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She stills, wary. Instantly, my protective instincts kick in.
“You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to narc on you.” Easing back on the hood, I cross my legs. “I hit you with my car. I just don’t want you saying shit about it because I’m a little fucked up.” Shrugging, I give her a sheepish look. “I don’t need that type of drama in my life right now.”
“No worries. Nobody’ll care what I have to say.” She lets out the softest chuckle that manages to sound self-deprecating and twists a huge-ass knot in my heart at the same time. Suddenly, I care very much about what she has to say. Despite how inconvenient this situation is, I want to make sure she’s safe and taken care of. It is obvious she has nowhere to go.
“Are you hungry?”
Her head pops up before she can stop the reaction. I might have as well be blasted with a freeze ray because in that moment, I stand frozen, staring. She has the face of an angel. A young bedraggled, starving waif of an angel, but an angel nonetheless.
Now, the inconvenience becomes a mission. I’ve seen that same face on kids coming to our property, forced to work early before school, never given enough to eat. It wasn’t until a damn rebellion in the sugar fields that workers forced my father to treat them and their families better. There were casualties on both sides. Many people think my mother was one. I know better. Bitterness eats at me as I look at this girl, knowing I’m going to get her fed and somewhere safe.
“The truck stop on Highway Seventeen has the best burgers and peanut butter pancakes this side of the planet.” I can see her debating, but she didn’t make it this far by trusting strangers.
“Thank you, but I’m good.” She starts moving.
I scoot back to the driver’s side and open the door.
Just as she reaches the curb, I call, “Hey, catch.” I’ve never seen reflexes so quick unless it was a division-one athlete like my cousin Ulysses. She catches the item, looking down. “It’s pepper spray,” I say. Then I toss another object, which she catches with her other hand. I can’t help but wonder what circumstances in her brief life made her so quick. probably nothing good.
Tension tightens my gut at the possible danger this kid faces even here. We are not immune to evil—hell, it spawned me and my cousins. Thinking of a sick fuck like my father or some of the old El Diablo heads like Rudy possibly running up on this girl scares me, there’s no telling what they’d do to her.
“A knife?” Both her brows rise, the girl looking at me with surprise. She hefts the bowie knife, looking at the craftmanship, unsnapping the clip, and pulling it free of the leather holster, admiring the gleaming sharp blade.
“Keep it in case someone fucks with you. You can use it or the pepper spray on me if you need to, but I can tell you could maybe use that burger.” I leave it up to her to decide, knowing she probably doesn’t want to take me up on my offer, and no, there’s no way I can convince her I’m not some perv.
I return to my car, starting it, hoping she doesn’t have some internal injuries I can’t see. She fidgets with the pepper spray before stuffing it and the knife in the hoodie’s front pocket. She grabs the backpack before coming over to the passenger side of my car. I unlock the door. She opens it then gets in, shoving the bag between her knees.
She looks ahead, not even acknowledging me. I don’t say anything as I pull away, a waterfall of relief cascading over me. I don’t know why feeding this girl matters so much. It’s not like I’ve never been hungry, but there’s something compelling about the fear she’s trying so hard to hide. Yeah, I know what that shit feels like up close and personal. There’s also shame there, like it’s her fault she’s been put in this situation. Like a kid being homeless is ever their fault and not that of a sorry-ass caregiver.
The ride is mostly quiet. She has her hand on the door latch like she’d open it and risk dying if I gave her a reason. I don’t want to give her one.
It takes us a good twenty minutes to get to the truck stop. There are three trucks idling outside. It’s a slow night, being a Wednesday. Not that this place would get a lot of business anyway, with this area being so rural and nearly landlocked. They get most of their business from truckers from Shelby Sugar or Spencer Wood.
“They know me here, so we won’t have any problems,” I tell her, pulling up to the well-lit nineteen-fifties-style diner and truck stop. There’s a weigh station on one side, along with several rows of gas pumps, then a small diner on the other side.
“You don’t need that,” I tell her when she moves to grab her bag. She hesitates for a second before grabbing it anyway.
“I don’t want to trouble you more than necessary.” She shrugs, the bag on her shoulder, following me.
I hold the door open for her, giving her a nod. She’s prickly as hell—as she should be.
“Alright now, Mathias,” Ms. Sherry calls from behind the counter, nodding at me and giving my companion a curious look.
“Good evening, Ms. Sherry.” Smiling to the woman, I usher my new friend over to a booth.
“Hey, there, Matty.” Mr. Rufus peeks from the window he’s shoving hot plates through, calling me a name he pinned on me at the age of five and can’t be persuaded to abandon no matter how grown I’ve gotten.
“Hey, sir,” I nod to him. There are just a couple of other booths filled, but none of the occupants lift their faces acknowledging to me. The truck stop is also a place where lovers come to meet. This place is open twenty-four hours, so it makes for the perfect late-night rendezvous.
No sooner do we take our seats than Ms. Sherry comes over. “Here are your menus. Would you like to start with some drinks? It’s on the back, honey.” She smiles genuinely at us, obviously guessing what’s going on but being too kind as usual to ask probing questions that would make my runaway afraid.
“Thanks. I’ll have a coffee. You still got that praline creamer?” I ask, already knowing I need it strong like she makes it, but with the added sweetness to cut the bitterness.
“Sure do.” She gives me a wink before turning to my companion. “What about you, honey?”
“A coffee, but with just regular half-and-half,” she says, looking briefly at Mr. Sherry, before her gaze goes back to the diner’s menu.
Ms. Sherry brings coffees to our silent table, along with water with crushed ice, before giving us more time.
