Page 9 of Truck Stop Tempest

His vehicle was not the first clue that something wasn’t kosher with the guy. It was the most glaring, though. Why the hell was a douche his age driving a Mercedes G-class modified with bulletproof glass?

I walked outside and watched the vehicle blend into the dark night, pissed that I hadn’t caught his plate numbers.

“Thanks,” Tuuli’s soft voice cut through the hard vibes rattling my nerves.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t move because if I moved, I would’ve gone to her, and if I’d gone to her, I would’ve touched. Touching meant dirtying, and I didn’t want to be the man that dirtied the sweet, churchgoing angel.

I didn’t turn around. “You need a ride home?”

“Um. I have to finish my shift.”

She didn’t answer my question.

Walk away, dumbfuck. Walk away.

“After your shift, do you need a ride home?” I asked again, unable to hide the agitation in my voice.

“No, Tito,” she huffed, mirroring my ire. “I don’t need a ride home, but thank you, again. For everything.”

The cowbell rattled. She’d fled back inside. The sky darkened around me. I trekked up the hill, parked my ass at the kitchen table, and fired up my computer, dead set on finding a reason to take that Erik fucker down. Instead, I pictured Tuuli standing alone at the bus stop, or worse, sitting in the metal petri dish on wheels next to a drunk perv.

I grabbed my keys and drove back down to the diner.

Then I waited for Tuuli’s goddamn shift to end.

Yeah. I was fucked.