Chapter 5

She didn’t care that her lip was throbbing from where the beady-eyed trucker had slapped her. She’d been slapped before… and worse. She didn’t care that she was cold. She’d been cold many, many times before—freezing, even. She didn’t care that she was sopping wet, soaked straight through her clothing. She’d been wet before, too. And she didn’t care that she had only a crumbling, leaky overpass for shelter, which was doing very little to quell the rain-laden wind whipping around her. It wasn’t the first time she’d been stranded in the elements with nowhere else to go and nothing to do except wait it out.

She’d survived much worse than this, something that might seem impossible to those who didn’t live the way she did. Quite often, when her only shelter was the lip of a roof or a tree top, and she was forced to sleep up against a solid wall or a bark-roughened tree trunk, she would close her eyes and pretend she was in a warm bed, cocooned inside thick blankets, a fluffy pillow cradling her head. It didn’t always work, especially in more extreme weather conditions, but it worked enough that, even if it didn’t result in sleep, it served to occupy her mind.

What she did care about was that she’d just lost everything. Every single thing she had in this world—her canteen, her food, her money, her coat, all her clothing. They were all hard-won items to someone like her. Items that were now…just…gone.

Her heart fluttered, her chest filling with panic. What was she going to do?

If only she’d left well enough alone and hadn’t pushed her luck by searching through the rigs in the lot. She’d known this particular truck stop hadn’t been ideal. If only she’d stayed put inside the diner and waited out the night. Eventually she would have hitched a ride, New York City-bound.

She’d still have her bag, too.

She took a shuddering breath, a piss-poor attempt to calm her thundering heart, and began twisting the butterfly on her finger.

If she were a different girl, she guessed that maybe she would be crying right now. But she’d learned at a young age that tears didn’t change anything. Tears didn’t bring back the people you’d lost, they didn’t heal you when you were hurt or wipe away the ugly memories festering inside you. And they certainly didn’t replace bags that had gone missing.

The rainwater dripping from her sopping hair and rolling down her cheeks was as close to tears as she was going to get.

The flick and flash of a lighter drew her attention to the man beside her. Crouched on his heels, smoking a cigarette, he stared out across the dark highway.

He was hurt, too. He’d been favoring his left arm since they’d run from the truck stop, but he hadn’t mentioned it. He’d said very little to her actually, leaving her wondering if he blamed her for his current situation.

As if he could feel her eyes on him, his gaze found hers. He was half hidden in shadows; she stared at the only discernable feature she could see, the whites of his eyes. Brown eyes, she recalled. A dark brown that matched the rich shade of his hair and beard.

“Smoke?” Reaching across the space between them, he held out his cigarette in offering. She considered taking it—she could use a cigarette right now—but made no move to do so.

“I don’t bite,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. She didn’t respond and neither did she believe him. Everyone could and would bite. And she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he was capable of.

A gust of wind blew suddenly through their small hiding space, and as a shiver tore through her, she snatched his cigarette quickly and turned away. Taking a long, hard pull, she closed her eyes, relishing the warm burn in the back of her throat, wishing it would spread to the rest of her.

The wind continued to blow. Above, the rhythm of the rain seemed to intensify and echo against their cement shelter. She wiggled her toes, hating the feel of wet socks against her cold feet. Hating even more that she didn’t have a dry pair to change into.

“Nice weather we’re havin’,” he said dryly. The man was staring off into the darkness again, idly flicking his lighter.

She said nothing.

“Name’s Damon,” he continued. “But my friends call me Preacher.”

He paused, and she assumed he was waiting for her to introduce herself.

“So what do I call you?” she asked, “Damon or Preacher?”

“She speaks.” Feigning shock, he chuckled. “Saved your ass back there, didn’t I? I’d say that makes us friends.”

Wondering what exactly his definition of “friends” was, she began to question what he might want in return for saving her. Her hand jerked, reflexively reaching for her blade, only to recall she no longer had one.

“Thank yo—” Her voice cracked as her anxiety spiked. She cleared her throat, took a breath, and tried again. “Thank you… for what you did.”

Preacher shrugged, then hissed. His features pinched with pain, he slowly rotated his shoulder, rubbing the area just above his bicep.

 “Are you hurt?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Naw. Banged up is all.”

Flicking his lighter, he held the flame up between them. Scanning her face, his gaze paused on her mouth. “Are you hurt?”

She guessed her lip was swollen. She’d tasted blood, and she could feel her pulse pounding beneath the thin, sensitive skin. But hurt? Ha. If he considered a split lip worth a second thought, he must have a very rosy view of the world.

“I’m fine.” Finishing her cigarette, she flicked the filter into the rain.

A round of thunder rumbled above them; a bright white flash zigzagged across the sky. Another shiver tore through her body and she squeezed her eyes shut.

 “Soon as the rain stops I can give you a lift somewhere…” Preacher trailed off, leaving his offer hanging between them.

She glanced at his motorcycle, eyeing it with trepidation. She’d never ridden on one before, but she’d never refuse a ride. Her gaze moved to the duffel bag strapped across the handlebars, and she wondered what was inside—what might be of use to her.

Her first priority was to replenish her supplies. Empty-handed, she’d take whatever she could get: clothing, money, food. Some things, such as her canteen, were going to be harder to replace. Others were irreplaceable.

The photograph. Knowing she would never see it again, her heart seized.

She took a breath. Released it. Took another. Released it. She didn’t need the picture. Her father’s face was forever burned into her memories. She had only to close her eyes to see that wide, handsome smile. And once she had the paper and pencil to do so, she would draw it from memory.