She’d survived much worse than this, something that might seem impossible to those who didn’t live the way she did. Quite often, when her only shelter was the lip of a roof or a tree top, and she was forced to sleep up against a solid wall or a bark-roughened tree trunk, she would close her eyes and pretend she was in a warm bed, cocooned inside thick blankets, a fluffy pillow cradling her head. It didn’t always work, especially in more extreme weather conditions, but it worked enough that, even if it didn’t result in sleep, it served to occupy her mind.
What she did care about was that she’d just lost everything. Every single thing she had in this world—her canteen, her food, her money, her coat, all her clothing. They were all hard-won items to someone like her. Items that were now…just…gone.
Her heart fluttered, her chest filling with panic. What was she going to do?
If only she’d left well enough alone and hadn’t pushed her luck by searching through the rigs in the lot. She’d known this particular truck stop hadn’t been ideal. If only she’d stayed put inside the diner and waited out the night. Eventually she would have hitched a ride, New York City-bound.
She’d still have her bag, too.
She took a shuddering breath, a piss-poor attempt to calm her thundering heart, and began twisting the butterfly on her finger.
If she were a different girl, she guessed that maybe she would be crying right now. But she’d learned at a young age that tears didn’t change anything. Tears didn’t bring back the people you’d lost, they didn’t heal you when you were hurt or wipe away the ugly memories festering inside you. And they certainly didn’t replace bags that had gone missing.
The rainwater dripping from her sopping hair and rolling down her cheeks was as close to tears as she was going to get.
The flick and flash of a lighter drew her attention to the man beside her. Crouched on his heels, smoking a cigarette, he stared out across the dark highway.
He was hurt, too. He’d been favoring his left arm since they’d run from the truck stop, but he hadn’t mentioned it. He’d said very little to her actually, leaving her wondering if he blamed her for his current situation.
As if he could feel her eyes on him, his gaze found hers. He was half hidden in shadows; she stared at the only discernable feature she could see, the whites of his eyes. Brown eyes, she recalled. A dark brown that matched the rich shade of his hair and beard.
“Smoke?” Reaching across the space between them, he held out his cigarette in offering. She considered taking it—she could use a cigarette right now—but made no move to do so.
“I don’t bite,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. She didn’t respond and neither did she believe him. Everyone could and would bite. And she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he was capable of.
A gust of wind blew suddenly through their small hiding space, and as a shiver tore through her, she snatched his cigarette quickly and turned away. Taking a long, hard pull, she closed her eyes, relishing the warm burn in the back of her throat, wishing it would spread to the rest of her.
The wind continued to blow. Above, the rhythm of the rain seemed to intensify and echo against their cement shelter. She wiggled her toes, hating the feel of wet socks against her cold feet. Hating even more that she didn’t have a dry pair to change into.
“Nice weather we’re havin’,” he said dryly. The man was staring off into the darkness again, idly flicking his lighter.
She said nothing.
“Name’s Damon,” he continued. “But my friends call me Preacher.”
He paused, and she assumed he was waiting for her to introduce herself.
“So what do I call you?” she asked, “Damon or Preacher?”
“She speaks.” Feigning shock, he chuckled. “Saved your ass back there, didn’t I? I’d say that makes us friends.”
Wondering what exactly his definition of “friends” was, she began to question what he might want in return for saving her. Her hand jerked, reflexively reaching for her blade, only to recall she no longer had one.
“Thank yo—” Her voice cracked as her anxiety spiked. She cleared her throat, took a breath, and tried again. “Thank you… for what you did.”
Preacher shrugged, then hissed. His features pinched with pain, he slowly rotated his shoulder, rubbing the area just above his bicep.
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Naw. Banged up is all.”
Flicking his lighter, he held the flame up between them. Scanning her face, his gaze paused on her mouth. “Are you hurt?”
She guessed her lip was swollen. She’d tasted blood, and she could feel her pulse pounding beneath the thin, sensitive skin. But hurt? Ha. If he considered a split lip worth a second thought, he must have a very rosy view of the world.
“I’m fine.” Finishing her cigarette, she flicked the filter into the rain.
A round of thunder rumbled above them; a bright white flash zigzagged across the sky. Another shiver tore through her body and she squeezed her eyes shut.
“Soon as the rain stops I can give you a lift somewhere…” Preacher trailed off, leaving his offer hanging between them.
She glanced at his motorcycle, eyeing it with trepidation. She’d never ridden on one before, but she’d never refuse a ride. Her gaze moved to the duffel bag strapped across the handlebars, and she wondered what was inside—what might be of use to her.
Her first priority was to replenish her supplies. Empty-handed, she’d take whatever she could get: clothing, money, food. Some things, such as her canteen, were going to be harder to replace. Others were irreplaceable.
The photograph. Knowing she would never see it again, her heart seized.
She took a breath. Released it. Took another. Released it. She didn’t need the picture. Her father’s face was forever burned into her memories. She had only to close her eyes to see that wide, handsome smile. And once she had the paper and pencil to do so, she would draw it from memory.
Chapter 6
Preacher pulled his motorcycle off the quiet highway, slowing to a stop. Toeing his kickstand down, he pushed his goggles up over his head and eyed the nearly empty parking lot. Aside from a beet-red Plymouth Avenger, they had the place to themselves.
Glancing up at the dark gray sky, he guessed it was around four or five in the morning. His thoughts wandered back to his apartment, where his watch was sitting on top of his dresser. He hadn’t bothered putting it on before he’d left. Time was for men who had something to do.
Shivering violently behind him, the girl gripped his shoulders and attempted climbing down. She hadn’t ever ridden on a motorcycle before; her death grip on his middle had told him as much. And with her wet and torn clothing and lack of protective eyewear, he couldn’t imagine a less enjoyable first ride.
Slim, wind-reddened hands removed the helmet he’d given her to wear, revealing a matted mass of messy, knotted hair. Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned in a slow circle, surveying the area with a calculating, determined eye.
He’d been right about her—there was no doubt in his mind that she was a street rat. And if he hadn’t already guessed as much at first glance, the fact that she’d sat on the side of the road in the dead of night, in the pouring rain no less, and hadn’t complained once would have told him she was used to shit conditions such as this.
“I’m gonna get a room,” he said. Standing, he swung his duffel over his shoulder. “You want to grab a shower and some shut-eye, you’re welcome to it.”
• • •
The motel offered your standard middle-of-nowhere room, with dark brown wall paneling and a yellowed popcorn ceiling. Two beds were stationed to the right, with a small night table nestled between them. A lime green rotary phone, a small flip clock, and a cheap-looking lamp covered the table.
A square, squat table sat on the left side of the room with one rickety-looking chair. A short ways back stood an antique-looking desk with a small televisi
on on top. And near the very back of the room, by the bathroom, was a six-drawer dresser that looked nice enough to have been taken straight from someone’s home.
Keeping the door propped open with his boot, Preacher tossed the key onto the bed closest to him and gestured for the girl to enter.
She turned sideways as she slid inside, being especially careful not to brush up against him.
Jesus, did she think he was a half-crazed lunatic just waiting for the right moment to pounce on her?
“You want the first shower?” he asked. Taking a seat, he kicked off his boots. Next, he peeled off his waterlogged socks and grimaced at the sight of his cold, red feet.
“You go ahead.”
Preacher glanced up and found the girl pressed against a wall, arms wrapped around herself. Catching her gaze, he lifted an eyebrow, and she looked away quickly.
Whatever. Preacher didn’t need to be told twice. Cold, wet, and miserable, he headed for the bathroom.
Shut inside the tiny space, he carefully slid out of his jacket and began cautiously probing around his shoulder and arm. He could move it well enough, bend it just fine, but he had one hell of an ugly bruise starting to form. He continued poking the swollen skin, guessing that he had some minor muscle damage, too. He rolled his eyes. It was a good thing Red swung like a girl or else he’d be nursing a broken bone right now.
As he moved toward the shower, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror and paused. Bloodshot eyes and a menacing scowl stared back at him. His riding goggles were half hidden in his mess of tangled hair.
His scowl bled slowly into a smile.
He did, in fact, look like a half-crazed lunatic.
Chapter 7
Wrapped in a towel, she took a seat on the edge of the tub and sniffed at her shoulder, inhaling the fresh, sharp scent of her skin. Then her hair, breathing in the citrusy scent. Quick cleanups with bars of soap in public bathrooms could hardly compare to hot showers and actual shampoo.
On the shower rod above her dangled her freshly scrubbed clothing. Most of the buttons on her flannel were missing, and her T-shirt had been torn open several inches down the middle. Two pathetic strips of stained cotton covered in holes were all that remained of her socks.
That was it—this was all she had left.
Moving to the door, she pressed the side of her face against the wooden surface, listening.
Earlier Preacher had strode from the bathroom in dry clothing with his long, wet hair combed, looking clean and refreshed. He’d barely spared her a second glance as he’d flipped on the television set and settled himself on one of the beds. Feeling awkward and uncomfortable, she’d wasted little time hurrying inside the bathroom.
She’d been so anxious to get away from him, anxious to be clean, excited for a hot shower, that she’d given little thought to what she’d wear afterward.
Glancing down at her towel, she blew out a heavy breath. She supposed it didn’t actually matter what she was wearing, as she was already planning on taking it off.
From the moment Preacher had offered her his room, a plan had begun to take shape. She had nothing but the torn, stained clothing hanging over the shower rod. In all her time on the road, she’d never been quite this desperate. So desperate, she was finally willing to do something she’d promised herself she would never do.
Swiping her hand across the fogged-over mirror, she leaned forward to inspect herself. Though there was nothing outwardly off-putting about her, there was nothing remarkable, either. And she certainly didn’t look anything like the puffed-up prostitutes always hanging around truck stops.
She couldn’t even remember the last time her hair had been cut. Dark brown, it hung in a straight line down her back. And she had no makeup to cover the smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks, nothing to help her appear more polished, more feminine. More desirable.
Realizing she was procrastinating, she dropped her hand and turned to the door. The moment she gripped the doorknob, her heart quickened.
Straightening her spine, she took a deep breath and released it slowly. What did she have to fear? It wasn’t as if she were a virgin. She knew exactly how to spread her legs and let a man do his thing between them—how to lay there with her eyes squeezed shut, pretending she was someone else, somewhere else.
She opened the door.
The noise from the television grew louder as she padded across the rough carpet. Preacher was sprawled across a bed, pillows stacked up behind him, with his hand inside a bag of potato chips. At the foot of the bed, his open duffel bag revealed several more bags of snacks. She stared at the food a moment, her stomach twingeing in response.
“Hungry?” Preacher asked around a mouthful, glancing sideways at her. He pushed the chips across the bed. “Help yourself.”
Hungry and exhausted, she wanted nothing more than to eat and sleep and forget the wretchedness of her current situation for a little while. Except she couldn’t. She had more than just right now to worry about.
She took a small step forward, bringing her flush with the side of the bed. She swallowed hard and took an imperceptible breath.
“It’s thirty dollars for a fuck.” The words toppled from her mouth in a hurried rush.
Pausing mid-chew, Preacher turned to face her, his brow shooting halfway up his forehead. The next several seconds ticked by slowly in agonizing silence. Worried he was going to reject her offer, she steeled her shattered nerves once more and dropped her towel.
Preacher’s gaze dropped with her towel, unabashedly traveling down the length of her and back up again, where he lingered on her chest. Her face grew hot; her entire body flushed. Unable to watch him look her over, she turned her focus on the olive green curtains covering the window.
Oh God, was she really doing this? Offering herself to a stranger in return for money?
“Sorry baby, I don’t pay for it.” Her eyes shot to his. His words were gently spoken, his expression curiously blank, as if he were concerned about offending her.
Too late for that. Hot humiliation flooded her. Mortification churned nauseatingly in her stomach.
“Twenty,” she whispered, desperate. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Or ten if you want me to just… you know…” She swallowed quickly. “Just use my mo—”
“How old are you?”
She stammered to a stop. “What?”
“How old are you?” he repeated. He was no longer looking at her body. Instead, his eyes were fixed on hers, which somehow made her feel twice as naked. Hurriedly she scooped the towel off the floor and quickly wrapped it around herself.
“Nineteen,” she mumbled.
The corner of Preacher’s mouth twitched. “You’d make a terrible poker player,” he said. “Forget that I don’t pay for it. It doesn’t take a genius to know you ain’t a whore. You ain’t nineteen, either.”
Grabbing his duffel bag, he dug around inside, pulling free a ball of red and black flannel. “Take this,” he said, tossing it. Clinging to her towel, she caught it one-handed.
Preacher pointed at the bag of chips. “And eat something.”
Half of her, her emotional half, wanted nothing more than to run back to the bathroom. But the logical half of her, the half that knew clothing and food were far more important than her dignity, dug her heels in.
She slid Preacher’s shirt around her, his scent engulfing her—a combination of cigarettes, soap, and leather.
Listen,” Preacher said. He’d moved to the edge of the bed, his feet on the floor. He ran his fingers idly through his short beard. “You just lost all your shit, and I’m not unsympathetic to that. Why don’t you tell me where you’re headed? Maybe I can give you a ride there?”
“Why are you helping me?” she blurted out. Nobody had ever been this kind to her before. No one had even been half as kind, not without wanting something in return. And yet he didn’t seem to want anything from her.
Preacher’s almond-shaped eyes regarded her,
an indecipherable expression steeling his striking features. She couldn’t read him, couldn’t discern what she was seeing inside those dark depths. Men, she’d come to believe, were usually simple creatures, almost always some variation of three distinctly obvious things: angry, tired, or horny. Only this man seemed far more complicated than that.
“I’ve got nowhere I need to be right now.” Simple, direct.
“I grew up on and off the road,” he continued with a shrug. “Not too many places I haven’t been, know a lot of people just like you.
“Fact, my mom was a grifter.” His mouth was twitching again. “She was workin’ at a traveling circus when my old man found her.”
“The circus?”
Snorting softly, Preacher shook his head. “The damn circus. Tattooed ladies, strongmen, a two-headed man. Some real freak show kinda shit.”
Enthralled, she found herself sitting on the bed. “What did your mom do?”
“She was a fortune teller. Had a goddamn crystal ball and everything, swindling people out of their money in return for some lies about findin’ love or makin’ it rich.” He paused to laugh, a rich baritone rumble that made her feel equal parts warm and uncomfortable.
“She’s got a way about her, ya know? The woman could sell a glass of water to a drownin’ man. My old man likes to say that’s how she got her hooks in him; told him he’d never find another woman as beautiful as her. But he says it’s the best fifty cents he ever spent.”
“They sound really great,” she said quietly. He’d painted a very captivating and colorful picture of his parents, especially his mother, in only a few short sentences.