He's still not looking at me.
"Point is, I don't ask a lot of questions about where people come from or why they showed up. Half my regulars have a story they don't tell and a tattoo they regret, and that's their business. My business is cold beer and hot food and making sure nobody leaves unhappy. The rest sorts itself out."
Nothing. Not a smile, not a flicker. He's watching the road and gripping that bag.
I keep going. That's what I do. I talk. I've been told I could talk the paint off a barn and then convince the barn it looks better that way. My dad was the same way. If this kid doesn't want to talk, that's alright. I've got enough words for both of us.
"I took over when Dad passed a couple years back. Lung cancer. Smoked like a chimney his whole life, and it caught up with him the way everybody told him it would and he never believed. He'd have turned around and picked you up too. He liked everybody, but he especially liked strays. I come by that honest."
I glance over. His face shifts at the word "strays." Not offended, more like recognized. Like he knows exactly what he is.
"I live upstairs on the third floor. Little apartment, nothing fancy. Two bedrooms, one bathroom. The spare room's usually for regulars who've had one too many and need to sleep it off. It's got a bed, clean sheets, and a door that closes. You're welcome to it long as you need. Fair warning, though. I've been told I snore. And my bedroom is right next door. Apparently, I snore like a diesel engine with a sinus infection. Mama Sheila says she can hear it from the parking lot. She's exaggerating. Probably. The walls are thick. You'll be fine."
His shoulders are up around his ears. Everything about him is tight and closed and braced for impact.
"You got a name?" I ask. Casual. Easy.
His jaw works. I can see him chewing on it, deciding how much to give me. He shakes his head once. Eyes down. Hands tighter on the bag.
"Where you from?"
Same head shake. Same eyes down. His shoulders pull in tighter. Like he's trying to melt into the passenger door.
No defiance. Just a quiet, scared refusal. I think he's protecting himself.
"Well," I say, and I let the word sit for a second. "That's alright. A man's entitled to his privacy. But I've got to call you something, because I'm a talker — you may have noticed — and 'hey you' is going to get old real fast."
I look at those eyes one more time. Blue-green. Storm-colored. The color of the water right before everything changes.
"I'm going to name you Stormy," I say.
He turns from the window and looks at me. His mouth opens, just slightly, like there's a word in there trying to findits way out. It doesn't make it. But his eyes ask the question his voice won't. I smile at him. Can't help it.
"You're wondering why I chose Stormy? That's easy. Because I found you in one."
That's what I tell him. And it's true enough. But the real reason, the reason I keep to myself as Big Tex's Roadhouse rises up in my headlights, three stories of concrete and neon against a dark sky, is those eyes. That impossible color. The Gulf before a storm.
Ah, fuck. I'm in trouble. I know it already.
The kind of trouble that's got nothing to do with hurricanes and everything to do with the quiet, scared, beautiful stranger sitting in my passenger seat, holding a wet duffel bag like it's all he's got in the world.
Well, that's about to change.
Chapter 2: Stormy
The man's hands are the first thing I notice.
They're huge. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel, fingers thick enough to snap a broomstick without trying. I know that because I'm watching them. I've been watching them since I got in this truck, tracking every movement the way you track a dog you're not sure about. The kind that might lick your face or take your arm off, and you won't know which until it's too late.
He hasn't stopped talking since we pulled onto the road. He's rambling about a biker bar and brisket and a man crying in a parking lot. I should be listening but I can't because all I can process right now is how big he is. He takes up the entire driver's side of this truck cab.
His shoulders are wide enough that his arm brushes the center console when he shifts, and his legs are so long his knees nearly touch the dash even with the seat pushed all the way back. He's got to be six-five, maybe taller, and he's thick. Not fat, just solid, like someone poured concrete into a man-shaped mold and gave it a beard.
The beard is dark. His hair is dark. He's wearing jeans, motorcycle boots that look like they could kick through a wall, and a leather cut over a t-shirt that strains across his chest. Everything about him is big and loud. He takes up space in a way that makes my skin prickle and my hand drifts toward the pocket of my wet jeans where my knife is.
It's a pocketknife. Three-inch blade, dull from use, wouldn't cut warm butter cleanly. It's the only thing I own that makes me feel like I have any control over what happens to me, and right now it's the only plan I've got if this goes bad.
And it might go bad.
