Page 26 of Truck Stop Tempest
I nodded in agreement. Several months back, Aida and Tucker had trouble with a group of white supremacist dickheads at The Stop. Jonas Carver, the group’s apparent leader, had been arrested in Seattle on unrelated charges and there hadn’t been any trouble since.
“This Erik guy tied to Carver?”
“They belong to the same damn church. The Christian Brotherhood of Faith in Rockypoint.”
“Think Tuuli knows?”
“I suspect she does, although she hasn’t said a word about it. I’ve seen her around the guy. She’s scared shitless of him.”
“Send me his specs. I’ll pass them on to the security team, make sure he doesn’t step foot in the door again.”
Tango was overzealous when it came to Slade and her safety. Case in point: The security team he’d hired to watch the diner. The Stop had seen its share of trouble recently, so I couldn’t fault his motivation.
“Appreciate it.”
“Listen. I don’t know our little waitress very well. What I do know is that Slade is fond of her. She works hard. Is always on time. Never calls in sick. Gives me more time with my girl. But Tuuli is quiet and skittish as all hell. Not sure she can handle the likes of us. If you’re just looking to get laid, man, I gotta ask you to back off. She leaves her job because of you, we’ll have Slade to deal with. And trust me, that won’t be pretty.”
“Not sure what you’re trying to say, cousin.” I knew damn well what he was getting at. I didn’t date. Never had time, or the desire. Of course, I had physical needs. Just like every other man. Back home, Luciano’s girls were willing and available, twenty-four-seven. When doling out a grand an hour for pussy, it was in my best interest to find a dark corner, get shit done, and send the ladies on their merry way. A win-win for everyone involved. Aside from the lifelong tug-o-war between Aida and me, that was the extent of my experience when it came to female companionship.
“All I’m trying to say is that you better be sure.”
I wasn’t sure of anything except for the ache in my gut.
Part of me wanted to cut Tuuli loose. I was trying hard to shake trouble, didn’t need more worry, especially in the form of a tempting little pixie. Problem was, the thought of never seeing her again made me want to bloody more faces.
“Next time you wanna talk, can we skip the foreplay and get to the good stuff?” Tango poked at the darkening bruise on his cheek. “How the hell am I going to explain this to Rocky?”
“Tell him the truth. You’ve gone soft, and your cousin kicked the shit out of you.”
“Ha.” Tango pushed to his feet, then dropped a hand to help me up. “I gotta get back to work. Don’t forget we’re having dinner at Aida’s tonight.”
He pulled me into a hug, slapped my shoulders, and headed up the stairs. I attacked the bag again, finding a steady rhythm, sated, knowing there would be extra eyes on the diner when I couldn’t be there.
Why the fuck did I care?
Tuuli was good. I was the worst kind of bad. We would never work.
Church girls didn’t fall in love with executioners.
Despite the razors of truth slicing my insides to ribbons, I couldn’t ignore the spike of adrenaline that hit me every time I thought about seeing her again.
Selfish fucking bastard.
Selfish bitch.
I should never have agreed to a date with Tito. Not when so much about my life was a lie. He deserved to know the ugly truth about my family. Yet, there I stood, primping and giddy about a date I had no business agreeing to.
Challenging as it was with no electricity, and the stormy sky offering little in the way of natural light, I managed to apply a light coat of makeup and make my hair presentable. I shimmied into my favorite jeans, topped them with a babydoll cami and matching light blue cardigan, and tightened the laces on my well-worn Doc Martens before heading out.
After Erik’s visit the day before, Tito hadn’t returned to the diner or shown up to drive me home. He had, however, arranged for Charlie to give me a ride, which I gratefully accepted because of the torrential downpour.
I prayed our date was still on and hurried to get to the house before he arrived. The mile-long trek toward River Drive proved muddy and difficult to navigate, slowing my pace, but when I cut through the property that once belonged to the Brighton Wood Mill, I made-up for lost time and reached the main highway before the bus screeched to a halt. Forty minutes later, I stood in front of 1415 Apricot Lane. The large blue house with its wraparound porch, white picket fence, and pristine yard, was my favorite dwelling on the entire block.
Sledgehammers pummeled my chest at the familiar roar of Tito’s engine. The beautiful black car rolled to a stop at the curb. When he exited the Mustang and jogged around to greet me, a warm tingle settled in my cheeks.
Dark-blue jeans hugged his thighs, and a black, long-sleeved T-shirt showed off—much too well, in my opinion—his outrageous physique. No hood covered his head, leaving his scar on full display. He’d cut his hair, leaving it short on the sides and longer on top, arranged to look messy, but artfully so.
“Hey,” he sighed, assessing my outfit, then resting his gaze on my face. “You didn’t have to wait outside.”