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But fuck, I’m such a sucker, and I felt compelled to help her against my better judgment. It was those big blue eyes and the tears leaking out of them that sucked me in. My own curiosity, too, since I can’t help but wonder what it is she’s running from or why she can’t go back home. If I’m the lesser of two evils, then this poor girl has been through some serious shit.
She’s obviously desperate if she’s willing to get on her knees in the middle of a dirty parking lot and beg a beast of a man like me for help. I know I’m a big, ugly motherfucker, and I clearly scared the shit out of her when I got out of the truck. I know I’m not going to touch her with a ten-foot pole, but she doesn’t know that.
She’s a little bitty thing, though it’s clear she’s trying to hide her shape under her baggy sweatshirt and knit cap. They can’t hide her pink cheeks and the tiny nose that give away just how pretty she is, though, even with the tear tracks running down her face.
Heaven help me—and her—if she’s hiding some kind of weapon under her hoodie, hoping to get the drop on me. Or maybe she has something stashed in that bag of hers. Shit, I didn’t even think to check it to make sure she isn’t going to do something stupid like try to stick me the second I’m not paying attention.
She looks exhausted for sure, but she doesn’t have the strung-out look of an addict. Obviously, I can’t see her arms, so I can’t check for track marks, but if she’s not an addict, then that’s one less thing to worry about—her going into withdrawals or trying to rob me to support a habit.
There’s the chance she could be hiding something worse, like a pregnancy. Her hoodie is big enough to hide something like that. The last thing I want is the burden of a pregnant teen on the run from an ex-boyfriend or some shit. All I need is a cop to pull me over for a broken tail light, and bam! I get nailed with transporting a minor across state lines, and maybe they’ll throw in some extra time thinking I was the one who got this young girl pregnant.
Shit, I hope that’s not the case.
It’s been thirty minutes, and we still haven’t said a word to each other, though I can hear her trying to hide her sniffles. I guess she’s keeping her promise to be quiet and pretend she’s not here. That’s something, at least.
I subtly try to check her out to make sure she’s not making moves to grab something from her bag. I’m on edge, which isn’t something I’m used to feeling since I’m almost always the biggest, meanest-looking motherfucker in a room. No one messes with me, not even grown men. Everyone’s a tough guy ‘til I stand up, then they back off, their egos bruised. Yet this tiny little thing’s got me clenching my teeth.
Another thirty minutes pass without a peep from her. I’m used to spending all my time alone with no one to talk to, and mostly, that’s been just fine with me. But it’s different having someone sitting right next to me and it still being silent in the cab.
Eventually, my curiosity gets the best of me, and I have to break the silence. “What’s your name, and what are you running away from?” Shit, the way she startles is enough to make me jump. She gives me those big, baby blues that suckered me in before, and I see the minute she decides to lie to me.
“My name is Dolly, and I’m not running away from anything. Just needed to get out of there, is all.” She has a pretty voice to match her pretty face now that she’s no longer yelling and crying.
“Is that right?” I raise my brow at her before turning my attention back to the road. “You got any ID, Dolly, to prove you are who you say you are and that you’re eighteen? Like I said, I’m not looking for no trouble. If you’re not eighteen, then I’m not taking you any further than the state line. So cough it up if you’ve got it.” I hold out my hand palm up, gesturing impatiently for her to hand it over.
She silently debates for a minute, then reaches into her duffel and hands me her ID. Turning on an overhead light, I look it over, moving my eyes back and forth between it and the road.
“Says here your name is Dolores, not Dolly, which, if I’m honest, sounds like a stripper’s name, and not a good one at that.” I hand it back over, and she snatches it away, scowling at the insult.
She’s got a little more steel in her voice now as she straightens in her seat. “Dolores was my grandmother’s name, and I hate it, so I go by Dolly. I think it’s a perfectly good name, one I gave myself.”
“Alright…Dolly.” The corner of my lip twitches, liking how she showed a little backbone. “Today’s your birthday, yeah? Good thing you’re not lying about your age, or you’d be out on your ass the minute we get to the border.”
“Told you I was eighteen,” she sasses.
“Yeah, well, you also told me you’re not running from anything, but here you are splitting town on your birthday. Not too many girls like you are willing to hitch a ride with a stranger, let alone one who looks like me.”
A beat passes when she says nothing, and I’m left wondering what she thinks of me as she studies me silently. I’m back on edge again and a little gruffer this time when I break the stretch of silence. “I’m Wyatt, by the way, if you wanted to know. So, the truth this time. What are you running away from?”
Chapter 3
Dolly
This is the first time I’ve called myself Dolly out loud. It’s a new name for a new me and the new life I want to have away from my parents. Not that Dolores isn’t a perfectly good name, albeit not one used much nowadays. But Dad made me hate it.
Why are you such a difficult child, Dolores?
I’m going to kill you for this, Dolores!
You deserve this, Dolores!
Wyatt is a nice name, though. I’ve never met anyone with his name before. I’ve also never met anyone who looks and talks like him, so I think it’s fitting. He’s not exactly smiling, but I saw his lip twitch when I set him straight about my name.
Sassed back, as Mom would call it.
Wyatt’s voice isn’t as scary now that he’s no longer screaming mad at me. It’s still deep and a little scratchy, as if he hasn’t used it in a while, but I liked the sound of it when he said my new name.
I realize I’ve zoned out while staring at him, thinking of his voice and how much nicer his eyes look now that he’s no longer glaring at me as he did in the parking lot. He’s still waiting for me to answer his question, and I sigh, not wanting to answer.
