The guy swallowed hard. “Uh…sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled in her direction. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Beth’s brows rose, but she gave a short nod. “Okay.” Her voice was cool and controlled, despite the flush in her cheeks.
Saint could tell she’d have liked to eviscerate the guy verbally, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
Gym Bro backed away fast, then broke into a near sprint toward a shiny black car at a neighboring pump. He didn’t look back.
Saint watched until the car pulled out of the station and merged onto the highway. Only then did he turn back to Beth.
She let out a breath. “You know…” she said, “… I was doing okay handling it.”
He grunted. “You were uncomfortable. Your face was, at least.”
She huffed. “He was a creep, yeah. But he was just spouting off bullshit. Doesn’t mean he needs to get stabbed in a truck stop gas station.”
“Didn’t stab him,” Saint said with a shrug. “Thought about it, sure, but I have self-control.”
Despite herself, Beth’s lips twitched. “You always travel with a knife?”
“Just a little one,” he said. “Barely counts.”
She stared at him for a long beat, then shook her head. “You bikers are insane.”
“We prefer effective.” He studied her, noting the way her shoulders were slowly relaxing now that the guy was gone. “For the record, you never owe a dude politeness when he makes you uncomfortable. You never owe a smile. You never owe a conversation. You sure as fuck don’t owe him your time or your body.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed and then nodded. “I know.”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “But sometimes knowing and feeling aren’t the same thing.”
Her gaze flicked to his, surprise and something like gratitude in her eyes. “You’re gettingrealwise in your old age, Saint.”
He snorted. “Fuck off. I’m not old.”
“You gotta be what, like close to forty?” she said around a Twizzler, then smiled, for real this time.
“Come on, brat,” he said, jerking his chin toward the bike. “We’ve got a few more hours till home. And I’m thirty-fucking-three. Nowhere near forty.”
She giggled, then grew serious.
Home.
The word settled between them like a living thing.
Beth’s fingers drifted unconsciously to the faint bruises along her throat. In the harsh daylight, they’d faded from angry purple to sickly yellow-green, but they were still visible. She glanced at the convenience store windows, where faint reflections showed her makeup-free face and loose hair.
“Gonna try to cover them up at the next stop?” he asked gently.
“Probably,” she said. “I don’t want…themto see this. Not right away.”
He nodded. He got it. Shame had a way of making you want to hide the evidence, even when you weren’t the one who’d done anything wrong.
“Helmet on,” he said instead. “Let’s roll.”
The last stretch of the ride flew by, and crawled at the same time.
Beth leaned against him, quiet, as the scenery shifted from a flat mid-west sprawl to rolling hills and, eventually, the familiar rise of the Smoky Mountains. The air grew cooler, the ground grew greener. The smells changed too—less hot asphalt and exhaust, more pine and damp earth.
Tennessee.
