Birthmarked
Page 1
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,
Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona
www.hartwoodpublishing.com
Birthmarked
Copyright © 2013 by Maria Violante
Digital Release: October 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62916-008-5
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Acknowledgements
I owe a great big thank you to the boys and girls of the FFE Canada Fleet, especially Rhonda, who was very gung-ho about me stealing her name, and Cameron, who was kind enough to go through this manuscript and correct truck lingo and inconsistencies. And of course, there is their Driver Manager, Lynn, who, when asked if I could add her in as a character, simply stated, “Do your worst.”
Jeff Malone is a real person—maybe not exactly the way he appears in this book, but close enough in spirit. He had a stroke on the 401 but somehow managed to get his truck over to the side of the road and park it—no doubt saving some lives in the process. I used his likeness and name here with the permission of his widow, Judy. He will be missed dearly, by everybody that has ever met him, because he really was that great of a guy.
Jeff Buckner, in case you haven’t figured it out, is just another side of Jeff Malone. Maybe not in this story, per se, but that’s who he was in my head.
Having spent six months on a semi, I have a few things I’d like to tell the general public.
Trucks are heavy. It takes them forever to speed up or slow down, and it’s a very complicated progression of shifting and rev-matching and engine braking. It isn’t like a car, where you just stomp on something and the car goes or stops. You know how sometimes you’re merging onto the highway, and there’s a truck in front of you, going all slow? It’s because they can’t go any faster. They might be heavy, going up-hill. A lot of companies also put speed limiters in their trucks to save fuel, which means that some of them can’t break sixty M.P.H. anyway.
Be considerate. Be smart. In an accident, they might lose their license, their occupation, their calling—but you are the one who is going to die. A fully-loaded tractor-trailer can weigh up to eighty-thousand pounds. (This doesn’t include oversize trailers, doubles, etc.) Your car weighs four thousand and barely reaches the tops of the tires. Figure it out. Don’t cut them off, get over so they can merge on, give them enough room to change lanes. Quit riding their ass; they can’t see you there. Back up a little if you see them trying to turn into an intersection. They need the damn room.
Trucks don’t like to change lanes if they don’t have to. They also sit very high, which means they have better road visibility than you do. If you see a truck getting over ahead, you might want to check and see if you should get over. Chances or good there is an accident, a police car, something—because, why else would they want to get over? Either way, let them the hell over. They aren’t doing it to screw with you.
This may seem like common sense to some of you. You are not the people I am talking to. I wrote this book to entertain, and maybe as a memorial to Jeff and my time on the road, but if a single person reads this afterword and says, “Oh, maybe I won’t cut that semi off next time,” this book will have done more good for the world than I ever thought it could.
Dedication
To Jeff.
I just know you’re rolling along, in a big rig in the sky.
May the traffic be light, the runs be easy, and the wind stay off of your trailer.
To Judy.
I can hear the strength in your voice. I just know he’s watching over all of us.
Blurb
Charlie Kale knows life isn't easy. But for the first time, this truck driver might have finally found her little piece of happiness. She's got it all—her big rig, friends, a great mentor, and a man about to join her on the road.
That is, until the good things in Charlie's life all fall apart, and she finds herself at the mercy of a sexy but mysterious gunman who claims to be a member of a secret order dedicated to fighting the supernatural monsters that filter over into our world.
She's given a choice—join up or die, and while the gunman might be insane, Charlie’s hell-bent on not dying.
Too bad it looks like that might not be an option.
Chapter One
Rhonda’s head snapped around, and she mouthed the words “Oh my God.” I tried to stifle my laugh, but it burst out as a quiet snort. I surveyed the aisles around us, almost choking when I caught a face staring at me—but it was only my own dark-eyed reflection, beaming back from the glass covering a poster that aimed to recruit new drivers.
Maybe it was my lucky day, and nobody noticed us checking him out. I mean, the jean-clad behind that triggered her silent exclamation was certainly a fine specimen, but it didn’t mean I wanted to get caught admiring it. In the good ol’ boys’ club of long-haul trucking, being a female driver already got me enough flack . . . being new made it ten times worse.
The driver with the too-tight black jeans—or hey, maybe they were just tight enough—turned the corner and disappeared from sight. We scanned the area for witnesses and exchanged a nod, before slinking after him. Both of us were trying to get a better look at the rest of him as he wound his way through narrow aisles bursting with chrome decals, twelve-volt electronics, and beef jerky displays.
I was about to whisper to Rhonda he might be a butter-face when he turned and revealed a side profile.
She gave me a quick reverse nod, the question clear. Do you like him?
Hmm. I bit my lip. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he had a face that was clean and honest—although it did seem a bit arrogant. Judging by the wrinkle on the bridge of his slightly crooked nose, none of the Glass Hitch’s offerings were to his liking. I felt my hackles rise in solidarity with my favorite truck-stop. Hey, this is where they have the good showers.
Rhonda’s low whistle caught me by surprise. Before I could react, Jeans turned, his dark eyes catching mine. “N-n-o,” I started to stutter, but before I could explain Rhonda was the culprit, he had already made a disgusted face and turned away. Apparently, the image of un-showered me in a tracksuit didn’t exactly start his engine.
As soon as he faded from view, Rhonda burst into laughter. I nailed her in the arm.
“Hey, Rocky, cut it out!” She pouted and rubbed her bicep, but I could swear there was a definite gleam in her eye.
“Jeans thought it was me! Like I would ever do something so crass!”
She snickered and lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, get off of your high horse. And. . . Jeans?”
My cheeks burning, I cleared my throat and
glanced back to confirm he hadn’t returned. The absent aisle filled me with a sense of relief—but also a little bit of disappointment.
I swallowed away my guilt and tried not to hear my mother’s voice. I mean, hey—horniness is natural, right? Everybody’s got feelings, and I was going to embrace them—especially if it meant avoiding a life of missing-husband-induced nun-like abstinence.
I groaned and muttered a silent prayer. Sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean that. It’s just . . . about time that something besides an electric blanket and a bunk heater kept me warm at night.
Thankfully, Luke would be joining me in three days, and then maybe I wouldn’t feel a throb every time I ran into a halfway decent looking man in jeans. My long-running theory that Rhonda could read minds was further proven by her theatric eye-roll and heavy sigh. “You’re too uptight, you know that? Anyways, Randy and I are going to wing night at the Chow Hound. You want in?”
I stretched my neck to each side. Each pop and click—and there were plenty—brought me a little much-needed relief. “Sorry, Rhonda. Need a shower—and my number is up.” I waved my ticket at the screen behind her.
Her face brightened with a giant grin. She was the only other woman on the FLEX Canada Team, and she no doubt understood my desperation. “All right. Well, if you change your mind, you have my number.” She gave me a sly wink and nodded behind me. “Think he’s back.”
My cheeks burned. I ducked and sped down the aisles that led to the showers. I didn’t want to face him again, and besides, I was already drooling like a zombie. Hot water. Massage head. The last three days had held nothing but road dust, diesel fumes, and second-hand smoke, and just thinking about it made my skin itch. I darted around the hall to shower twelve, consulted my ticket, and mashed in my pin-key.
The door clicked open to reveal a vista of sparkling-white tile. I had to pause and drink in the sensation of something recently cleaned just for me. I whirled in, flipped the deadbolt, and dropped everything on the bench by the door. Physics kicked in and it all fell in the messiest way possible, the clean clothes somehow sliding down the shower bag and onto the floor.
I groaned. If I didn’t sort and hang them, they were all sure to get wet—but I couldn’t get my body to move. Maybe it will be all right. I’ll just be careful in the shower. I stripped off my clothes and fought off a monster yawn. Naked and shivering like a Chihuahua, I took a deep, cleansing breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth—and turned to face the mirror.
Gut-shot! Even if you didn’t consider the mussed hair and dirty streaks that covered my once-tan skin—and how in the hell had I lost a tan that fast, anyways?—I looked exhausted. Sick, even. The bags that oozed out from under my bloodshot eyes were almost as dark as my hair. My t-zone shined, my cheeks were flaky, and the sides of my nose and my forehead bristled with whiteheads and blackheads and God-knew-what-else.
“Fucking reefer,” I muttered, although the noisy cycles of the condenser during my sleep was only part of the reason I looked like crap. After all, the other drivers up here could just drop—lay down for a nap and be fully unconscious thirty seconds later, refreshed when the alarm went off to deliver their load. I still needed time—time to unwind, time to drift off, time to wake up, and I couldn’t fall asleep during the day. As a result, I was starting to look an awful lot like a zombie.
My gaze dropped lower, past the birthmark on my collarbone and okay, larger than average bosom, to my gradually flabby-fying stomach. I felt the sob start in my throat, and I choked it back. Three months ago, I’d clocked in at a hundred and fifty pounds. Curvy, maybe even chubby, but only on a bloated day.
The budding gut that stared back at me from the mirror almost needed a name. I mean Jesus, what would Mom think, God bless her soul?
It’s the chicken fried steak. And the biscuits and gravy. And the Boss Hog burger. And the wings, and—
I sighed and rubbed my belly. Good thing I had turned down wing night.
I wonder what Jeans would think if he could see this? Would his eyes bug out of his head? Would he snicker and move on? Would he point and laugh?
I stiffened as another thought rose, like a deep-sea monster, from the depths of my subconscious. What will Luke think? He hadn’t laid eyes on me since before I left for Driving School.
I managed to break myself away from the mirror and pulled a one-eighty. With a quick breath, I flipped the shower handle and jumped in.
Mistake.
Ice rained down on my skin. “Mother Fucker!”
I leaped out. Shivering and dripping water on the floor, I could suddenly hear music. The sound was muffled from forcing its way out of a pile of dirty clothes and over the shower’s hiss, but I could make out the song. It was “Happy Together,” by the Turtles.
I didn’t react in time to catch the chill that went through my gut. Things with Luke had been tough lately. He was always picking little fights, not returning my calls—
But he’ll be here, soon. He’s giving up everything to move onto a truck. That’s how much he loves you. By the time I managed to find the phone and flip it open, my apprehension—and part of my ice bath—had been driven out by a warm glow. “Hey, baby.”
“Hey, Charlie. You busy?”
I eyed the evil stall behind me. “No, baby. I’m waiting for the shower to warm up. You’ve got me all alone.” I let my voice drop into a flirtier tone. “What’s on your mind?”
“We need to talk.”
I mentally waved away the clenching in my stomach and plopped my bare butt on the towel, which had somehow miraculously stayed put on the bench. Give him a chance to say something before you jump. “Okay. What’s on your mind, baby?”
“I don’t know how to say this.” He fumbled for a little while, and I could feel my dread growing, my fingers clutching the phone tighter and tighter. “I can’t. . .”
“Can’t what, babe?” Please be anything, anything but—
“I can’t do this anymore.”
I let out the breath I didn’t know I had been holding. Don’t jump to conclusions. “You don’t have to, baby. Three days from now, and you’ll be here, with me, and this horrible distance thing will be all behind us.”
He groaned, his breath snuffling in the phone. We had been together long enough for me to envision his face, the scrunched eyebrows and stiff lips that meant he was hunkering down for a fight. Well, let us fight, then. Better than you just giving up on us like this.
“Look. I don’t know what I want, but I think I’ve finally figured out what’s been bothering me all this time.”
“All this time?” I flinched at the rise in my voice and re-steadied myself. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t act stupid. You know what I mean. We’re always fighting—”
“We’ve been under a lot of stress. And what couple doesn’t fight?” My eyes stung with hot little pricks. “You make it sound like that’s all we do, like we don’t have good times. What about our good-bye vacation? We curled up in that cabin by the beach. Are you really telling me you weren’t happy? Cause you sure seemed happy to—”
“No, I was—”
“Then why are you acting like this?” I cleared my throat and took another nose-mouth breath, but it didn’t help. For a moment, it was as if I could ascend above my body and see myself—naked, wet, fat, crying and shivering as I lost my head.
“Charlie, listen to me. Don’t interrupt me. Just . . . listen to me. Can you do that?”
I was nodding when I remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yes.” Please, baby. Please God.
“I’ve had doubts from the very beginning.”
The words hit me like punches. “Everybody has . . . sorry, go on.” I bit my lip, determined to control myself. I could win that much.
“I’ve had doubts. . . I never liked you the way I should have. I was so broken-hearted over Rachel, and there you were, so great and willing to rescue me. I let it happen, because you were fun, and smart, and nice, and pretty—”
“—and even though I knew you weren’t the one—”
My throat closed up on itself. I’d had doubts about him, too . . . but there isn’t a one, is there? Isn’t that just a stupid, old-fashioned idea?
“I just pushed it all away. I tried to ignore them, to compromise—”
The words burbled their way out of my throat before I could stop them. “Compromise? I’ve given up everything for you. We were broke. I gave up going back to school for you. I got on this truck to make money, to pay off the bills and give you a chance—”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
His roar was like a punch to the stomach, and I fell into a stunned silence.
“Don’t you think I know what you’ve done for me, and how much you’ve given up? I can’t let you keep giving your life up for me! I can’t. . .”
He sobbed, and in my mind, I could see his eyes close, the tears rolling down the chiseled planes of his cheeks. They were cheeks I had kissed until my lips were tingling from his stubble, cheeks I had pressed against mine at dances, during hugs, before falling asleep. “I’m sorry. . . I shouldn’t have said that. I take it back—”
“No. Listen to me, Charlie. You are wonderful. You are everything a man could ever want, but for me, you aren’t the one.”
I flailed. I was sinking into quicksand, and every move, every word just made it worse. “The one? What does that even mean? What is that supposed to mean? Can’t anybody be the one, if you let them?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. But I know that I need to be single right now, and I can’t treat you the way you need to be treated. I mean, you know about Lydia—”
I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the hurt that I knew was coming. Yes, I knew about Lydia—and knowing about what they did meant I could never eat at that restaurant again. Like pigeons loosed, the other pains came. Anniversary dinners where he couldn’t keep his eyes to himself. The texts to other women, the ads on Craigslist that were “just curiosity.”