Mother Trucker (Crownville Truckers Book 1)

by Moxie Darling

  She was right. He knew that. They had no business being together. He was the farthest thing from boyfriend material, and her life was in ruins. And, hell, the last thing he needed or wanted was a relationship. But … damn. Something about her had crawled inside him and dug in claws. She’d infested him. She was soft and beautiful and innocent. He wanted to protect her. Save her. Have her. And when her temper turned her cheeks pink and her eyes wild? He wanted to fuck her.

  Sighing, he looked over at Mae. She’d fallen asleep some miles back, and her arm, pale and slender, hung off the armrest. The cat was curled in her lap, watching him lazily. Despite Clyde’s earlier objections, he had to admit—reluctantly—that the animal wasn’t bad. For a cat. It hadn’t marked its territory or clawed the seats. And it comforted Mae. Every time she held it, that dark cloud hanging over her dissipated a little. Clyde wasn’t looking to start a cat collection anytime soon, but he decided he was okay with Ken.

  As the truck’s engine cooled, Clyde frowned, his thoughts like weeds he thought he’d pulled long ago. Mae was beautiful. There wasn’t anything flashy about it. It was the kind of beauty that made you want to smile. Made you want to make her smile. Lila Jane had been sixteen and sweet in all the right places, and she’d known it. She’d been beautiful, too, but it had been a beauty entirely dependent on circumstance. The moment shit didn’t go her way? No amount of blonde hair and blue eyes could save that ugly. Mae, though, she was beautiful at peace or war.

  As if sensing his gaze on her, she stirred, opening her eyes and yawning, stretching her arms over her head.

  Clyde looked away, clearing his throat. “We’re here.”

  Sitting up, she peered out the truck’s windshield, the cat standing on her lap, arching its back in an unhurried stretch. “The nursing home,” she murmured, gazing at the low brick building with its simply landscaped but well-maintained lawn. An arched wooden sign with the words Willow Brook Convalescence Facility carved in swirling script stood in the trimmed grass, a neat bed of mulch and shrubs surrounding it. Willow Brook wasn’t the biggest by any means, but it was the best in the area. It wasn’t grossly understaffed like most he’d looked into, and they served home-cooked food. Not the gray, tasteless shit he’d seen on trays at other homes. Rose might be mentally and physically disabled, but her taste buds were fine, and he’d be damned if she was served anything he himself wouldn’t eat. It was why he resorted to working with lowlifes like Amaleen Crouse. The bank he earned from selling the woman’s moonshine kept Rose in Willow Brook.

  “Yeah,” he said, staring at the building. A nurse in lavender scrubs was pushing an elderly man around in a wheelchair, leaning over his shoulder and pointing at a nearby bird bath. Even from across the lot, Clyde saw the old man’s milky eyes light up when he noticed the two blue jays perched on the concrete bath’s rim, ruffling their feathers and splashing about.

  “It’s nice,” Mae said, smiling a little as she, too, watched the old man’s delight.

  Clyde gazed at her. The few times he’d taken Lila Jane to see Rose, it had been like pulling teeth. His then-wife had stood stiffly the entire time, arms crossed, mouth pinched, and she’d never come within ten feet of Rose. Mae, however, seemed surprisingly at ease. There was no revulsion or dread in her expression, just mild curiosity. Clyde relaxed, taking the keys out of the ignition. “Moved her here a while back. They’re great with her.”

  Mae nodded. “Peace of mind probably goes a long way considering you’re gone so much.”

  “Hell of a long way,” he agreed.

  Scratching Ken’s ears, she glanced at Clyde. “Think she’d like to meet Kenny?”

  Clyde blinked, stunned. “Yeah, I think she would.”

  “Good,” Mae said, finding the cat’s leash and clipping it to its harness as she talked to it. “You need to stretch your little leggies anyway, don’tcha, boy?”

  Ken meowed in response, his tail vibrating with excitement.

  Clyde stared at Mae in a kind of wonder. Not only was she willing to meet Rose, but she was willing to take the damn cat, too—something Rose would absolutely love. “Cat won’t be scared of all the people?”

  Hand on the door, Mae gave him a look. “He’s a truck-stop cat. He ain’t scared of anything.”

  Clyde grinned. “Probably not.”

  They climbed out into the afternoon heat. Clyde waited with his hands in his pockets as she let Ken do his business, then together they made their way inside. They were greeted by air conditioning and the lemony smell of disinfectant as they entered the lobby. It was a beige wonderland of neutral tones and pleasant décor. To the left was a sitting room with a fish tank and a flat screen. I Love Lucy was playing, and a few white-haired, wheelchaired ladies were parked in front of it, watching and knitting. A curved reception desk waited directly in front of Clyde and Mae, overhead fluorescent lighting shining down on the two women stationed at computers.

  Mae bent to pick up Ken, glancing down at her wrinkled T-shirt and cutoffs with a frown as if just considering what she wore.

  “Stop it,” he told her. “You look fine.”

  She looked goddamned beautiful.

  Glaring at him, she whispered, “I look like I killed a man, then had rough sex with a total stranger and neglected to bathe after.”

  Clyde laughed. Too loud. It was as absurd as it was true. “These people change bedpans for a living. I doubt they care what you’re wearing or how you smell.”

  She blanched and sniffed her T-shirt. “Do I stink? Oh, God.”

  Grinning, he led her toward the desk. “C’mon.”

  A familiar smile greeted them as they approached, the nurse’s plump, dark face brightening at the sight of Clyde. “Now, see I told the girls you’d be coming,” Retta said, looking at the other nurse. “Didn’t I, Sue? I said, now that handsome Clyde Honeycutt is due to visit that sweet sister of his any day.” She made an mmm-hmm noise and turned back to Clyde. “I did.”

  He laughed. “Hey, Retta. How you doing?”

  She waved her hand, adjusting her considerable girth in the unfortunate office chair. “Oh, I’m doing, you know.” She looked at Mae, her eyes lighting up. “And who’s this pie slice?”

  “Hi,” Mae said politely, holding a curious Ken in her arms. “I’m Mae. Clyde’s …” She hesitated and finished, “Friend.”

  If it was possible, Retta’s eyes twinkled even more, and she gave Clyde a knowing glance. “Clyde’s friend, huh?”

  Ignoring the shameless woman’s insinuation, he asked, “How’s Rose today?”

  “Oh, she’s good. She’s good,” Retta said, her amused expression telling him she hadn’t missed the deflection. “You know how she loves meatloaf day.”

  The other nurse, one Clyde had only met a few times, stood and leaned across the counter, her elbows resting on the granite. “Who’s this adorable little fella?”

  “This is Ken,” Mae said, smiling when the cat pushed his nose into the nurse’s hand. “I hope it’s okay for him to come in.”

  “Well,” Retta said conspiratorially, “technically only certified service animals are allowed, but I think we can make an exception just this once.”

  Ken, an apparent ladies’ man, allowed Retta and Sue to pet him senseless.

  “Rose in her room?” Clyde asked.

  “She sure is, baby,” Retta said, adjusting her glasses, the attached beaded chains tinkling. “Having a good day, too. She’ll be happy to see you.”

  Clyde let out a breath, relieved. For whatever reason, he wanted Mae to like Rose. And vice versa. And that would be a helluva lot more likely if Rose wasn’t having a “bad day.” He nodded and said, “Thanks. We’ll head on back.”

  “You’re a good man,” Retta said matter-of-factly before turning her attention to the ringing phone and answering, “Willow Brook Convalescence. How can I direct your call?”

  The other nurse smiled at them and went back to her desk.

  “Come on,” Clyde said to Mae and led her to
the left, down a hall lit from above by skylights. As with the rest of the facility, it was bright, airy, and clean, and as they passed by patients’ rooms, he glimpsed neatly made beds and cozy furniture. Despite the agreeable accommodations, he still hated seeing the old folks sitting inside, gazing out their windows with vacant expressions. All the friendly staff and knitted blankets in the world wouldn’t make it home. At least Rose didn’t know what world she was in. Most of these old ones were just that—old. They knew where they were and how long they’d be there. A good many of them would die alone. Forgotten. He’d never let that happen to Rose.

  Her door, the last on the left, was open, and Clyde let Mae go in first. Like the other rooms they’d passed, Rose’s was tidy and bright. And full of girly shit. He’d made a habit of bringing her a new trinket every time he came, and the various porcelain dolls, stuffed animals, and crystal figurines were displayed on shelves and tabletops. A lavender quilt that he’d picked up at an Amish roadside stand in Kentucky last year was tugged across her bed so crisply he figured he could bounce a quarter off it. And though the air smelled faintly of disinfectant, the pleasant scent of lilacs lingered, thanks to the vase of fresh-cut blooms atop the dresser—something he insisted on.

  Rose sat strapped in her top-of-the-line wheelchair, facing the window, lit by the afternoon sunlight. As always, he wondered what she’d look like—what she’d be like—had she not fallen that day. Would she be funny? Serious? Athletic? Would she smile a lot? Or would she mirror his seemingly permanent frown? What would her favorite book be? Her favorite season? Would she have been the class valedictorian? But he would never know any of those things. Despite years of physical therapy, being quadriplegic had taken its toll on her body. Her muscles hadn’t been given the opportunity to strengthen—not like a normal running, jumping, climbing kid’s would have—and she was pale, thin, and sunken as a result. Though she was twenty-three, she had the build of an adolescent, and her hair, dark like his, was kept in a short, easy-to-manage bob, which made her look almost childlike. Her wheelchair’s neck support kept her head from lolling to the side, but her mouth still hung slack, her gaze distant.

  Clyde walked over to her and kneeled by her side, regretting not bringing her a gift. It was the first time he’d ever forgotten. “Rosie,” he said quietly, taking her limp hand in his. “It’s Clyde.”

  Though she wasn’t able to form coherent sentences, she found other ways to express herself. He’d never known if she understood that he was her brother, but her joy upon seeing him was absolute. It never failed to make him both thankful and unworthy. Today, she smiled as much as she could manage, a moan of happiness coming from her open mouth. Her brown eyes focused on him, and she moved her head back and forth as if excited.

  He glanced at her hand. It was fragile and cool to the touch, but the nails were painted a startling neon pink. “Did you pick this color?” He arched a brow and held up the hand in question to show her the nails. “I should’ve brought my sunglasses.”

  Though he doubted she knew what he was asking, she let out another excited noise and looked at him with the delight of a child.

  He shielded his eyes dramatically as if blinded by the garish nail polish, smiling a little when she bobbed her head, thrilled by his antics. It was a small thing, the nails, but he fucking loved the staff for it, and he knew without looking that her toes were painted, too. That extra mile was one reason why he’d chosen this place.

  He could feel Mae’s gaze on him, and he hesitated. Would she be afraid? Or, God help him, repulsed? Mae wasn’t Lila Jane, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t react similarly. Rose was having a good day, but he knew seeing her was difficult all the same. Hell, it was difficult for him. He could be the biggest, baddest big brother in the world, and it still wouldn’t be enough to fix Rose. She was broken, and she always would be. She was alive, but she wasn’t. And that scared the hell out of people because it reminded them of their own mortality. Their own fragility. Of just how easily they could break, too.

  But, in the end, Mae did what Lila Jane had never done—she treated Rose like a human being.

  “Hi, Rose,” Mae said, coming around to face her. “I’m Mae. Clyde’s friend.” She smiled and glanced at the cat. “And this is Ken.”

  Though Rose was always thrilled by new faces, Mae might as well have been chopped liver compared to Ken. Rose’s eyes widened, and she let out an overjoyed moan, and Clyde knew that if she’d been able to move her arms, she would’ve reached for him. To the cat’s credit, it only twitched its ears in response to the outburst.

  “Doubt she’s ever seen a cat,” Clyde said, laughing quietly. He knew the facility sometimes brought in dogs but never cats.

  Mae smiled and set Ken carefully on Rose’s lap. Clyde tensed, but the cat only stared quizzically at Rose, giving her nose a tentative sniff. Rose bobbed her head, laughing in her loud, moaning way. The cat’s ears tilted in alarm, but it stayed put, glancing up at Mae as if for reassurance. Mae murmured soothingly to him, stroking his back, and it was apparently enough to satisfy because he began casually cleaning his paw as if he wasn’t in an unfamiliar place full of unfamiliar smells and sitting on the lap of an overly excited quadriplegic girl.

  Clyde decided then and there that if the damn cat wanted to scratch the rig’s interior to ribbons, he’d let him.

  “Ken is a gentleman,” Mae told Rose. She took Rose’s manicured hand and raised it to the cat’s head. “He won’t mind if you pet him.”

  Rose went utterly still, her eyes widening to comical proportions. She stared in fascination as Mae “petted” Ken with her hand. Ken ate up the attention, closing his eyes and leaning his head into the touch, his purr reverberating throughout the room. Rose watched her fingers move over the cat’s silky fur, and, to Clyde’s horror, a tear slid from the corner of her eye. He started forward, but Mae glanced at him and said quietly, “She’s okay. She’s happy.”

  He frowned and looked at Rose. Studying her face, he decided Mae was right. Rose may not be able to express herself like a normal person, but she got the point across. Her eyes, though shimmering with tears, shone with joy, and she practically glowed with adoration. She moaned again, more quietly this time, her gaze riveted on the petting, and Clyde relaxed. And, for more reasons than one, he was thankful that Mae Harrison had ended up in his rig.

  “He’s soft, isn’t he?” Mae asked Rose, then brushed Rose’s hand over the tips of Ken’s whiskers. “And he’s got very nice whiskers.”

  Ken twitched his nose, wiggling the whiskers in question, and Rose let out an enthusiastic howl, shaking her head.

  And that’s how they spent the afternoon. Laughing. Talking. Smiling. Clyde often found himself staring at Mae. She was so good with Rose. Like it came naturally to her. She spoke to Rose like she’d speak to anyone, even though Rose couldn’t respond in kind. Mae was at ease, which put Rose at ease, which put Clyde at ease. He loved his sister, but he knew that his devotion was no substitute for female companionship. And, while the nurses at Willow Brook were worth their weight in gold, at the end of the day, they weren’t Rose’s friends. They were her caretakers. Witnessing Rose interact with Mae made him realize just how vital that bond was. Just how much Rose had been missing.

  By the time the evening sun glinted amber off the window, Clyde was sprawled in one of the lounge chairs, his elbow casually resting on its arm, knuckles at his mouth, while he watched Mae put the finishing touches of mascara on Rose’s eyelashes. Ken, after thoroughly exploring every immaculate inch of the room, was curled into a ball, sound asleep at the foot of Rose’s bed. At some point, one of the nurse’s had brought in a bowl of water and a plate of chicken breast for him. The water he’d ignored, but the chicken had disappeared, and the nap had promptly followed. Madonna’s “Material Girl” played on the radio in the windowsill, and Mae sang along with it dramatically, drawing delighted sounds from Rose. Mae had insisted he find a station dedicated to eighties music, which was her favorite
. And, apparently, Rose’s, too. He’d never seen his sister so … light. So happy. Between Mae, the music, and the cat, Rose had forgotten all about Clyde. He smiled behind his knuckles. He’d take a back seat any damn day of the week for this.

  Satisfied with her handiwork, Mae stepped back and recapped the mascara. Then, digging a handheld mirror out of her satchel, she held it up to Rose’s face. “You look beautiful, Rose. Like a true material girl. Doesn’t she, Clyde?”

  She did. Mae had given her just a touch of color on her cheeks and lips, and her eyelids had been dusted with a lavender shadow that brought out the chestnut in her irises. He was almost able to envision what she might have looked like had she been vibrantly alive, laughing and talking like any other woman her age. He didn’t know if she understood the concept of beauty, but seeing herself in the mirror with makeup on gave her a thrill. She moaned and wobbled her head, staring at herself with wide eyes.

  “Sure does,” Clyde agreed, standing and stretching his back.

  At the sound of his voice, Rose turned her head a little, her neck rest preventing her from twisting further. Mae smiled up at him, returning the makeup and mirror to her bag as he walked over. “Pretty as a picture,” he said to Rose, clearing his throat and wishing again and again and again that he hadn’t ruined her life. Her young, ended-before-it-began, beautiful life. “Retta will be chasing the boys away.”

  Rose moaned happily at him just as an aide entered the room carrying a food tray. The woman, a short, perky blonde smiled and set the tray on Rose’s rolling over-the-bed table. “Dinner time,” she said, wheeling the table over to Rose. “Meatloaf. Your favorite.” Glancing at Clyde and Mae, she added, “How’s she doing tonight?”

  Clyde nodded in greeting, recognizing her as Jenny, one of the evening-shift aides. He’d met her a time or two during his visits. She always wore a genuine smile and a cheery scrub top. Today it was covered in rainbow hearts. “Doing good. Got a makeover.”