"So your mom named you Stryker?"

She's leaning against the counter in front of the coffee maker at the store just like she was a couple days ago, only this morning she's had a shower, a hot breakfast, and a thorough fucking.

This morning, she's also smiling as she interrogates me over her third cup of coffee since we came downstairs and opened up the store.

She's fucking gorgeous.

"Yup, it was Mom's idea," I grin as I answer her.

"Why Stryker?" she keeps up with the 20 questions routine as she joins me behind the counter and starts eyeing the name on the permits hanging back here and investigating all the other junk I have stashed in the nooks and crannies that no one else ever sees.

"I don't know," I tell her as I roll my chair to one side so she can continue her self-guided tour. "She probably got it from some romance novel she read or something, she was always reading that kind of stuff."

"Huh," she grunts softly, like it all makes sense to her now. "That sounds plausible, I don't know where else someone would come up with a name like Stryker."

"You don't like it?" I'm not sure how I feel about that possibility. Mom named me and Mom's gone. The name is one of very few things I have left of her.

Jordan takes her attention off the old snap shots I have printed out and pinned below the counter. She fixes me with those eyes-- this morning they're a deep, olive green-- and tilts her head down with one eyebrow raised. It's the same look I spent a lot of time memorizing that first day I met her and I still haven't figured out what it means, exactly.

"It's a cool name," she finally tells me. "It just sounds made up, you know? Like a stage name for an actor that thinks he's going to be the next Hollywood hunk or something."

I watch her shrug and take a sip of her coffee, which must be getting low or cold since she frowns into the mug she brought down from the kitchen this morning and heads back toward the pot.

"I like it," she says when her mug is full and I can see steam rising from just below the rim again, "I like it better knowing it's your real name and not something you made up to sound cool."

She laughs when I do and I like it. I like that she likes my name, and I like that she's smiling at me this morning.

It feels good having someone to share my meals with and having someone curled up against me on the sofa after dinner, and it sure as hell feels good to have her warm, eager body on mine every night for these last few days.

We've gotten into the routine of beginning every morning with a round of wake up sex and sharing a hot shower before breakfast and then coming down here and opening the store up together.

It feels good to be friends with Jordan and I'd be lying if I said the sight of the tanker truck pulling into the lot out front didn't make my stomach feel like the bottom just dropped out.

I swivel from watching the truck park and the driver hop out and start filling the tank to watching Jordan watch what's happening outside.

It's hard to figure out what she's thinking from the expression on her face. I can't tell if she's excited to finally be able to get back on the road and headed home, or if she's feeling the same thing I am.

"Oh good." Her face doesn't light up with excitement, but she does set her coffee mug down on the counter and walk out the front door of the store.

I watch her watch the tanks being filled.

Yeah, sure, I know she's got a life somewhere far away from here. She's going to have to find a new job and probably a new place to live since she says she can't afford her place now on what she'll get from unemployment.

Staying here was never the plan. Staying with me was never the plan. Neither of us are looking for a relationship, no one wants to get tied down into something long term or complicated. That's what's made these last few days so easy-- so perfect-- knowing that it was temporary from the beginning.

We're just a couple of strangers with great chemistry that ended up getting along after all and managed to make the most of our time together.

This is the talk I'm having with myself while I watch her head around the back of the building and reappear, pushing the little Yamaha 250 motorcycle her dumbshit ex bought her a few years ago because he didn't want her riding on the back of his bike.

If I ever run across her ex I'm going to punch the loser. I've heard all her stories in the short time we've been hanging out and I've had plenty of time to get to know Jordan well enough to know she deserves a hell of a lot better than that guy. Or the guy before him. Or any guy who doesn't have the good sense to recognize how fucking amazing she is.

Taking off on her own on her bike like she did, traveling on all these back roads where there's about nothing for cell signal and no way of knowing when she'll come across gas, or food, or a place to sleep.

Jordan's strong and independent and her psycho ex tried to convince her those things were faults, not assets. He couldn't handle her spirit, so he tried to make her believe that no other man could either.

If she'd believed him she'd have sold the little dual sport motorcycle that she just pushed up in front of the gas pump. She'd have never taken off on this adventure to prove to herself that she could do it.

She'd have never ended up out of gas and camped in front of my store.

She'd have never ended up in my bed.

I'd never have met her.

Now I'm the one standing just outside the front door of the store, my hands shoved in the front pockets of my jeans, nervously fiddling with the lose change I picked up this morning when I made the rounds of the parking lot.

Jordan's out there laughing and gabbing with the driver as he finishes up the job. He laughs and says something back to her before he reaches into the cab of his truck and grabs his clipboard and then I watch them both walk toward me.

I need to sign off on the the paperwork so the driver can get on his way and I have a feeling I'm going to need to grab the keys to unlock the pump so Jordan can fill her tank...and be on her way.

An irrational need to stop one of them burns in my gut.