Chapter 12: Roadside Reckoning
The silence in the cab was a physical thing, thick and heavy as a wool blanket. It had been there since they’d left the motel, since he’d handed her that towel and looked right through her. The only sounds were the constant, droning roar of the engine and the whine of tires on asphalt. Gus drove with a rigid intensity, his big hands clenched on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the unspooling ribbon of highway.
Will watched the desert scrub flash by, a blur of dusty green and brown. Her body still felt the ghost of him, a deep, tender ache that was a constant reminder of the bathroom, the shower, the cold tiles. She’d tried talking about the sunrise, about the weird billboard they’d passed, anything to puncture the silence. He’d just grunted.
The tension was a live wire. It crackled in the space between them, fed by everything left unsaid.
Hesitantly, she reached out, her fingers brushing the tough fabric of his jeans over his thigh. It was meant to be a gentle press, a question.
Gus flinched as if she’d branded him. A raw, animal sound ripped from his throat. He wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right. The truck lurched, tires crunching violently on the gravel shoulder before he slammed the air brakes. The rig shuddered to a halt, the sudden silence after the engine cut out ringing in their ears.
Dust swirled past the windows, coating the glass in a fine, beige film.
Before Will could speak, before she could even process the jarring stop, his hand was on her. It wasn't gentle. It was a hook of calloused fingers under her arm, a powerful yank that pulled her across the console. The gearshift dug into her hip, a sharp burst of pain she ignored. In one rough, efficient motion, he had her straddling his lap, her back pressed against the steering wheel.
"Gus—"
He cut her off with a searing, desperate kiss. It wasn't like any kiss they’d shared before. There was no playfulness, no slow build. This was all teeth and hunger, a frantic claiming. His beard scraped her chin. One hand fisted in her hair, holding her still, while the other worked the button of her jeans.
She could feel the hard ridge of him through his own denim, pressing against the core of her. The vinyl seat creaked under their weight. The cab smelled of him, of sweat and diesel and the cheap motel soap.
He got her jeans and underwear down just enough, his own zipper rasping open. He didn't look at her. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. He positioned himself and entered her with a single, brutal thrust that stole her breath.
She gasped, her head thumping back against the cool, hard plastic of the wheel. It was too much, too dry, too fast. A shock of pure sensation. Her fingers clawed at his shoulders, finding purchase in the thick cotton of his t-shirt.
He didn't move for a long moment, just held himself there, buried deep, his body trembling with the effort of his own restraint. Or his own self-loathing. She couldn't tell.
When he finally began to move, it was with a punishing, rhythmic intensity that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with exorcising a demon. Each thrust jarred her against the steering wheel. The horn gave a short, muffled bleat, swallowed by the vast desert silence.
She could see the pulse hammering in his neck. A bead of sweat traced a path through the grey at his temple. This wasn't about her. She was just the receptacle for whatever storm was raging inside him.
"Look at me," she breathed, her voice shaky.
His eyes flew open. They were dark, turbulent, full of a history she couldn't even guess at. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time—really seeing her. The defiance in her green eyes, the scattering of freckles across her nose, the determined set of her jaw even as he fucked her like this, in a truck on the side of the road.
His rhythm faltered. The grimace on his face softened into something else, something pained and unbearably vulnerable.
"Will," he groaned, her name a broken thing on his lips.
He slowed. The brutal pace gentled into something deeper, more deliberate. One of his hands came up from her hip, his thumb brushing roughly, almost reverently, over her cheekbone. The change was more disorienting than the violence that preceded it.
She felt her own body respond, the initial shock melting into a different, warmer heat. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the space between his shoulder and jaw. She could feel the rapid, heavy thud of his heart against her chest.
He came with a long, shuddering sigh, his whole body going slack against her, his face pressed into her hair. They stayed like that for a minute, maybe two, tangled together in the quiet cab, the only sound their ragged breathing slowly returning to normal.
Finally, he shifted, helping her off his lap and back into her own seat with a strange, clumsy tenderness. He adjusted his clothes, his movements slow and weary.
Will pulled her jeans up, the fabric feeling rough against her sensitized skin. She stared out the windshield at the endless, empty road ahead.
Gus keyed the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, a familiar, comforting sound. He pulled back onto the highway, the tires finding their groove on the asphalt.
He drove one-handed for a mile, then two. Then, his eyes never leaving the road, he reached across the console. His big, calloused hand found hers where it rested on her thigh. He didn't lace their fingers together. He just covered her hand completely, his grip warm and solid and sure.
He held it there all the way to the Nevada border.