Castaway Whirlwind (Big Boys of Berenson Trucking #3)

Chapter 1

Layla

I grab the formica countertop to pull myself off the linoleum floor, my hand shaking when I reach for the five-hundred-count bottle of over-the-counter pain meds to pop another pill on an empty stomach, nothing left inside me after the nausea from my period cramps had me bending over the toilet bowl all night. Lightheaded and body slick with sweat, I carefully climb into the bathtub after turning the shower on, hoping I don’t wake Steven before his alarm goes off in thirty minutes.

No such luck. My fiancé’s lips are pressed thin when he slides the clear plastic shower liner open. “Really, Lady? You couldn’t wait until I woke up before making all this noise? At least let me shower first before you use up all the damn hot water.” Steven looks like he’s going to be sick when his eyes drop to my inner thighs, where my blood is trickling down. I flinch when he says, “Fuck, that’s nasty,” before he pulls the curtain closed and leaves the bathroom.

His disgust, snapped curse, and the deliberate use of the condescending nickname I hate hurt almost as much as my cramps, and I try not to cry as I wet a washcloth, pressing it to my lower belly, absorbing the heat while I wash my hair one-handed.

In the seven years we’ve been together, he’s followed a pattern. For three weeks out of four, things are good between us, and I’m reminded all over again why I first fell in love with him when I was just fifteen years old. But he mostly avoids me for that one week every month, staying out late with his friends. I just keep thinking that, hopefully, eventually, it’ll no longer be an issue because I’m scared we’ll be doing this same song and dance for the next fifty years.

Steven pounds on the bathroom door a few minutes later, reminding me he needs to shower before work. I finish fast, leaving the hot water running so he can jump in after stripping out of his black boxers. While I get dressed for my first day at my new job, I pray the meds will kick in soon, though I know they will hardly touch the pain. Nothing does.

After the last two restaurants fired me for calling in sick too many times when my cramps would sometimes leave me crying on the bathroom floor, unable to stand and go to work, I was lucky enough to land a waitressing job at Granny’s Diner—an unsuspecting gray double-wide trailer out in the middle of nowhere serving the best pancakes in all of Texas. Harold, the manager, didn’t seem phased by my hopping from job to job at twenty-two years old, saying that the owner, only known as Granny , has a soft spot for women in tough situations.

I was so grateful for the job offer—a steady source of income that will allow me to save up and go back to school to finish my bachelor’s degree—that I had nearly leaped over the desk to hug the salt-and-pepper-haired older man. He had thrown his hands up in the air so as not to touch me, certifying that he wasn’t a creep like a few of my old bosses had been .

After his shower, Steven walks through our small bedroom and past me without a word in his white T-shirt and stained work jeans, towel drying his short, black hair while I button up my uniform—a pink dress that’s too tight in the chest and ends just above my knees, a white apron that ties around my waist, and brand-new white non-slip sneakers.

Unexpectedly, he walks back in, his handsome face freshly shaved. He frowns at my uniform but lowers his hand around my back to pull me in for a kiss. “Have a good first day, Layla.” He kisses me again, and I melt into his tall, lean, sculpted body, sliding my arms over his shoulders. This is the gorgeous hazel-eyed man I fell in love with, his lips warm and familiar. “I was thinking we should celebrate your new job tonight. Get a few beers with the guys. Throw some darts.”

“Yeah, that sounds fun, but I don’t know how I’ll feel…physically…after my shift.” What I mean is I don’t know if my cramps will ramp up after being on my feet for half the day, but I can’t say that without him looking sick again at the mention of my period.

“That’s ok.” Steven swipes his thumb across my lower lip and ruins the sweet moment by saying, “You can make it up to me by showing me what that mouth can do.” He leaves with a wink and without an apology for his earlier behavior. The front screen door slaps closed, his sports car roaring obnoxiously loud outside a minute later.

After pulling on black bike shorts beneath my uniform, I attempt to paint some life onto my face with makeup. I’m heavy-handed with my concealer and black eyeliner after dousing my dark brown, bloodshot eyes with eye drops.

My phone alarm chimes just as I finish drying and pulling back my medium-length curly brown hair into a pink claw clip, leaving a few short pieces in front to frame my face. I took off my engagement ring before getting in the shower, and there’s a rock in my stomach when I slide it onto my finger. Though Steven proposed to me on my eighteenth birthday, we’ve yet to plan the wedding, some kind of emergency always popping up to push it back.

If I were the superstitious kind, like my mom, I’d take it as a sign. But I’m nothing like her. I’ve made sure of it.

I leave the one-story blue clapboard house with my best friend—my microwavable rice-filled heating pad—laying it across my lap while I pray my car will start. It takes a few tries, but eventually, the engine rumbles to life, a belt that needs replacing squealing as soon as I put the car in reverse to back out of the driveway. It’s a quiet, twenty-minute commute to the diner at five-thirty in the morning, the four-lane streets narrowing to two, and the trees growing denser the closer I get to the twenty-four-hour diner.

Even though it’s an hour from sunrise, the unpaved gravel parking lot is packed with muddy pickup trucks and a few beaters like mine, the patrons inside hungry for hearty hot meals before they head to work. I squeeze my little sedan between a massive white dually with six wheels and a vintage cherry-red F150, then regrettably have to leave my hot heating pad behind after grabbing my zipped-up canvas tote bag. I’ve packed it with extra medication, a tube of concealer, eye drops, pads and tampons, and another pair of bike shorts just in case.

Having forgotten my sweatshirt when I left the house, goosebumps prick my arms in the chilly spring air. Opening the aluminum front door beneath a small banner that simply says GRANNY’S, I’m immediately blasted with welcoming maple-syrup-scented heat…and also an audience when a gr oup of older men who look to be retirement age, fighting for the remaining available bar stools at the wide silvertop counter across from the door, all swivel their heads in my direction.

“New waitress!” one yells, looking from side to side, his tan face pocked with sun spots after possibly a lifetime of working outside. The guys break into a hard-to-follow conversation, considering I have no idea what they’re talking about, even if it does, somehow, involve me.

Another, with a bushy gray mustache and a fast smile, says, “Alright, place your bets now.” He pulls a mini spiral notebook and golf pencil from the pocket of his thick gray flannel overshirt, flipping past sheets filled with numbers and names to a blank page.

“Put me down for twenty on Wyatt, Pete,” one says, looking me up and down, more speculative than lecherous.

The man next to him, with skin that’s more freckles than anything else, claps his shoulder. “You need to go back to the memory doc, Mickey. Wyatt’s got Miss Dolly.”

“Argh.” Mickey scratches his nearly bald head. “Ok, how ‘bout Jared?”

“Geez, Mickey. He’s got Miss Violet.”

“Dagnabbit. Who else is at BT?”

“Put me down for forty on Davis,” the youngest of the group with a deep brown face beneath short silver curls says.

“Nah, Freddy. He’s got his dad to worry about,” Pete says, tapping the tip of his pencil against the notebook.

“I call dibs on Elliott. A hundred bucks,” another says, his skin crinkled at the corners of his extra-rich dark brown eyes. The whole group laughs after turning as one to look to my left. I follow their gaze after I step further into the diner, letting the door close behind me to keep the heat in.

Four big, gruff-looking men sit at a table piled high with dishes along the back wall. The oldest, with a thick head and beard of silvery gray hair, looks like he’d rather be anywhere than here when he grunts and shovels eggs into his mouth.

Another has a wild, overgrown brown beard, his head thrown back with laughter, his arm around the waist of a heavily pregnant blonde waitress a little younger than me. A man wearing a navy blue baseball cap chuckles, taking a bite out of his bacon, while the fourth, with a dark brown going peppery-gray trim beard, crosses his arms over his barrel chest, leaning back in his chair until the two front legs come off the red and white checkered tiles. Even with his jaw set with a scowl, he’s the most handsome of the bunch, if not the whole town. The term aged like fine wine comes to mind, and I’m immediately awash with guilt for thinking of such things when I’m engaged.

Ashamed, I turn my gaze away and meet the smiling, soft brown eyes of the man named Freddy. “Never mind, Pete,” he says to his friend, giving me a toothy grin. “Change my bet to Russell.”

Thankfully, I’m saved by Violet, the waitress who will be training me, when she circles the wide counter and pulls me away from the group with my hand in hers. “Don’t mind them.” The brunette with purple streaks in her hair drags me through the swinging doors that separate the main dining room from the busy kitchen and employee break area. “Those guys will bet on anything and everything.” She pops open a locker and takes my tote bag, stuffing it into the narrow opening.

“What were they betting on exactly?” The top two buttons of my uniform have come undone again, and I fight to right them, the material straining across my breasts.

“BT men.” Violet hands me a white rectangular name tag to pin to my uniform with my full name, LADYANALAYLA, printed in bold black letters. “That’s an interesting name. Don’t think I’ve heard that one before.”

“I know, I hate it,” I groan, pinning it above my left breast. “My mom smashed a bunch of her friends’ names together. My brother’s name is Maxwarison. Try learning how to write them in pre-k.” I deadpan, “It’s awful.”

“Want me to get you a new tag?”

“Really?” I take it off and drop it into her hand.

“Sure thing. What do you want it to say?”

“Layla. L-A-Y-L-A.”

Violet smiles. “Done. I’ll have a new one ready for you tomorrow.”

With that sorted, I ask, “Sorry, what’s BT again?” I huff when the top button, hanging on for dear life, pops open, shortly followed by the second. Cringing, I tell Violet, “I think I need a larger uniform.”

She laughs and grabs my hand, leading me back to the front and over to the giant coffee makers. “A larger size won’t make a difference. Granny designed them to be extra tight in the chest.” Then she hands me two full coffee pots, one regular and one decaf.

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” Violet sticks a thick notepad for taking orders and a pen in my apron pocket, then waves to the gentlemen, who all hold out their empty coffee mugs, waiting for me to fill them. They give me a mixture of knowing and shy smiles, then slap cash tips on the counter, sliding them toward me .

“Yup, now I get it,” I say slowly, setting a pot down to pocket the tips. I should probably be up in arms about an employer picking out a uniform that intentionally shows off more skin than most people would be comfortable with simply for higher tips, but instead, I’m grateful since I really need the money.

After refilling the pots with fresh coffee, Violet introduces me to each and every customer in the diner, including the local Sheriff’s Deputies who have jammed two tables together. I top up the customers’ mugs where needed, stopping last at the table with the four big guys. Starting with the overgrown-bearded one and going counterclockwise, she points to them. “This is Wyatt and his girlfriend, Dolly.”

The young blonde waitress, who has to be at least twenty years younger than her boyfriend, gives me a small wave, then sets her hand on her baby bump. I quickly look away.

“This here is Davis,” Violet says, tapping the sandy-haired man with the baseball cap on the shoulder, who tips the brim of his hat at me. She points to the big, silver bear of a man. “That’s Elliott over there.” Elliott grunts in acknowledgment but doesn’t look up. “And lastly,” she says, pointing to the handsome man with startlingly clear blue eyes, “this is Elliott’s younger brother, Russell. My husband, Jared, is his warehouse manager at BT—Berenson Trucking.” Violet gives me a wide smile, a cute purple stud in her nose twinkling in the fluorescent lighting.

“Oh!” These are the men the older guys were referring to, and I realize they were betting on my coupling up with someone from Berenson Trucking . “No, I’m engaged,” I say, setting down a coffee pot on the table so I can hold out my left hand, showing her the thin silver band with a half-carat diamond solitaire .

“Hey, Freddy, Pete!” Violet yells across the diner. “Layla’s already engaged!”

They all groan, and cash starts switching hands.

I bite my inner cheek, feeling hot all over at being the center of attention. “But funny enough, my fiancé just got hired to work in the warehouse at Berenson.”

“But he works at BT!” she yells, a chorus of cheers going up as more money exchanges hands.

Russell’s chair falls forward, the front legs landing with a bang on the floor, drawing the deputies’ attention. “Who?”

I frown at his scowl, which has deepened, and spin my engagement ring around and around my finger—an anxious habit. “Steven.”

I startle and step back when Russell says harshly, “That asshole?” He clears his throat twice, then softens his voice. “My apologies, darlin’. I shouldn’t have cursed.”

I give him a shaky smile, though I can no longer meet his eyes. Darlin’ is what my dad used to call me, and it leaves me breathless to hear the term of endearment in the same deep tone and drawling Texas accent.

“That’s ok,” I say quickly, grabbing the coffee pot and walking swiftly back to the front counter. I place the pots back under the coffee makers, then dip into the ladies’ restroom, inhaling and exhaling deeply to calm myself so I don’t cry.

Violet is right behind me. “Hey, are you ok?”

I laugh self-consciously. “Yeah. Don’t mind me. I’m just being a big baby.”

Though Dolly and I have only exchanged smiles so far, she follows us into the restroom and rubs her hand up and down my arm. “You’re not being a baby.”

“Yes, I am. Who gets upset over one curse word?” I fan my face with a napkin, refusing to let a single tear fall.

Dolly’s light brows wrinkle with sympathy. “Someone who’s been cursed at a lot in their life?”

I nod. “How did you know?”

Now she’s the one fanning her face as tears brim her lashes. “My dad was like that. You?”

“Not my dad.” Though strict, my dad was the sweetest, most wonderful man who passed away when I was thirteen years old, and I miss him every day. “My stepdad.” The complete opposite of my dad and someone I wish I had never met.

“Crap, now I’m about to cry, too,” Violet says. “My stepdad was the same way.”

An older, slim blonde waitress I haven’t met, with her hair pulled up into a tight ponytail, pops into the room. “Oh no, are you girls ok?”

Violet asks, “Did you have a terrible father growing up, Faye?”

Confused, Faye says, “No, my dad is seriously amazing.”

“Wow, just rub it in all our faces, why don’t you?” Dolly snarks, then bursts into full-blown tears. “I’m so sorry. That was mean. I blame it on the hormones.” She rubs her belly that I still can’t look at directly.

Instead of being offended, Faye laughs and pulls her into a hug. And then she motions to Violet and me, even though we’re strangers, turning this into a big group hug.

Someone knocks on the door and cracks it. “Hey, I don’t mean to break up your girls’ club,” Harold says, “but I really need y’all back out on the floor. Got some more crews coming in, waiting to be fed.”

Dolly snorts. “Girls’ club.” Then she cocks her head to the side. “We are a club. The Granny Girls’ Club? ”

Violet wrinkles her nose. “Too mouthy. How about just ‘Granny’s Girls’?”

Faye claps her hands. “I got that fancy vinyl cutting machine for my birthday. I can make matching sweatshirts!”

The door cracks open another inch. “Ok, Granny’s Girls, back to work. Chop-chop.”

Faye pulls open the door, ducking her head slightly. “Yes, sir.”

Harold’s whole face goes fire-hydrant-red, and he turns on a heel. Violet and Dolly both laugh at Faye’s matching red face. The Granny’s Girls hustle out of the restroom, and though the morning started off in a deep well of misery, and the meds have only just taken the edge off my pain, my smile is genuine as I follow Violet around for the rest of my training shift, starting with bussing the million-and-one empty plates left on the BT men’s table.

Russell left a twenty-dollar bill under his coffee mug, along with a handwritten note addressed to me on a napkin, apologizing once more for cursing and scaring me. I pocket both when Violet grins and refuses to accept the tip, even though she did all the work before I got to the diner.

* * *

Russell

There have been only a handful of times in my life when I’ve been struck speechless, and until today, all of them had to do with my son, Paul—his birth, the first time he called me Daddy , his first steps, his kindergarten and then high school graduations, and his acceptance into one of the top universities in Texas.

Today, though, I was struck speechless by the sight of the new waitress with her big brown doe eyes and her too-tight pink uniform when she stepped inside the diner. The tips of my ears turned hot, and my forty-nine-year-old heart palpitated. It was a scary reminder of my age and how inappropriate it was to stare at the girl in such a way, knowing she had to be only a few years older than my son. It was shameful to realize that my ex-wife and I never elicited the same reaction from each other, though I know her current husband still does, even after having just celebrated their seventeenth wedding anniversary.

Then there was the swift kick in the balls when I found out Layla is already spoken for by one of my employees—a cocky, immature little shit who Jared has already written up twice after catching him smoking inside the warehouse.

I’m being an immature little shit myself as I stomp past Steven at the warehouse toward Davis going over his pre-inspection, circling one of my eighteen-wheelers with BERENSON TRUCKING painted in tall red letters across the white trailer before he heads out on the road for the next five weeks. I started this company after my divorce with just two trucks, delivering goods locally, and have since grown to owning and operating thirty trucks making deliveries across the country with no plans to let up on expansion. Berenson might have been the poor last name my father handed down to Elliott and me, but it’s now the heart of this county, providing good jobs and good pay, and I couldn’t be prouder.

“Hey, boss.” Davis tips his brim at me, signing off on the bottom of a form on his clipboard. “I’m just about done here.”

I’m distracted as we go over a few logistics, and I do a double- take when Davis cracks a teasing grin, hooking his thumbs behind his silver belt buckle.

I cross my arms, straightening my back. At six-foot-three, we’re evenly matched in height. “Got something to say to me, son?” I cringe immediately, and my shoulders drop, not knowing when I became the old fart who started calling younger men—much less men in their early thirties like Davis— son .

Davis subtly nods toward Steven, who’s taken a seat on a stepladder, scrolling through his phone when he’s supposed to be scrubbing down a trailer. “You got competition, old man.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“The pretty little waitress you were sweet on.”

I work my jaw. “Shut the fuck up, I was not.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

“And don’t call her pretty.”

Davis chuckles, turning his baseball hat backward on his head. “Why not? I’m single. She’s—”

“Not. End of discussion.”

Davis leans back against his truck in his plaid button-down tucked into dark jeans. It irks me that he’s a young, good lookin’ son of a gun, undoubtedly the one who made sweet Layla’s cheeks turn pink when she came to our table this morning.

“I was going to say she’s making a mistake tying herself to Steven over there. With his work ethic and shit-stain personality, I doubt he has what it takes to take care of her.”

I sigh and run my hand through my dark hair that started graying a few years ago, losing some of my gruffness. “So you noticed how thin and pale she was, too.” None of that detracted from how pretty she is, but it was certainly concerning. It doesn’t take a medical degree to figure out something’s going on with her.

“Yes, sir. If she were Dolly, Wyatt would have a conniption about her working.”

Wyatt is famous around these parts for how obsessed he is with Dolly—a runaway hitchhiker he picked up from a truck stop a few states away. They’ve had a whirlwind romance, and ever since, the old-timers at the diner have had a running bet on who will get caught up in the whirlwind next. My money’s on Davis, who switched with Wyatt from local to long-hauling so Wyatt could come home to his woman every night. It’ll be over my dead body that he thinks to make moves on Layla, though.

“And if Steven won’t be the kind of man she needs,” Davis says, crossing his square-toe cowboy boots, “then maybe I’ll have to step in and step up.”

I jam my index finger in his chest. “Don’t you think for a second I’m going to let you get anywhere near her, you hear me?”

Instead of getting pissed, Davis laughs. “Why? You have some kind of claim on her already, old man?”

I curl my lip. “No. She’s young enough to be my daughter.” My cock jerks just thinking of her. “That’s sick.”

Davis sucks his front teeth, about to open his mouth to say something, but I’m done with this conversation. I check my gold wristwatch, something else Davis likes to tease me about since I prefer it over my cell phone. “Time for you to get going, son.” I close my eyes, regretting my choice of words again, even before Davis starts chuckling.

I step back so Davis can climb into the red truck cab. After starting the rig, he rolls down his window and says loudly enough for me to hear over the rumbling diesel engine, “Tell your woman I said ‘hi’ the next time you see her.”

“She’s not my woman,” I grumble, but he’s already rolled the window up, slowly pulling away from the loading dock.

As soon as Davis turns left out of the lot, I bark at Steven, “Get off your ass and get back to work.” I turn toward my office at the front left of the warehouse, but not before I see Steven sneer. The boy won’t last long here or anywhere else, I’m guessing, and then where will Layla be? My stomach drops thinking of what the next twenty years will look like for her if they get married and he loses job after job. Will she be the one taking care of him instead of the other way around?

Not on my watch.

* * *

With it being Dolly’s day off and Davis and Elliott back out on the road, it’s just me having breakfast at Granny’s the next morning. I tell myself I came here for the coffee since the kind Jared keeps stocked at work is bitter and disgusting, but it’s a lie. I sit at my usual table along the back wall of the diner facing the door, tapping my fingers on the tabletop, sipping my third cup of coffee before Layla comes rushing in and disappears into the back employee area.

Two minutes later, she exits behind Violet, tying her cute apron around her thin waist. My blood pumps hot in my veins as the women make their rounds, and my heart does that worrisome palpitation thing again when they get to my table.

Amused, Violet says, “It’s been thirty minutes. Are you ready to order yet?”

I nod, and Layla sets the coffee pots down to pull her notepad and pen from her apron pocket. “What can I get ya?”

The tips of my ears burn as I trace her small features, and I’m pretty sure my mouth is moving, but I don’t know what I’m saying.

Violet sucks in her cheeks, standing just behind Layla, trying not to laugh. “Are you trying to say you want the usual?”

I grunt, and Violet translates, explaining how to write my regular breakfast order in shorthand. And then, good god , the top button of Layla’s uniform flies across the table, pinging my forehead. Almost immediately, the second button goes flying, hitting my chin.

“Oh my freaking god!” she yells, her big doe eyes even bigger. She bends over the table to pluck the buttons that have stuck to my skin from the heat in the diner with her soft fingertips, giving me a view of her tits about to spill out of her lavender-colored bra.

I make some kind of strangled noise, the likes of which I’ve never heard a grown man make.

Layla’s brows crease in the middle with worry when she stands, fidgeting with the buttons she’ll need to sew back onto her uniform. “Are you ok?”

I suck in a harsh breath, trying to find my words as I grip the edges of the table to keep from doing something stupid, like reaching for her and pulling her down on my lap.

“Um, do I need to call someone for you…or an ambulance?” When I tug at the collar of my T-shirt, trying to find some air, her eyes flare at Violet. “What do I do?”

Violet is just as concerned. “I don’t know. Maybe he has some kind of heart problem.” She pulls her phone from her apron and unlocks it.

When Layla shifts from foot to foot, her tits jiggle, and my cock strains against my zipper. “I’m fine,” I say hoarsely, standing before Violet finishes dialing 9-1-1. I throw a stack of dollar bills—I don’t know how many—on the table and swerve around the women, barging out of the diner in my steel-toe boots, gulping fresh air. I spin when the door creaks open and closed behind me. Layla .

“Russell, wait. Here,” she says, jumping down the two short steps and crossing the gravel parking lot, holding up the wad of cash. “Violet said you overpaid for your coffee.” Goosebumps pepper her arms, and I’d bet every last cent I have that her nipples are hard from the cold, too.

“Davis said to tell you that he says ‘hi’,” I blurt for some reason, trying my damnedest to be respectful and not to look at her cleavage like my dick is begging me to.

“Oh.” She taps her chin. “Which one is Davis again?”

Her question is more refreshing than the morning chill on my heated skin.

I nod to the cash with satisfaction. “Keep the change, darlin’.”

“But I didn’t earn it.”

Oh, but you did , I think to myself when I get into my dually instead of arguing further. She earned every penny just by remembering my name and not Davis’s.