Mother Trucker (Crownville Truckers Book 1)

by Moxie Darling

  She glanced at him as if trying to gauge his sincerity. Finally, she returned her gaze to the road. “Some of them truckers come in their fancy rigs thinking they’re kings of the road. That they can do whatever they want. Hurt whoever they want.” She gritted her teeth. “They think those girls are disposable. That nobody will miss them.” Tears slipped down her cheeks, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “But it ain’t true. They leave people behind.”

  The ache in her voice made his gut clench. He didn’t know what it was about this girl that had him so twisted. All he knew was that the caveman in him wanted to protect her from whatever had dared harm her. He wanted to find it and kill it. Then kill it again. She might be a prostitute, but there was something so soft about her—so innocent—that it triggered his fuck-with-her-and-I’ll-end-you switch. Irrational as hell, but there it was. And she was right about the trucker vs. hooker food chain. Some drivers ignored them altogether, keeping their attention solely on the road ahead or the wives in their beds, and others paid for their services to ease the loneliness that only a highwayman knows. Then they tipped their hats and went on their way. Others, though, treated them like shit on their shoe. Clyde would know. He’d intervened more than once when he’d come across a driver roughhousing a lot girl. It was how he’d earned his CB handle.

  “You saved that woman’s life,” he told her. “She ain’t leaving nobody behind. Not tonight.”

  It took her a moment to reel in her emotions, but she finally nodded and looked at him with teary eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “For this. You don’t even know me.”

  He shrugged, her gratitude meaning more to him than it should have. “Don’t got to know someone to help them.”

  She considered him, then cleared her throat. “All the same.”

  He started to reply, but the CB crackled faintly with an incoming call. “Breaker one-niner. Bad Boy, you got your ears on?” a barely audible voice asked.

  Clyde hesitated, then turned up the CB’s volume and pulled down his receiver. Best to go about things as he normally would. “Yeah, driver, come on.”

  “Heard there are bears crawling in Crownville. Heads up. You still in town?”

  Clyde recognized the driver’s southern drawl and grinned a little. Roger Dodger was a sly, smooth-talking son of a bitch. And the closest thing to a friend Clyde had. After Jason, friends were way down on his priority list. Like, way the fuck down. But occasionally he ended up on the same lot as Dodger, and they’d throw back a few and shoot the shit for a while. Dodger’s real name was Lloyd Grubb, but he never missed the opportunity to remind Clyde of the meaning behind his handle. You gotta roger ’em at night and dodge ’em in the morning, Clyde. If you don’t, they’ll suck the life right outta you.

  Dodger always said it with a twinkle in his eye and a shit-eating grin, but Clyde would only grunt in reply, knowing firsthand just how true a statement it was.

  “10-4, Dodger,” Clyde said, driving with one hand while holding the receiver to his mouth with the other. “Thanks for the heads up. Rolled out early. Missed all the fun.”

  “Stopping in Bull City for a two-dayer. Hit me up if you’re down this way. We’ll get drunk on pussy.”

  Clyde wasn’t scheduled for any routes through Durham, North Carolina anytime soon, and he was glad. Explaining his green-eyed passenger to Lloyd would be a pain in the ass. Not only would the fucker be full of questions, but he’d do his damnedest to charm her legs open. But all Clyde said was, “Copy. Keep it between the ditches, you pencil-dicked bastard.”

  He could practically hear Lloyd’s grin. “Same to you, you worthless cocksucker. Dodger out.”

  Shaking his head, a faint smile playing on his lips, Clyde hung up the receiver. Glancing over, he discovered her staring at him with one eyebrow arched.

  “I don’t know which part of that conversation was more interesting,” she said and, though her eyes remained sad, amusement tinted her voice.

  “Yeah,” he said. “He’s all right for an asshole.”

  She laughed, and he liked the way it sounded echoing off the inside of his rig. “So,” she said, studying him. “Bad Boy, huh?”

  “Long story.”

  She turned a little in her seat to face him, the cat raising its head with a yawn. “We got nothing but time.”

  Laughing quietly, he said, “True. Was at a roadside rest outside of Galveston about fifteen years ago.” He shook his head, remembering. “Late. Hot as hell. ’Bout like it is now. AC was busted in my rig, so I was in a pissy mood from the get-go.” On the downhill, the Jakes rumbled below them like a growling dog. “Came up on some big, bruising sumbitch twice my size roughing up a working girl who looked like she was barely out of high school.”

  Beside him, Mae’s expression darkened.

  Shrugging, he said, “I took care of it.”

  Her brows rose. “Just like that?”

  “Roundabout,” he confirmed. “Broke the guy’s knee and his nose. Couple ribs, too. And let’s just say he probably still has trouble getting it up.”

  Clyde had bestowed a kick to the bastard’s balls that his great-granddaddy probably felt. It had been one of the most satisfying moments of his life.

  “And you?” she asked and then seemed to realize how her question sounded. Her embarrassment was almost audible. “I don’t mean … I just wondered if you got hurt is all.”

  Amused, he said, “Nah. Gave me a good shiner, but he paid for it.” Shifting gears, he glanced at her. “And no, I don’t have any trouble getting it up.”

  In the blue glow, her face reddened, but she ignored the comment. “So that’s how you got the name Bad Boy.”

  He turned back to the road, his grin deepening despite himself. He didn’t flirt. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d done it. Probably not since Lila Jane. These days, most of the women he saw were waitresses or weigh station techs. And he was all about the get done and get gone in either of those instances. The few times he’d paid for company, it had been strictly business. In and out, so to speak. But with her … he was curious. He wanted to make her blush. Make her laugh.

  Get her naked.

  All of which was unlike him. And completely jacked given the circumstances.

  “Yep,” he said. “Some oldtimer saw it go down and radioed about a bad boy driver laying it on some puke at the I-45 rest stop. It stuck.”

  She laughed. “Sounds like you earned it.”

  “Speaking of names,” he said. “Maybelline?”

  He didn’t know much about her other than the way she looked in a pair of cutoffs, but the name didn’t suit her somehow.

  It was her turn to shake her head, a sad smile on her face. “Guess you could call it my handle.”

  His grin faded, and he focused on the road. He hadn’t needed the reminder. All working girls used an alias. When you fucked strangers for money, you kept anything stalkable to yourself. It wasn’t that he judged her decision. It was just that it pissed him off for reasons that weren’t even remotely justifiable.

  “Old school,” was all he said, though.

  “Yeah,” she agreed, toying with the charm on the cat’s collar. Silence reigned for a moment, but then she said, “My real name is Mae.”

  He looked at her. Mae. Yeah, that fit. It was simple. Unadorned. Sweet. Like her. Glancing away, he said, “Clyde.”

  “Clyde,” she repeated. “Old school.”

  Laughing a little, he said, “Yeah.”

  “Too bad I’m not Bonnie, huh?”

  “No shit,” he said wryly. “We’ve got the outlaw thing down.”

  Smiling, she leaned her head against the window, gazing out. “Let’s try not to go out in a blaze of gunfire like they did, okay?”

  He smiled, too, and they drove on into the night, heading toward his fucked-up life and leaving hers behind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rising Creek

  Willington, Ohio

  Mae woke to the sound of Ken’s impatien
t meow.

  “Kenny,” she murmured, waving him away. “Stop it.”

  Ken, like most cats, ignored her and continued meowing and walking back and forth across her chest, feeling far heavier than he had any right to.

  Groaning, she rolled over and opened her eyes.

  And abruptly remembered.

  It all came rushing back in one overwhelming, groggy moment. Her ma’s funeral. Roxy’s pale, frightened face. The sound of Mae’s gun firing. The trucker’s stunned expression as he’d collapsed onto the gravel.

  And Clyde.

  Clyde with his dark voice and stern expression and reluctant smiles. Smiles that were like Christmas decorations that had been stored in the attic and forgotten for decades. Covered in dust but still pretty.

  Very pretty.

  Speaking of dusty, pretty smiles, where was he? And, for that matter, where was she? Sitting up and rubbing her eyes, she realized she was sprawled in a heap of sheets and blankets in the Freight Shaker’s sleeper. She still wore her T-shirt and cutoffs, though her boots were gone, and her socks looked dingy and worn in the early morning sunlight streaming through the windshield.

  At least, she assumed it was early morning. For all she knew, she’d been out for three days.

  Looking around the sleeper, she didn’t see much of … anything. It was sparse, with only some dirty laundry and an old, coffee-stained travel mug to prove someone slept here regularly. The bed was small but comfortable, and despite very much needing to figure out what lay ahead, all she wanted to do was curl back up in it and forget about life—and death—for a while. But life, like Ken, wouldn’t wait.

  “I’m coming, boy,” she said, sliding her legs over the bed with another yawn. God, she was tired. Not just physically but mentally, too. Although, drained was more apt. Drained of tears, fears, and, frankly, her give a damn. What else was there to worry over? Her ma was dead and buried. She’d killed a man and fled the law. She’d survived the night with a stranger. And her heart, though bruised and sore, was still beating. She’d get through this day. And the next one. And the one after that. Because that’s what she did.

  She found her things on the passenger’s seat, and after shoving her feet into her untied boots, she fished Ken’s tattered leash out of the bag and attached it to his harness. “Gotta pee, little man?” she asked him. Poor guy had gone who knew how long without relief and, going by the impatient switch of his tail, he was overdue. “Let’s go.”

  Squinting, she opened the door into a hazy, humid wall of daylight. She and Ken were greeted by the buzz of insects and the forlorn croak of a bullfrog somewhere nearby. Letting the cat bound out first, she hopped down after him, her boots landing in gravel. He immediately began sniffing and scratching dusty dirt alongside the weed-choked guardrail. As he took care of business, she gazed at their surroundings. Country road stretched in either direction as far as the eye could see. She didn’t recognize it. No houses around, and trees lined both sides of the road, giving it a tunnel effect. The Freight Shaker was parked on a curving patch of dried mud that served as a pullover spot. She spied a few beer cans laying in the weeds, and Bobby Loves Suzanne had been scrawled in faded permanent marker on the rusted guardrail. There was no sign of Clyde.

  A meow at her feet made her look down. Ken rubbed against her leg, looking up at her with feed-me-now eyes, purring extra loud for emphasis.

  “Okay, okay,” she told him and turned back to the truck. “Up you go.”

  Five minutes later, she climbed out of the rig, leaving Ken in the sleeper with a can of food she’d hurriedly shoved into her satchel during her escape, and closed the door. The truck was parked in the shade, and its interior was still cool from last night’s lingering air conditioner. Both the driver’s and passenger’s windows were cracked, so he wouldn’t overheat, and she didn’t want to take the chance of him escaping the leash in the middle of BFE. He was trained as far as cats went, but he was just that—a cat. In the end, they did whatever the hell they wanted anyway.

  Outside, she called, “Clyde?”

  When she got no response, she quickly tied her bootlaces, then walked around the rig, reponying her ponytail as she went. The trailer was deserted. “Clyde?” she called again with a frown, gazing down the road. Steam rose from the faded asphalt as the morning sun burned off the night’s dew, but nothing moved except a crow preening its feathers atop a mile marker.

  Heading back around the front of the rig, she noticed a worn path snaking through the trees on the other side of the guardrail. Glancing at the Freight Shaker once more, she sighed and climbed over the rail, the weeds scratching at her shins. It wasn’t long until she heard the unmistakable ripple of water. The croak of insects grew louder as she neared what turned out to be a wide, low creek, its clear water rushing over a bed of round stones. But that wasn’t what made her stop in her tracks.

  In the middle of said creek, which was dappled with sunlight filtering through the canopy of treetops, was Clyde.

  Naked … Clyde.

  Gloriously, unabashedly, un-look-away-ably naked Clyde.

  Good … God.

  The man stood in the moving water, which came only halfway up his bare ass. He was bent, splashing his face, and she could see the tattoos covering his back. Namely, an enormous, intricately detailed wilted rose, its black, decaying petals reaching nearly from shoulder to shoulder. The rose’s gnarled stem twisted its way down his spine in a mesmerizing way. It was … haunting. And beautiful. And not what she expected.

  As he turned, dragging his hands down his stubbled jaw, she got an eyeful of his chest. Lean. Hard. And wet. Unable to stop herself, her gaze followed the narrow ridge of muscles down, down, down to a dark show of hair just visible above the water. There were several other tattoos spanning his abdomen, but she was so stunned by the whole picture of him, she barely noted their presence.

  As if sensing her gaze, he looked up.

  Heat flooded Mae’s face, and she stammered, “I … I’m so sorry. I couldn’t find you and … I didn’t mean to …”

  His shock only lasted a moment before a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  The sound of his voice seemed to return her to her senses, and she turned away, squeezing her eyes shut. “I hollered. Loud.”

  “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Probably underwater.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, unsure whether to bolt or climb the nearest tree. “Where are we?”

  To her dismay, he didn’t immediately get out and get dressed. Instead, he just said, “About two hours outside of Cincinnati.”

  She nodded as if she’d actually processed the information. “Okay, I’ll wait for you in the rig.”

  “Water is clean and cold,” he said, and she could feel his eyes on her back. “Can’t beat it.”

  Her thoughts ground to a slow, gritty halt. Part of her wanted to take her embarrassment back to the rig at a dead run, but the other part of her … well, it had been a long damn night, and she could imagine worse things than getting in the water with a man who’d rescued her. Still, she wasn’t entirely out of her mind. “Don’t you have a load of freight to deliver?”

  “It’ll keep,” he said. “Ahead of schedule on account of last night.”

  Guilt swept through her. He’d probably driven straight through while she’d slept in his bed. She sighed. “You’ve got to be exhausted.”

  “I got a few hours this morning,” he said. “Going without sleep ain’t nothing new for me.”

  She didn’t doubt it. Most truckers she knew ran a ragged schedule. Rolling from one town to the next, subsisting on nothing but coffee and West Coast turnarounds. Regardless, she regretted being the cause. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “You didn’t hold a gun to my head.”

  Mae let out a bark of inappropriate laughter that sounded a little hysterical. She finally turned to look at him, shaking her head. “Really?”

/>   He had the decency to look slightly ashamed as he slicked back his wet hair with both hands, the muscles of his tattooed chest flexing. “Sorry. Sounded better in my head.”

  Hands on her hips, she just stared at him with an exasperated sense of amusement. She knew eventually the seriousness of what she’d done would catch up to her and she’d have to face the reality that she’d taken a life. It had been justified. She knew that. Even so, it wasn’t something you just swept under the mental rug and forgot about. But for now? She’d live in this strange, surreal moment and appreciate the distraction it provided.

  And what a distraction it was.

  He’d sunk into the water to his shoulders, but the way he was looking at her—as if she was as naked as he was—was almost as disturbing. He gestured with his chin. “Get in here. Better than some grimy mom-and-pop motel shower, trust me.”

  Her gaze landed on his discarded jeans, T-shirt, and boots, which were in a haphazard pile on the creek bank. “I …”

  Again, his mouth curved. “If I was going to molest you, don’t you think I’d have done it last night?”

  Her already-warm face grew warmer, but she had to agree. The last thing she remembered was leaning her head against the window. After that, it had been lights out. Dead to the world. He’d had every opportunity to rape and murder her. Yet he hadn’t. And her instincts, which were finely honed thanks to being the daughter of a prostitute, told her he was a decent guy. Still, that he was so clearly enjoying her embarrassment annoyed her. Yes, the sight of his bare ass had rattled her, but dammit, she’d grown up at Shifty’s. She’d seen and heard it all and then some. And she refused to be intimidated by him, no matter how naked he was.

  Or how good he was at it.

  Raising her chin, she met his gaze and unbuttoned her cutoffs, toeing off her boots.

  Clyde stilled, his eyes widening just a fraction.

  Inside her, satisfaction bloomed. There. She’d caught him off guard. She realized, however, as she stepped out of her cutoffs and pulled off her socks that, though she wore panties, she hadn’t worn a bra. He seemed to realize this at the same time because his expression became carefully neutral and he watched her reach for her T-shirt with a dark, almost-unnerving gaze.