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I ended up in a truck stop at two o'clock in the morning on my prom night.
It was not how I expected things to go.
See, my mother had a thing about politeness. That's how I ended up joining a biker gang as the president's girlfriend. When she heard me blow off a guy who asked me to prom, she demanded that I call him right back and accept.
"But," I said, "I don't want to go with him!"
"Doesn't matter," she said. "Have you gotten any other offers?"
"Well, no," I protested, "But it's early days yet. Come on, don't make me go with Nate. I'd rather skip it."
She frowned.
"Megan, I don't think you're really thinking about Nate's feelings in all of this," she said sternly. "He obviously had to work up the courage to ask you, and that sounds like personal growth. The least you could do is give up one night."
I groaned.
"It's not just any night," I said. "It's prom. PROM. Who goes to prom with someone they don't really like?"
"Nonsense," she said. "Nate is a nice boy, and your father and I know that family. You'll have a great time. I'll even buy your dress."
She didn't mean badly. Really.
I know that might sound crazy to some people, but she just didn't get what it was like to be a teenager. To her, it really was just one night, and I really was just being silly.
Buying me a silly dress was her version of a peace offering. She'd been insisting for months that she'd just sew me a prom dress.
"Thanks," I said, glumly.
She frowned and kissed my hair.
"Go call Nate back," she instructed.
So, that's how I ended up at a truck stop at two o'clock in the morning. My mother is weird.
I was sitting on the curb, crying, and a man came over to me.
He sat down next to me, a few feet away. Not close enough to be threatening. Without a word, he passed over a large handkerchief. It was surprisingly clean.
I took it and dabbed at my eyeliner. All of my makeup was a soggy mess.
"Just go ahead and blow your nose," the man said. He pulled out another handkerchief from his leather jacket and waved it at me. “I never leave without spares.”
I laughed, gulping through my tears. This was beyond ridiculous. I was sitting at a truck stop, shivering in the neon light, while a scruffy-ass man in rough clothes waved a sensible checked handkerchief at me.
I wiped at my nose.
“There, go on,” he said. “Damage is done, it’s got snot all over it. Blow. You’ll feel better.”
I chuckled again and blew my nose. I really did feel better.
“You’ve got a phone?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Waiting for a ride?” he asked.
I nodded.
It wasn’t strictly true, but it was probably not a good idea to tell this stranger that no one in particular expected me back and I didn’t even have a cell phone.
He clucked his tongue.
“A phone, but no handkerchief. Priorities, man,” he said.
I gestured down at my dress.
“Does it look like I planned to be crying at a truck stop?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said. “Looks like you planned to be drinking cheap beer and lying to your parents. Or, well, that’s what I did on prom night.”
I sniffled.
“It’s the right season for it, and you’re about the right age, right?” he asked, squinting at me. “You’re, what, sixteen? Junior prom? Better luck next year?”
“Eighteen,” I said. “Senior prom. Only prom. Skipped last year.”
He winced.
“Hoping for a better night, I’m guessing.”
We sat there silently for another ten minutes or so.
“How do you plan on getting home?” he asked me.
“I said I had a ride,” I said.
“Yeah, but you’re not looking up when cars pass by. Most times, kids in places like this can’t wait to get the hell out of here. Their heads dart up at every set of headlights. Like little prairie dogs. You’re just glum as can be.”
“Are you some expert in sad teenagers at truck stops?” I asked. “Weird specialty, man.”
"Everyone needs a hobby," he said.
When I didn't say anything back, he pulled out a cigarette and old lighter and lit up.
“You know,” I said, “Those will kill you sooner or later.”
"So I've heard," he said. He took a deep drag and let it lovingly filled the air as he exhaled. "But you only live once, and quitting's a bitch."
"Why are you here?” I asked.
"Why am I sitting here with you, or why am I at this fine model of retail sophistication?" The stranger asked.
I shrugged "Either. Both."
"Answer’s the same. Why the fuck not? I'm here because I needed gas, I wanted to ride around and feel the wind and the night, but even a pretty slick hog needs something to run on."
He took a long pull on his cigarette and I tried not to cough. The man gave me a sidelong look and stubbed the ember out on the ground away from me. It was those eyes, those long fingers, that first drew me to him.
He used his hands like a man I'd seen on a class trip as a kid that somehow struck me. I had dreams about that conductor and the careful fast deliberate movements of his hands for months, maybe years. This stranger brought the fine deliberation of someone who made a career out of controlling an entire orchestra with his fingertips to even the simplest action.
I wondered what it would be like to have his fingers on my skin and shivered in my silly dress.
His eyes were a simpler story. They were plain gorgeous, huge and expressive and a little hooded. They invited you in on a joke while somehow telling you you’d never get the full story. His full mouth made jokes and promises of secrets that his eyes teased he’d never share. They made a girl like me want to tame them, want to be the focus of that stunning gaze. Eyes like that could fascinate anyone.
"Why am I talking to you? Again, why the fuck not? You looked sad and snotty and I thought you could use a friend for a minute. I don't always gets to be the nice guy. I figured I should give it a shot."
"Why don't you get to be the nice guy?" I asked.
He gave me a crooked grin and turned so I could see his face better in the dim light.
I gasped. I couldn’t help myself.
“I’ve had a rough week,” he said.
“Looks like it,” I managed. There was a fresh black eye spreading into bruising down his cheek and jaw, down to a pretty nasty buckled scar. Something hadn’t healed right.
This man was layers of fighting marks, I told myself. He was not who I should be spending my time with.
Of course, the guy from a good family my mother thought deserved a chance left me alone at a truck stop in a prom dress, and this guy gave me a handkerchief and made me smile.
Nate, that asshole, never made me smile. He didn’t stub out his cigarette when I started coughing, either, just rolled the window down.
“My mother is going to kill me,” I said.
He laughed.
“Now, that’s something I’ve said before. Is she really?” he asked.
I hesi
tated.
“No,” I said. I was still thinking about the man’s handsome, ravaged face. Answering on autopilot. “She thought Nate was a good guy, she made me go with him because she’s known him since he was a baby and thought he would be a good date. She’ll feel terrible.”
I gestured down at the sea green polyester around my knees.
“She even bought me this, when she didn’t want to spend the money on a dress from a store,” I said.
“So, she didn’t think you’d end up sitting here? Snotty?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes. “Why do you keep pointing out that I’m snotty and gross?” I asked.
“I’m trying to remind myself that I shouldn’t want to kiss you,” he said. “You’re eighteen and just had a shitty prom night. You’re so cute, though, that I sort of want to lean over and kiss you until you smile at me.”
I gaped at him.
“Are you serious?” I said.
I brandished the handkerchief at him, covered in snot and tears and mascara, crumpled.
“I thought we were having a nice moment!” I said. “I thought ‘hey, he sees a teenage girl at a truck stop in the middle of the night, but he’s not being a lech, people can surprise you’ but you’re… you’re… ugh!”
I tossed the handkerchief at his head and giggled at his startled face. I couldn’t help myself.
“I’m sorry!” I said. “I shouldn’t have done that!”
I couldn’t help but keep giggling, though. He looked so indignant, his mouth a dark O in his shadowed face.
Finally, he laughed. Threw his head back and let loose a real guffaw.
“I deserved that,” he said. “Flirtin’ with you when you’ve had such a shitty night.”
He stood up and reached a hand down to me.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you fed and take you home.”
I reached up and took the hand he offered me. My body thrilled at the touch of a warm male palm against my own slender hand, at the heat and strength of him.
He pulled me up easily and set me on my feet.
“Pretty dress,” he said.
I looked down and made a face, smoothing it out over my thighs. It had been a pretty dress, before I’d tripped. Now, it was the sad, muddy remnants of a pretty dress. I’d loved the delicate floral embroidery on the pale green. It made my eyes look brighter and my hair look awesome. Touches of gold in the threads winked and shimmered.
Even my mother, who had probably worn Doc Martins and jeans to her own prom, had told me that it was a beautiful dress.
“Thanks,” I said, glumly.
I held up my little gold clutch.
“Eggs?” I asked. I only had five bucks, but surely that would buy some eggs and toast at the diner.
He nodded and headed into the truck stop. We turned towards the diner, and sat in a booth right by the counter.
The light seemed harsh after the murky outside.
It didn’t flatter him.
He’d pulled up his hood, but I could still see the ugly bruise and the nasty scar. Without those, he would have been jaw-droppingly handsome. With them, he was captivating. Mysterious. Bad news.
He pushed a menu at me from the table.
“My treat.”
I shook my head. “I can pay.”
“Yeah, but I’m telling you you don’t have to. Order what you want or I’ll just get three of the most expensive platters they have.”
“A waffle,” I said. “I could murder a waffle. And eggs. Maybe some sausage.”
We ended up getting two of the biggest platters they had anyways.
“It’ll be a while,” the waitress said. “Chef’s asleep. I’ll go yell at him.”
We shrugged.
“Nowhere better to be right now, ma’am,” the guy said. I still didn’t know his name.
“How’d you get those?” I asked, nodding at him after the woman left, yawning.
“Don’t pull any punches, do you?” he asked.
“Well, I mean, I could pretend that they weren’t there. That would be the polite thing to do, right? But fuck it, it’s three AM on what was supposed to be my goddamn prom night.”
He leaned up and gently pressed a finger into the fresh bruise without wincing.
“This one? You should see the other guy,” he said. “Friendly fight between buddies. Took a few punches, threw a few punches, pounded our chests.”
His smile left his face as he absently stroked the scar.
“This one… I hope you never meet the other guy. Or anyone like him. I didn’t come off so good in that fight.”
“So, both fighting scars?” I asked. “Not, like, car wrecks?”
He shook his head and held out a wrist, pulling up the leather to show off a faded burn on his arm.
“This one’s from an engine,” he said. “Idiot new guy pushed me when I was working. Thought he was being funny. That count?”
I asked him what he was working on, and his eyes lit up as he went into an explanation of the finicky problem with a motorcycle’s internal workings.
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he finally asked.
“Nah, you lost me back there,” I said.
He gave me a half-smile.
“Sorry to ramble at you,” he said.
“I liked seeing you so excited,” I said. “I mean, I had no idea what you meant, but you really meant it, you know?”
“I think so,” he said, dubiously. “It’s been a while since I’ve had to translate teenage girl into human.”
I rolled my eyes.
“How old are you, anyways? What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” he challenged, as a man wandered over to the griddle behind us, rubbing his eyes and tying on an apron.
“You first!” I said.
“Merle,” he said. “I’m twenty-three.”
“Cool. Like the dude from the Walking Dead?” I asked.
It was his turn to roll his eyes at me.
“Like Merle Watson. You know, Doc Watson’s kid? The one who died?”
“Never heard of him,” I admitted. “Who’s Doc Watson?”
Without a word, Merle stood up and walked over to the jukebox. He fed quarters in with energy and precision, never fumbling like I would have.
By the time he sat back down, the strains of banjo and guitar were drifting through the room.
“I don’t wanna hear anything like ‘I don’t like country music,’” he said. “This is bluegrass, and it’s an education.”
It wasn't as bad as I feared. Not really my style, but it was okay.
The conversation was surprisingly easy.
I really enjoyed watching how excited he got when he talked about motorcycles, and after the night I'd had with Nate, talking to someone who seems to give a shit about what I have to say was refreshing.
When the sleepy man finally brought us our platters of food, I tore into my eggs.
"Didn't have a good dinner?" he asked.
"Not exactly," I said.
Merle looked a little uncomfortable.
"How pissed do I need to be at this guy?" he asked. "Like, was he a garden-variety tool bag who just tried to swing his dick around and you got fed up with each other, or did he try prom night date rape like a Class A tool bag?"
I eyed him.
"Hey, if you're adult and blunt enough to ask about my face, you're old enough to be asked. Sauce for the gander is totally good enough for the goose, or whatever."
"No," I said, "he didn't try to, um, he wasn't a Class A tool bag. Just a garden-variety kind. "
I thought about his friends, the guys he took me to show off… to? with? and I shivered a little.
"Pretty sure his buddies were Class A tool bags with cherries on top, but I didn't stick around to find out, and I wouldn't drink anything they gave me, and when we stopped here I refused to get back in the car. I had tried to get Nate to drop me off at home hours ago and he wouldn’t.”
"
Probably a good call," he said. "Teenage boys in herds are generally bad news. I should know."
"I don't think these were teenagers."
Longest Night (New Adult Biker Gang Romance) (Night Horses MC Book 1) Page 1
