Wasn’t long into their marriage before Lila Jane was of the mind they needed a young’un—something she’d known he’d never wanted.
And never would.
Her begging and pleading eventually turned into demanding and sobbing. Their hand-me-down life became a series of shattered dishes and broken dreams. Somewhere along the way, their young love had turned into old hate. And yet, when he’d walked in on her fucking his best friend, he’d learned the hard way that a heart could die even though it kept on beating.
Lila Jane had taken the house. Hell, she’d even taken his old pickup. And she’d sure as shit taken every last drop of his give-a-damn. In the end, Jason had given her what she’d wanted—a baby. Three of them all total. He’d also given her syphilis last Clyde had heard.
As for Clyde, well, he’d married the highway and never looked back.
And he’d been faithful to his asphalt bride ever since.
Until tonight.
Now, here he was, sitting in a rundown diner in the backwoods of West Virginia thinking about a girl he’d laid eyes on for all of five minutes.
“Shit,” he whispered, raking his fingers through his hair.
As he did, Eleanor returned with his beer and a frosted glass. “I’ll have the rest right out to you,” she said, setting it on the table before him.
“Thanks,” he murmured, pouring.
“Sure thing, sweetie,” she said and disappeared.
A half an hour later, he dropped his fork onto his thoroughly cleaned plate and stood. Pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, he tossed two twenties on the table and strode out, tugging his hat back on as he went. Though it wasn’t much cooler inside the diner, when he stepped outside, he could’ve cut the humidity with his pocket knife. He checked his watch as he headed for his rig. Almost ten. He’d finished just in time for the meetup.
As he neared his Freight Shaker, he looked around. The night was growing long in the tooth, but rigs were still rolling in. Some of the long-haul boys like himself would bed down until early morning, stealing a few precious hours of shut-eye, but others would come and go. He’d grown so used to the gravel growl of eighteen-wheelers over the years, it was nothing but a highwayman’s lullaby now. He saw a few long-legged girls walking the alleys between trucks, the tips of their cigarettes flaring in the dark. Saw a few drivers checking their rigs and taking piss breaks. Heard a few moans coming from the shadows.
But he didn’t see the redhead.
By the time he leaned against the back of his trailer to wait, his mood was foul. Had he passed her in the dark? Was she back there right now on her knees? Did some driver have his fist wrapped around that strawberry-blonde ponytail?
Thankfully, he spotted an old Ford truck pulling off the highway, its headlights bouncing as it straddled the potholes, and the task at hand derailed his darkening train of thought. Straightening, he waited with a neutral expression as the truck rolled to a gravelly stop in front of him. After a moment, the engine died a sputtering death and the headlights turned off.
Clyde’s face was a stone as he watched Amaleen Crouse get out. From the passenger’s side, a grim, silent man Clyde knew to be one of her cronies emerged. While, at first glance, the man appeared to be the bigger threat, it was Amaleen who held Clyde’s attention. In her fifties, ugly as sin, and cold-eyed, there was a ruthlessness about her that said she was the boss lady. She wasn’t pretty, but she made the best moonshine he’d ever tasted. More importantly, the best his buyers had ever tasted. Hundred-proof, crystal clear, and when you sipped it, it was like swallowing wildfire. Lit you up from the inside out and damn near melted your teeth. “Got my shipment?” Clyde asked, meeting her hard, gray gaze.
She nodded, her hat’s wide leather brim dipping over her eyes. “You got my money?”
Glancing at Grim and Silent, who looked on with disinterest, Clyde reached into his back pocket and pulled out a fat brown envelope, passing it to Amaleen. She took it with bony, dirty-nailed fingers and counted it with quick efficiency.
“Seven thousand,” Clyde said. “Seventy-percent cut, as always.”
Her thin lips curved, but she finished counting anyway and handed the envelope to Grim and Silent. “Can’t be too careful.”
Clyde inclined his head in agreement. “The hooch?”
She gestured with her chin, and he followed her around to the back of the wooden bed. Grim and Silent scanned the surrounding rigs and shadows for any prying eyes before joining them. After loosening the tie-downs, Amaleen threw off the tarp, revealing straw-stuffed crates containing neatly arranged jars of authentic West Virginia moonshine, their metal lids gleaming under the lot’s floodlights.
“Hundred gallons,” Amaleen said. “Same cut.”
Clyde took visual inventory of the jars and nodded. “Load it up.”
Satisfied, Amaleen motioned Grim and Silent, and together, the three of them made quick work of it. After Clyde unlatched his trailer doors, they had the batch loaded and secured within five minutes. That was the thing about working with Amaleen. Time was money. Get in, get done, and get out. Just the way Clyde liked it. Still, even though he’d been hauling her illegal-as-hell corn liquor for nigh on three years now, his unease lingered. As far as drivers went, he kept his nose clean. Obeyed traffic laws and weight limits. Maintained his rig. But shit happened. Every time he rolled out with a hot haul, he was one busted taillight away from losing everything.
Again.
As he hopped out of the trailer and closed its doors, their heavy locks clanking, Amaleen was waiting for him. He frowned. They didn’t do the whole take-care-see-ya-later bit. When they were done, they were done.
“Got something else I want you to deliver for me,” she said, holding up a nondescript paper bag. “Address is in the bag. Simple drop. No frills. Five grand in it for you.”
Clyde’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Deal was for the hooch. Nothing more.”
She shrugged. “Deals change.”
He didn’t know what she had in the bag, but it sure as hell wasn’t penny candy, and he didn’t dirty his hands or his conscious with the hard shit. He started to leave. “Not this one.”
“Aww, c’mon now, son,” she said, a hint of reprimand in her dry voice. “Don’t throw away good money. We both know nursing homes ain’t cheap.”
Clyde froze and turned around slowly. How she knew about Rose, he had no idea, but he wasn’t about to stand here and let some backwoods moonshine mama try to manhandle him. When he spoke, his voice came out quiet. Cold. “You might be a bad bitch where you come from, old lady, but around here? You ain’t shit. I signed on to haul liquor and that’s it. We clear?”
She considered him a long moment and then smiled a humorless smile, revealing a missing front tooth. Tipping her hat at him, she said. “Crystal. Always a pleasure doing business with you.” As she got in the truck, Grim and Silent following her lead, she added, “Same time next month,” before closing the door.
And then they were gone.
Clyde stared after them until their taillights disappeared, and then he turned away with a scowl. Climbing up into his rig, he sank into the driver’s seat, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He needed sleep. He ached like a motherfucker from driving all day. He needed to crawl his tired ass into the back and die for a few hours. Then wake up in the morning and gouge it. But damn it all to hell, there he sat.
Waiting.
Wondering.
Watching.
CHAPTER THREE
Shifty’s Petro & Go
Crownville, West Virginia
Mae sat on the sidewalk with a sigh, the keychain on her satchel jangling as it landed on the concrete. Even for a Friday, it had been one hell of a busy night. As she carefully smoothed and counted the assorted bills she’d collected, she was relieved to see she’d raked in close to a hundred bucks. While she wouldn’t be walking into Billy’s Auto Sales tomorrow morning and driving away in her Tempo, she was one step closer.
But, damn, was she tired.
In addition to tending the girls all night, she’d also done laundry for a few of the long-haul truckers, given one’s dog a bath, and filled in for Donny, the fry cook, for an hour so he could have a quickie with his girlfriend in the back of his station wagon. All in all, not bad. Satisfied and too exhausted to think about her ma, she stuck the money into the satchel’s inside pocket and zipped it up. Stretching out her aching legs, she leaned back, palms on the sidewalk and stared up at the night sky. It was cloudless and starless thanks to the haze of humidity. The moon didn’t fare much better, its pale, glowing face made blurry by the vapor. And still she loved it. It reminded her that there was more than this. More than Shifty’s. More than Crownville. And that, one day, she’d be looking up at that same moon from somewhere else.
As she sat there gazing up at it, she found herself absently wondering if he saw it, too.
The mysterious, rough-around-the-edges trucker who’d so obnoxiously bumped into her and then … what? Had he asked her on a date? She still wasn’t sure. She’d been replaying their strange conversation in her head all night, which was much better than replaying Desiree’s funeral. Who was he? Was he still on the lot? And, better yet, why was she still thinking about him? They’d interacted for all of five minutes. Yet, his rugged face, shadowed beneath the bill of his hat, kept reappearing in her mind, looking at her with those serious, dark eyes.
She forced her thoughts away from him yet again. He was undoubtedly in another state by now.
And he’d probably annoyed and flirted with girls at every truck stop along the way.
That was why her curiosity was piqued. She wasn’t used to guys flirting with her period. It wasn’t that she doubted her attractiveness. It was just that with girls like Roxy and Crystal and the others hawking their wares every night, wearing next to nothing and flying their come-hither flags, Mae usually went unnoticed. Oh, occasionally a guy would look her way, throw her a catcall or a wink, but for the most part, they let her be. Not that she was complaining. Hell no. She’d seen, heard, and smelled enough sex over the years to last her a lifetime. Ken was the only man in her life, and that suited her just fine.
And, yet, there was something about this guy that gave her pause.
Sighing, she debated whether to pack it in or wait out the stragglers. Shifty’s was open all night, which meant the girls would be working all night, which meant there was still money to be made. But she had an interview at the Double Dip Ice Cream Shack in just a few short hours. If she didn’t shut her eyes between now and then, she’d snore her way through the Q&A round, and she needed that job. The Double Dip was within walking distance of Shifty’s, and she could work there during the day and still work the lot at night. On top of saving for the Tempo, she knew it was just a matter of time before Ted started banging on her door for rent money. Between her earnings and the measly stash she’d found under Desiree’s mattress, he was paid up until next week, but after that? He’d give her the boot. Or worse. And she did not want to be in a position where she had to choose between a roof over her head and trading sex for money.
Yet the thought of going home to the empty trailer was almost unbearable.
Tears stung her eyes, which were already dry and red from all the crying she’d done, and she hurriedly stood, taking in a deep, shaky breath before they could fall. Coffee. She needed a coffee and maybe an energy drink. And maybe something with sugar. As she started for the convenience-store side of Shifty’s, though, she heard a faint cry.
Hesitating, she listened, the hairs on the back of her neck inexplicably standing on end.
Two drunk college guys were laughing about something over by the pumps. Josie, one of the working girls, was taking a smoke break by the pop machines, scrolling on her phone. Jerry was backing into the men’s room, pulling his yellow cleaning cart. Nothing seemed amiss. And hearing cries, gasps, moans, and grunts coming from the back lot wasn’t out of the ordinary.
Still, something about that particular cry had twanged her inner hold-up string.
Coffee forgotten, she headed in the direction she thought it had come from. She knew the lot itself like the back of her hand, but it was an ever-changing labyrinth of rigs, and as she got farther away from the lights and noise of Shifty’s, her unease grew. Most of the overnighters were already asleep, and aside from the distant music coming from the loudspeakers, the only sounds to be heard were the gravel under her boots and the occasional hiss of a rig’s pressure release valve.
Maybe she’d imagined it. Between her lingering headache and outright exhaustion, it—
She heard it again. Closer this time. And to the left.
Holding her satchel so it didn’t jangle, she moved that way, bending to look under trailers for any sign of who or what might have made the sound. When she spotted two sets of legs from the underside of a Kenworth’s trailer, she froze, mortified. It was only one of the girls and their john. Mae didn’t know whether to slowly back away or attempt to scale the side of a nearby rig in a panicked escape attempt. She’d just taken one painfully quiet step back, holding her breath, when a hollow clang rang out as if something had been banged against the trailer, followed by the unmistakable sound of choking.
Mae frowned. Hoping she wasn’t about to witness some weird, kinky sex, she bent down once more and peered under the trailer.
The first thing she recognized were Roxy’s red stilettos. Well, one of them. The other had fallen off and was lying on its side in the gravel. The other was still on Roxy’s foot, which was dangling in the air a few inches off the ground. A pair of men’s heavy boots strained as if he was struggling to hold something in place.
Something like Roxy.
Heart pounding, Mae raced around the back end of the trailer and skidded to a breathless halt on the other side, terror gripping her.
A big trucker had his hands wrapped around Roxy’s throat, pinning her to the trailer. Though Mae could only see half of his face, it was a mask of red fury, his jowls jiggling as Roxy fought to free herself, her eyes wide and terrified. Her mouth was stretched in a soundless scream, and raspy gagging noises came from her constricted throat. She clawed futilely at his iron fingers, her legs kicking open air. And even as Mae watched in horror, Roxy’s eyes rolled back, and her clawing grew sluggish. Her kicks slowed, too, her limp feet jerking spasmodically.
This wasn’t kink. He was killing her.
Time stood still. The blood rushing through Mae’s ears drowned out all else, and her heart was pounding so fast she could barely breathe. She knew, distantly, that if she didn’t do something right now, Roxy would die. It took Mae what felt like ages to reach into her satchel and pull out the 9mm her ma had given her for her sixteenth birthday. Keep it close, Maybelline, she’d said. Livin’ the life we do … well, it ain’t hearts and flowers, baby girl. The gun wasn’t registered, and the serial number had been filed off, but she cleaned it regular and knew how to handle it.
She didn’t bother with a warning.
It was too late for that.
Mae fired off two rounds in quick succession, the little Ruger kicking in her hands. The first shot missed, but the second got him in the ribs. He grunted and looked over at her. For a terrible moment, his face remained tight with murderous rage, but then shock bled into his features, and he looked down at his side in confusion. He was shirtless, and a small hole leaked dark blood down his fleshy abdomen. “The … fuck?” he asked in disbelief.
“Let her go,” Mae demanded, her voice unsteady
He did, though she suspected it had more to do with bewilderment than obedience. Roxy collapsed in a long-legged heap on the gravel, her head lolling to the side, arms splaying. The trucker stumbled, his bearded face growing angry again. “You shot me,” he said, taking two clumsy steps toward Mae.
Mae fired once more, letting out a cry of alarm when he fell forward, reaching out for her as he went.
He hit the gravel hard, his meaty arms boun
cing.
She kept her gun trained on him, her eyes painfully wide. Her breath sawed in and out, and she shook all over as she waited for him to get up again.
He didn’t.
The sound of heavy boots approaching fast had her lowering the gun, but she could do little more than stand there in frozen shock as Jerry rounded the corner, holding onto his hat to keep it from flying off. Even his lazy eye was wide as he surveyed the scene.
Though she was in a stunned daze, Mae locked the 9mm’s safety and hurried past him, landing clumsily on her knees beside Roxy.
“Roxy,” she demanded, rolling the unconscious woman onto her back. “Rox, wake up.”
Roxy’s eyeliner-smeared lids fluttered. Her voice came out in a whispered croak. “May … belline?”
“It’s me,” Mae assured her, returning the gun to her satchel. “Can you get up?”
“Don’t … know,” Roxy managed, but did just that with Mae’s help. Once she was upright, Roxy sat awkwardly, her back against one of the trailer’s tires. Her hair was in frizzy disarray, and her bottom lip was swollen and bloodied. Even in the dark, Mae could see the circle of bruises forming around her throat.
“Are you okay?” Mae asked.
Roxy brought shaking fingers to her bruises and took a deep, raspy breath. “I’ve had worse.” She cleared her throat as if it was difficult to speak. “I’ll live.”
Behind them, Jerry nudged the downed trucker with his boot. “He’s dead.”
Before Mae could process the implications of that, the sound of someone approaching distracted her. She froze, unsure whether to run or hide as a shadowed figure stepped around the back of the trailer.
It was him. Oh, God. The dark-haired trucker.
The one with eyes like coals.
Like Jerry had, the trucker took stock of the situation, his expression unreadable.
Panic gripped Mae, and she desperately tried to think of an explanation that didn’t involve her killing a man in cold blood. “I …”
Before she could stammer out something, however, Jerry strode toward the trucker. Jerry no longer looked dumbstruck. He looked single-minded. Cold. Focused.
Mother Trucker (Crownville Truckers Book 1) Page 3
