It always does.
He glances over at me and I look away fast, staring through the windshield at the rain. I can feel him studying me. Just a glance, quick, not lingering, but my body reacts like he pointed a gun at me. Every muscle from my neck to my knees locks into the position I know best. Be small, still, ready to run.
"You got a name?" he asks.
I should have a lie ready. That's basic. But my brain is waterlogged and exhausted. I've been standing in the rain for six hours and I didn't know there was a hurricane coming, which is the kind of stupid mistake that gets you killed. Now I'm in a stranger's truck heading to a place with a man who could break me in half without breathing hard.
I shake my head. Eyes down. I can't look at him.
"Where you from?"
Shake my head again. I can barely breathe.
I brace and wait for the pushback. The anger. The part where his voice changes and his hands tighten on the wheel and he tells me I owe him goddamn answers if I want a ride. That's how this works. Nothing is free. There's always a price and it's always more than you want to pay.
But he just nods. Now he's talking about privacy and a man being entitled to it, and then he says he's going to call me Stormy because he found me in a storm. The way he says it makes it sound like the name is a gift he wrapped himself.
Then he grins. It changes his whole face. The stern, hard line of his jaw softens. His brown eyes crinkle at the edges. Smile lines. Deep ones, like his face has been smiling for years and has gotten very good at it.
The bar appears in the headlights. Three stories of building rising up, with a neon sign blazing red and bluethrough the rain:BIG TEX'S ROADHOUSE. There's an empty parking lot. A wooden deck area on the second level.
We pull around to a side entrance and he parks. The wind hits me when I open the door. Hard enough to stagger me, and the rain is stinging my skin through my soaked jacket.
"Grab your bag," he shouts over the wind. "I'll get the bike."
I should go help him. He helped me. That's how debts work and I'm already in deep. But he's already pulling the planks out and rolling the bike down before I can move. He handles the bike like it weighs nothing, guiding it through the rain and through a set of double doors into the ground level of the bar. I follow him in, clutching my duffel bag against my chest.
Inside, it's dark except for some emergency lighting and the glow of neon beer signs along the walls. It smells like wood polish and old cigarette smoke. It's a lived-in bar. There's a long bar with stools, pool tables with green felt, a small stage in the corner, and photos covering nearly every inch of wall space.
He parks my bike near an interior wall, away from the doors. "We'll move it upstairs later in case the surge gets bad down here," he says like casually moving a motorcycle up a flight of stairs is what you do on a regular night.
I nod. A small, automatic dip of my head. The kind of nod that means yes sir without the words. The kind I've been giving men my whole life. He glances at me. Not hard, not angry, just... looks. Studies the nod. He doesn't comment.
"Come on," he says. "Let's get you dried out."
He leads me toward the front of the bar where there's a small shop area with glass cases, spinning racks, shelvesalong the wall. Tourist stuff. Shot glasses, koozies, keychains, magnets, all stamped with the bar's logo. But there are also clothes. Sweatpants, sweatshirts, shorts, t-shirts, all hanging from a circular rack or folded on a display table.
"Pick whatever you want," he says, gesturing at the rack with one of those enormous hands. I flinch. I don't mean to. It's automatic, the hand comes up and my body jerks back before my brain can catch up and I see him notice. His hand drops. He quickly takes a half step back. Doesn't say anything about it.
"We'll throw your wet stuff in the wash," he says, his voice a little quieter now but still warm. Still easy. "Take whatever fits. It's all Big Tex's merch so you'll look like a walking advertisement, but it beats pneumonia."
I turn to the rack because it's easier than looking at him. My hands are shaking as I flip through the hangers. Everything has a saying printed on it. I Survived Big Tex's Roadhouse on a hoodie. Big Tex's Roadhouse: Where the Drinks Are Strong and the Decisions Are Bad on a tank top. A pair of black sweatpants catches my eye and I pull them off the rack, then almost put them back when I see the text printed across the back, FOLLOW THIS ASS TO BIG TEX'S ROADHOUSE.
I stare at the sweatpants. I look at the other options. There's no good choice. I take the sweatpants because they look like they'll fit and because I don't have the energy to care what my ass is advertising right now.
For a t-shirt, I grab the first one in my size. It's black. The front says PROPERTY OF BIG TEX'S ROADHOUSE in block letters.
"There's a changing area right there." He points to a curtained alcove near the back of the shop. "Take your time. Yell if you need me to bring you a different size."
I take the clothes and step behind the curtain. My hands are still shaking as I peel off my wet jacket, my soaked t-shirt, my jeans that feel like they weigh twenty pounds. Everything is drenched. I'm freezing, even in the heat. My skin is cold and pale and I can see my ribs more than I should be able to. I try not to look at myself because I know what I look like and it doesn't help the way I feel right now.
I pull on the dry sweatpants. They're soft and warm. The t-shirt is big on me but it's dry. I transfer my pocketknife from my wet jeans to the sweatpants pocket. I pat to check that it's there. I fold my wet clothes into a ball, hold them against my chest and step back out.
He's leaning against the counter, arms crossed, and when he sees me, he does something I don't expect. He starts laughing. Not at me. I know what that sounds like, the mean kind, but it's a surprised, genuine laugh that makes those eye crinkles deepen.
"Well, look at you," he says. "Property of Big Tex's Roadhouse. I should hire you as an Instagram influencer. Put you on the website modeling the merch. We'd sell out in a week."
I don't know what to do with that. I try to smile but it's been so long that I'm not sure the muscles remember how. It comes out as more of a twitch at one corner of my mouth, there and gone.
