Chapter 1: The Ride Home
The cab of Dean’s old Ford was a confessional on wheels, stinking of stale coffee, fryer grease, and the faint, metallic tang of a long day’s sweat. The dashboard lights glowed a sickly yellow, painting the cracked vinyl seats and the half-empty energy drink can that had left a permanent stain in the cup holder. Outside, the parking lot of the Big Steer Family Restaurant was empty, just gleaming black asphalt under a sodium lamp halo. The radio hummed static between fragments of forgotten country songs, the engine ticking softly as it cooled.
Dean watched the back door of the kitchen.
His knuckles were bone-white on the steering wheel, a habit. He’d been sitting there for twelve minutes. His shift had ended at ten; Angela’s should have ended at ten-thirty. It was now eleven-oh-seven.
The door burst open, spilling a rectangle of harsh fluorescent light onto the asphalt. Angela stumbled out, not from tripping, but from the irregular, jerky rhythm of her own body. She fumbled with her purse, lit a cigarette with a cupped hand, and inhaled like it was the only oxygen left on earth. Her brittle blonde hair caught the yellow light. Even from here, Dean could see the dark moons under her eyes, the bright, unfocused intensity of her gaze. She was flying.
She saw the truck, offered a wave that was more of a spasm, and started across the lot. Her walk was a series of confident, misplaced strides. Dean’s stomach tightened.
The passenger door swung open, and the night air was replaced with a new cocktail: cigarette smoke, cheap vanilla body spray, and the sharp, chemical sweat of someone burning from the inside out. She collapsed into the seat, the springs groaning.
“Jesus, Dean. You wait for me like a loyal puppy.” Her voice was sandpaper wrapped in tinsel. “My knight in a fucking rusting chariot.”
“Just making sure you got home okay,” he said, his own voice soft. He put the truck in drive, the sound overly loud in the closed space.
“Home,” she snorted, dragging on her cigarette before flicking it out the window. “Yeah. Paradise.” She shifted, facing him, her knee bumping against the gear shift. “You’re too good, you know that? A saint. A skinny, beautiful saint.”
He kept his eyes on the road. Don’t look. Her words, when she was like this, were hooks. They snagged in the soft parts of him he tried to keep buried.
“Rough closing?” he asked, a feeble attempt at normalcy.
She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “The manager’s a prick. I told him his hairplugs looked like a doll’s head that got dragged through a lawnmower. He didn’t think it was funny.” She dug in her purse, pulled out a crumpled pack of gum, offered him a piece. He shook his head. “Suit yourself. My mouth tastes like I licked a battery.”
They drove in silence for a block. The quiet was filled with the purr of the engine, the whine of the transmission, the roar of her restless energy. He could feel her eyes on his profile.
“You’re so quiet, Dean. What’s going on in that good-guy head of yours?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Bet you’re thinking about getting laid. Everybody is. It’s a biological imperative. A pressure valve.
A pressure valve.
Her hand landed on his thigh, not a pat, but a claim. Her fingers were hot through the denim. Dean jerked, the truck swerving slightly before he corrected it, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Whoa, easy, cowboy,” she giggled, but her hand didn’t move. It rested there, a burning brand. “See? All wound up. I’m just saying. You drive me home every night. Never ask for gas money. Never ask for nothin’. It’s gotta build up, all that goodness.