“What are you doing here? How did you know I was getting out? When did you get a truck? Why are you here? Do you know how to talk? How many tattoos do you have? Did it hurt when you had your fingers inked up? Do you have lips under all that hair?”

That’s the questions I find myself ignoring from my chatty passenger. Admittedly, the first part of those questions came pretty quickly into our ride. The last few, are kind of strange and a little funny— or they might be if I still laughed. They came farther into the ride, and in ten to fifteen minute intervals.

I haven’t answered any of them. I haven’t really looked at her. The last question was about thirty minutes ago. I’m taking that to mean she’s given up. Which is good, because I don’t plan on answering her. Part of that is because for the fucking life of me, I don’t know why I picked her up. I have no idea what I’m doing. All I know is that when I heard Charlie discussing with some other waitress that they would have to wait until evening to get Hayden…I stepped in again to help her. I don’t know why, and it has me confused as hell.

Charlie, however, she found it funny. I was also right about her. I like her. Since she heard I rescued Hayden and got her to the hospital, she has let me start eating at the diner again. By that, I mean she brought me breakfast out to my place the next morning and told me she would see me tomorrow at the diner. Charlie is a woman of few words, and that is one characteristic of hers I can definitely appreciate.

She also laughed at my reaction about Hayden not having a way home. I growled. I did this loudly, and since I was staring right at the women, Charlie knew immediately why. The waitress, she called Liese, jumped a good foot in the air, but Charlie just grinned. She knew she had me, and that’s when I found myself really liking her…even against my will.

Nothing else was said between us—see a woman of few words. But, when I went to the counter to pay my bill, she handed me a to-go-bag instead.

“For Hayden,” she said. I pinpointed her in my gaze, a look that in all my years as enforcer of the Devil’s Blaze never failed me. Fuck, some men started begging when I looked at them like that. Not Charlie. She laughed, and went back to the other waitress—completely dismissing me. I growled again, for the good that did, and then I left.

“I like your truck,” Hayden says, kind of lost. She brings my attention back around to her, but her words annoy me. I tighten my hand on the steering wheel, as I spare her a quick glance. She’s finally eating the food that Charlie sent to her. My nose kind curls at the smell of it. Fried bananas? “It’s a really nice truck,” she says again, right before taking another bite of her sandwich.

It is a nice truck. I rode my bike into the city to get Hayden. Stopped at the first dealership I found and bought it. It’s a brand spankin’ new Ford F-150 and loaded with all the latest options. I figured if I was going to drive a cage, I’d do it in style. It was kind of cold driving my bike in town, but then I liked the cold getting into my lungs and the feel of the wind. I’ve lived my life on the back of a bike for a reason and since…since losing Annabelle I really didn’t care if I got in another car.

That day at Hayden’s however, when she needed to get to the hospital and there was no way for me to get her there quicker…it bothered me. It shouldn’t have, and I don’t like that it did…but it did. I’m not about to tell her that. Just like I’m not about to tell her the color of this truck reminded me of the color of her eyes. She’d probably make something out of that, and there’s nothing there. Gray is a good strong color. It’s not a fucking sissy color either. That’s all there is to it. No hidden meanings whatsoever.

“I really appreciate you helping me. Maggie and I are very grateful,” she says, and I don’t want to, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

“Maggie?” I can see out of the corner of my eye how she freezes when I ask my question.

Her lips move into a small smile, right before she pops another fry into her mouth. She had to be starving. Aren’t they supposed to feed you in a hospital? “My daughter,” she says, her hand going to the swell of her stomach. Her head leans down, this time there’s a full smile on her lips, and she almost appears happy. “I’m naming her after a Rod Stewart song, Maggie May. Maggie will probably never listen to Rod Stewart, but it’s a good song and a pretty name. She needs a pretty name.” Her rambling words make me feel weird.

There’s a slight chance I misjudged her. It appears she might genuinely care about her child, at least enough that she has already given her a name. On the heels of that emotion though is another one. One that is stronger and proves what a fucked-up, twisted asshole I really am. I resent that child in her stomach. A child that is completely innocent, but in this moment, I hate. I hate this faceless, unknown little girl who will be blessed with the name Maggie. I hate her name, and I hate her mother. What right do they have? Why does this woman get a child? What is so special about this unborn Maggie that she can have a life when my Annabelle can’t? My hands shake as I tighten them on the steering wheel.

Hayden rattles on beside me, but I’m tuning her out. I feel raw inside, and the misery is too close to the surface. I reach over and blast a Metallica song that comes on the radio, drowning Hayden’s voice out. Then I go back to concentrating on the road. Hayden gives up talking, sparing me a quick glance. She puts what’s left of her food back in the bag, and looks out the passenger window in silence.

Finally.