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“How many were there?” I ask the girl, who seems to have recovered to the point of finding her own rage pretty damned quick once she sees her captor tied up like she was moments ago.
“Three…” She rasps, deadpan. Showing me that look again.
The look of pending revenge that only someone who’s earned it can give off so easily.
“And we got two. Soooo…” I comment, passing her the smallest gun with a micro smile and signaling Petra it’s time to go.
“You gonna be alright? I mean- We should call-?” Petra says, trying to sound reasonable. Responsible. Helpful. But the girl’s only shaking her head. Keeping both her eyes on the only thing in the whole world she has a beef with right now.
The groaning figure who’s slowly regaining consciousness. His bloodied mouth dropping open once it pegs his girl is not only free but armed.
Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?
“I think we should let these two sort things out for themselves, honey…” I chime, hooking my arm in hers and leading Petra away. Sensing what’s about to happen and not wanting her to have to see any of it.
Practically dragging her from the scene before she realizes that whatever else happens it has nothing to do with us now. “I just gotta get paid…” I inform her, stopping long enough to lift a heavy duffel bag from a familiar locker I know I’m not really gonna miss before I help her back into the rig.
The sound of the truck door closing muffling the sound of the single shot from the neighboring warehouse.
“You really think she’s gonna be okay?” Petra asks me, worried. Oblivious.
“Oh, I think she’ll be just fine… Sure she feels much better already.” I tell her. Pecking her cheek.
Easing my rig, a lot lighter without the trailer and minus a certain shopping bag I let discreetly drop from the window as I reverse before making my way back to the freeway.
The open road.
And with Petra by my side from now on, it’s only ever gonna be a road forward. A long and brightly lit road for both of us from now on.
EPILOGUE
PETRA
Three Months Later
“So which one?” He asks for the tenth time. Not caring anymore. Just wanting this to be over.
My mouth’s twisted as I deliberate over the sprawling stack of phony IDs, birth certificates, and passports. The ones P.T.usedto use for work.
“I think… No.” I decide aloud. Changing my mind at the last minute yet again and making P.T. groan with a frustration that he usually secretly enjoys every time I do this. Making him wait. Prolonging the inevitable for us both.
Between the sheets, with me on top, it’s mind-bending. But at the kitchen table when he’s asked her to pick the one permanent identity for himself before committing the rest to the incinerator. It’s infuriating.
He draws a long breath in through his nose, about to call the whole thing off when I snatch up the pile and shuffle what I can. The first thing to fall from my hands lands face up. The thousand-mile stare of one of his truck driver’s licenses staring back at us both.
“Phil Turner…” I murmur. Almost half thinking we do a best of three instead.
“It means we can still call you P.T.” I offer consolingly, wincing a shrug but broadcasting the look that lets him know my decision is final. No baby of mine is coming into this world without a proper mom and a dad. And a real name.
Sorta.
One we picked together anyway. As a family… Because that's what we’re gonna be someday. P.T.- I mean,Phil, seems to understand how important it is. But he can’t help showing just a little disappointment at the final choice.
“Phil…” He says again, but it wouldn’t matter which one we picked. He’ll always be P.T. to me. And Psycho Trucker to anyone who comes asking otherwise. He thinks on it all some more for a second and then nods. It’s settled. We had to come up with something and like always, we have.
“You guys gonna play cards all day? I’m running late.” Chloe announces, craning her neck around the kitchen doorway.
P.T.’s wasn’t just gonna leave her there that day. Not after what she'd been through and only after I whined in his ear until he turned his truck right around and went and got her.
