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There’s more silence and she catches me sneaking looks more than once. For a girl who just about got grabbed by the worst kind of men imaginable, she's doing pretty well.
She even smiles a little again when our eyes lock momentarily.
“C’mon… You gotta have a name…” She coos, proving her worth as a waitress.
Wearing down even the most hard-ass pricks who spit and swear, growling for more coffee. But she’s so damned sweet I can’t believe it when I hear myself tell her.
“P.T.” I rasp. Minutely shaking my head to myself.
“Petey!?” She exclaims, doing a perfectly over-the-top impression of my own reaction to her name, which makes me stifle a smile.
Something I haven’t done for years. Smiling.
“P…T.” I growl, trying to mean it as I enunciate the letters. But dammit if she isn’t funny as well as cute. And by cute, I mean the kind of girl a man would keep as his queen. Giving her everything she ever wanted. Doing whatever she asked. And above all else. Keeping her safe from a world that has suits in it.
“Oh…P.T. Like initials.” She exclaims, giving me a nudge with her eyes. Waiting for me to tell her what it stands for. But there’s an edge to her tone.
Cracks appearing in the brave face she's somehow managing for my benefit.
“Psycho Trucker.” I tell her truthfully.
My real name? That’s something I forgot out of necessity. Prison gave me a number and my life after that hasn’t required a name or even a real person.
If I don’t know who I am, then neither does anyone else and that’s just the way I like it. Until just now.
The shift in her mood is instant. My natural thousand-mile stare and grim expression living up to my namesake. But it’s the truth. And one that sees those cracks in her features deepen.
I’m not a nice guy. I’ve done bad things and I most likely will again. It’s who I am, it’s what I do. It’s the only life I’ve known.
But I won’t bore her, or most likely scare her to death with my life story. Only thing I need to know now is if there’s more suits on her tail, or if this really was just a random one-off thing. But with shit-eaters like that? It’s never just a ‘random thing’.
“Those men-?” I start ask, but it’s all she needs to hear for the tsunami of emotions she’s been holding back to be set free.
Cracks flooded with tears and sobs that make me grip the wheel tighter. My molars like a vice. Eyes front, white knuckles straining on the wheel that creaks.
My only instinct is to hold her, to tell her she’s safe now. But I can’t.
I just…Can’t.
4
PETRA
If I ever do see Floyd again, I know I’ve already got a story to piss all over his ‘roof blew off in the storm’ one.
Once it pegs just how many bullets I actually dodged just now, literally as well as figuratively, I fold. Hysterical is probably the word for it, but P.T. just keeps driving. Like he’s seen it all before somehow and with a name like that I almost half wonder if I haven’t been tossed out of the fat and into the fire.
Almost.
If he was really gonna try something, he would’ve done it by now. And by try I mean he could easily have his way with me. Man’s a fucking skyscraper compared to me.
He’s also a complete stranger. But one I feel like I need to hold me now more than ever. Bit tricky driving a big rig and consoling an almost snatched but actually still snatched waitress in the middle of the night.
I know I’ll laugh about it one day. But only if P.T.’s there and only if I get the courage or know how to actually thank him properly.
Listen to me… Actually talking like I’m just gonna get over what just happened. And even thinking that a seriously dangerous man like P.T. would even give a girl like me the time of day.
That part of things is probably what makes me cry way harder than I should. Knowing that the man who just saved me is probably also already looking for a place to drop me.
