Page 8 of Truck Stop Tempest
“I’ve come for you, Tuuli. This charade is over; get your things.”
He didn’t own me. He didn’t know anything about me or the promise my brother had made. I was never going back. Not alone. Not with him. Not ever.
I cleared my throat, forced a lifetime of conditioning down deep where it couldn’t control me, and I found my voice. “You don’t understand.”
I understood Tuuli had a life outside of work. I understood that her life did not and in no way should have involved me. I had no business giving two fucks. But when I stepped through the door of The Stop, the cowbell rattled, the cacophony of happy diners filled my ears, and my eyes fell on that young, forbidden angel, dangling in the arms of a large, clean-cut suit. What I couldn’t fathom was why my face heated, or why my heart banged erratically, or why, for the love of all that was holy, I wanted to pound my chest like a damn gorilla and charge the pasty motherfucker who was holding the girl who wasn’t mine.
Fuck. My head was fucked. I pounded my temple once, hoping to rattle some of the shit loose. My usual table, hidden in the corner, was otherwise occupied, by said motherfucker, I assumed. So, I retreated to the opposite corner, parked my ass at a dirty table, and tried my damnedest not to watch the interaction between Tuuli and her friend. Intimate friend, judging by the way he held her.
Busying myself with a menu, I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep my attention off the couple. Tuuli stared at the floor more than usual. She seemed two sizes smaller, two souls smaller next to the douche.
The more I watched, the more I realized that she wasn’t into the guy, and he, apparently, seemed to think he was her world.
Margie approached. “Hey, Tito.” She wiped the red laminate with a bleach-soaked towel. “Ready to order?”
I nodded yes before asking, “What’s up with Dolph Lundgren over there?”
Margie looked over her shoulder. “Not sure, sweetie. Never seen him before tonight. He came here looking for Tuuli.”
“She look happy to see him?” Not sure why I asked. Maybe I needed confirmation that I wasn’t reading Tuuli’s body language wrong.
“Well.” Margie turned to assess the situation. “Now that you mention it, no. She looks like she wants to curl into a tiny ball and roll away.”
“That’s what I thought,” I mumbled.
Tuuli jerked free of the guy’s grip and shook her head. He clamped his fingers back around her neck and pulled her closer.
Lady Death whispered in my ear, “I want that one.”
I shoved off my chair and decimated the distance between us, reaching earshot in time to hear Tuuli say, “Get your hands off me. I’m never going home. And I’m not your girl.”
I didn’t give the guy time to respond. I hooked an arm around Tuuli’s shoulder and pulled her against me, effectively freeing her from his hold. “Hey, Tuuli,” I said, tapping her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Who’s your friend?” I held her gaze, hoping like hell she understood my game.
I hated the meek fucking expression on her face.
Tuuli stared at me, flushed, unspeaking, so I offered a hand to the dead man. “Tito Moretti. You are?”
The man’s jaw hardened, his eyes narrowed, and his pale face reddened. After an excruciating pause, he shook my hand and said, “Erik Meyer.” His gaze sliced to Tuuli, then back to me.
I held his hand past the point of polite, let Tuuli go, and nudged her toward the kitchen. “Charlie needs your help in the back. Said it was an emergency.” I didn’t watch her retreat. Instead, I dropped my friendly facade and sized the fucker up.
A wicked smile spread across his face, revealing perfect white teeth. “Moretti? What is that, Italian?”
“What that is, is none of your fuckin’ business,” I warned, stepping even closer.
He didn’t shy away. Stupid move.
My skin ignited head to toe.
Erik asked, “Is there a problem?”
The guy was too white, from his hair to his skin, and even his teeth. White, and clean. Too damn clean. Creepy as fuck, but in a pretty way.
“You laid your hands on my girl,” I gritted through my clenched jaw. “You lay hands on her again, you’ll be fishing your fingers outta the lake. Got me?”
Unfazed, Erik pulled his wallet out of his pocket, tossed a roll of bills on the table, and sauntered past me toward the door, but not before pausing to straighten his tie and say, “Don’t know what game you’re playing, but Tuuli is not your girl. She was mine before she was born.”
Had we not been surrounded by clueless diners, I would’ve taken a swing, for shits and giggles. Instead, I hid my fisted hands in the pocket of my sweatshirt and watched the guy exit the building and stroll to his Mercedes SUV. He glanced my way before disappearing behind the tinted glass.