“That’s the second time someone’s asked you that, Bambi,” I said, jaw cramping.
“Third.” The corner of Aida’s bottom lip curled between her teeth while she waited for me to respond.
“What?”
“Coffee shop this morning.”
A fistful of WTF knocked me in the kisser. “Shit.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I’d turned it off last night and only remembered to power it back up when we’d sat down to eat. Tango’s name lighted my screen.
“Yeah, T. What’s up?”
“Jesus Fucking Christ. Where the hell have you been? I’ve called five goddamn…”
I held the phone away from my ear while expletives exploded from a seething Tango.
“Tucker? Tucker. You there?”
“I’m here. Shit. What the hell, man?”
“Where are you? Aida okay?”
“We’re fine. She’s great.” I braved a glance her way. A wave of nausea hit when I noticed the lack of color in her cheeks. “Just finishing lunch. We’ll be home in two hours.”
“You in public?”
“Yeah. A diner.”
“Get her the fuck out of there. Now.” The urgency in his command was palpable.
Pushing from my chair, I motioned for Aida to follow. “Talk to me, T. What’s happening?” I tossed a wad of bills on the table, tangled my free hand with hers and headed for the door.
“You haven’t heard the news? Looked at a goddamn paper?”
“No,” I said, tripping over a pothole and righting myself before taking Aida down too.
“It’s Voltolini, man. He’s all anyone’s talking about. It’s bad, Tuck.”
“How bad?”
“Explosion. No survivors. They identified Luciano’s body. His bodyguard, too. Aida’s face is all over the media. They don’t know if she’s missing, or one of the victims. They’re still pulling bodies out of the carnage.”
A sheen of sweat covered my body.
Aida’s fingers tightened around mine, and when I opened the truck door and motioned for her to climb in, she stood her ground. “What is it? Tell me.”
“Let me talk to her,” Tango said in my ear. “I should be the one to break the news.”
“No,” I argued. “I’ve got this. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
I ended the call and squeezed my cell hard before tucking it back into my pocket. My hands trembled, and I couldn’t meet her gaze.
“Tucker. I know that was Tango. What’s going on?”
I opened the door wide, taking my rage out on the handle. “Please. Climb in. I don’t want to talk out here.”
Moisture pooled in her beautiful eyes. She already knew. “I’m not moving until I hear the words.”
“Aida.” I stepped closer and cupped her cheek, blocking her from view of passersby.
She jerked her head out of my grasp and backed up until she was flush against my truck. Raising her chin, she sucked in a breath. “Say it. He’s gone, isn’t he? Tell me, Tucker. Just fucking say it.”
“Yeah, baby. He’s gone.”
I reached for her, but she recoiled. Damn, if that didn’t make my guts twist. Her eyes glazed, her lip quivered, her trembling hands slid from her stomach to clutch her chest. And then my strong girl crumpled. My knees hit the pavement, and I pulled her to my chest and held her while she fell apart in my arms.
Her grief seeped through my shirt, into my skin, and deeper still, to those parts kept under lock and key. I wrapped my arms around her head, hiding her face from view, and absorbed her screams of anger, her sobs, her violent trembles. When her breathing slowed, and her hands un-fisted from my collar, I lifted her into the truck.
Grim silence escorted us home. The moment I threw the truck into park, Aida climbed out, ignored Tango, who’d waited outside to greet us, and disappeared through her apartment door.
“What happens now?” I asked.
Tango fisted his hands in his hair. “No word from Tito. Christ. I don’t even know if he’s alive. Not sure how to move forward.”
“I do. We keep her on lockdown until shit clears.”
His red-rimmed eyes darted wildly from the door, to the sky, then to the ground, where he kicked at a stone, then continued to toe the dirt. “She won’t have that, you know. She’ll want revenge. She’ll fight back.”
“We can’t let that happen.”
“Voltolini’s dead,” Tango said, voice thick with emotion. “You get what that means? I’m no longer under his thumb. Aida is free to do whatever the fuck she wants, and trust me, that woman is already forming a plan. We can’t keep her prisoner. And there isn’t a thing you, I, or a damn army, can do to stop her.”
I clenched my fists at my sides, wishing I had something to hit. Despite knowing full well Tango spoke the truth, I wasn’t going to give up without a fight. “Like hell.”
“Listen, Tuck.” Tango shook his head, then crossed his arms and settled into a wide stance. “You and I haven’t had much time to get acquainted. You’ve kept to yourself since I came back to Whisper Springs, giving me space to bond with my boy. I appreciate that more than you know. Says a lot about the man you are. So, I feel I owe it to you to say this.” He looked over his shoulder then back to me. “I see the way you look at Aida. Pretty obvious how you feel about her. You must know, Princess Voltolini is nothing like you and me. Luciano didn’t coddle his child. From day one, she was privy to every dirty detail of his business. She wasn’t only a witness. She participated. Her hands aren’t clean.”
Obviously, he meant well, but I didn’t appreciate where the conversation was headed. “What are you getting at, brother?”
“Aida is a chameleon. She’s learned to change colors to fit in, to adapt to any situation. She appears to be getting along fine with us, but don’t let it fool you.”
“She’s changed.”
“I want that to be true more than anyone. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to scare you off. Giving you the full picture here. If Aida decides to step forward, the Voltolini empire is hers. Everything. That woman is in a crazy insane position of power here.”
Power. Wealth. It was mine for the taking. What I’d been groomed for.
My legacy.
Only, it was no longer my legacy alone. I was no longer a me. I was a we. The inheritance I had once been proud of, now hung like a noose around my unborn daughter’s neck.
What a horrifying thought.
But not the scariest. What I found most terrifying about being the last surviving member of my family, was the knowledge that my legacy didn’t matter. I didn’t matter. Not a soul in the world would weep for the extinction of my bloodline. Why? Because in the grand scheme of things, nothing I’d done, nothing my father had accomplished, made a damn bit of difference.
All that power. For what?
Dad was gone. And I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him smile.
For reasons I couldn’t begin to wrap my head around, I didn’t want to leave this Earth without making a difference, to someone, anyone, even if only one person. I wanted to know my smile would be mi
ssed when I left.
I rolled to my side and wiped my raw eyes. I hadn’t a clue whether it was day or night, or how long I’d cried. Tucker had come in twice to check on me. Twice I’d sent him away. I had no doubt his words would have soothed my ragged soul; his arms would have eased the pain. But this pain I needed, no, deserved to suffer. This grief I needed to process on my own.
Only, after countless hours of weeping, the weight of loneliness pressed too heavily on my chest. Only one set of arms could free me from its crushing burden. For the first time in my life, there was someone I wanted to fall into.
I sat up and dropped my feet to the floor, surprised to see a giant dog curled in a ball by my bed. Lola’s head popped up, and if I didn’t know better, she had a smile on her face. She pushed to all fours and came at me with a ferocious butt wiggle.
“Hey, girl.” I gave her ears a scratch. “When did you come in?”
Lola followed me out of the room and down the hall. Although it was no surprise, my heart skipped a beat when I spied Tucker sprawled on my couch.
Lola trotted to his side and dropped on the floor beside him.
Heart pounding an erratic rhythm, I admired the man stretched across my sofa. One arm draped over his eyes, the other across his torso. His denim-clad legs were crossed at the ankles and propped on the armrest. His hair was a mess, his T-shirt wrinkled, and his three-day stubble was patchy at best. He snored. I was sure if I kissed him, his breath would taste of onions and cooking grease.
I’d never wanted anyone more.
I needed, more than anything, to be close to him. I bent down and brushed my lips across his, a thrill dancing through me when he smiled.
“C’mere, Bambi.” Tucker rolled to his side to make room. He lifted his arm and waited for me to nestle against him.
An irresistible invitation.
I wiped a tear from my cheek and stretched beside him on the oversized cushions.
When I’d settled tight, my back against his front, he splayed his fingers across my belly, and whispered, “Aida?”
“Yeah?” I whispered back.
Truck Stop Tryst Page 17
