Chapter 13
I notice the shift in him immediately.
Not because he does anything obvious. That would be easier to understand.
He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t stare in a way that feels invasive. He doesn’t make some ridiculous comment about my hair or act like the fact that I took off a terrible disguise suddenly changes the dynamic between us.
If anything, he reins himself in.
It’s subtle, almost impossible to catch if you aren’t paying attention, but I am always paying attention. I have learned how to read the smallest changes in a man’s posture, his breathing, the way his hands move when something in his head shifts.
Joker doesn’t look at me any longer than he did before.
He doesn’t lean closer. He doesn’t try to fill the space with anything unnecessary. But something tightens in him.
Something deliberate. Like he noticed something and decided, very quickly, that it would not matter. That should make me feel safer.
It does.
It also makes me more aware of him than I want to be. Because men who react loudly are predictable. Men who react quietly are not.
I shift slightly in the seat, tucking my legs closer beneath me, my fingers still buried in the sleeves of his sweatshirt. My hair falls forward over my shoulder again, and I resist the urge to fix it because I don’t want to draw attention to it now that it’s down.
Even though he hasn’t said anything. Even though he hasn’t made it a thing. That somehow makes it worse.
The road stretches on in front of us, endless and dark, the rhythm of the truck steady enough that my body is finally starting to believe we’re not about to slam into something. Lexi is still asleep in the backseat, Bunny tucked tight against her chest, her small breaths soft and even.
I glance back at her once, just to make sure. Then forward again.
“You drive like this a lot?” I ask, because the silence feels different now and I don’t want to fall back into the version of it that makes my nerves crawl.
Joker glances at me briefly, then back to the road. “Long stretches? Yeah.”
“For fun?”
“Sometimes.”
“That sounds…boring.”
His mouth shifts just slightly. “Depends who you’re trying to get away from or where you’re going.”
I huff a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh. “That feels like a loaded answer.”
“It’s not.”
“Feels like it.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Driving’s easy. Road’s predictable. People aren’t.”
That lands harder than I expect. I nod slowly. “That’s fair.”
A beat passes. Then another.
“Worst coffee you’ve ever had?” he asks.
The question is so random it throws me for a second. “What?”
“Gas station coffee,” he clarifies. “Worst one.”
I blink, then let out a small laugh. “Oh. That’s easy.”
“Yeah?”
“Middle of nowhere, Alabama. The kind of place where the lights flicker and you’re not entirely sure the coffee’s been changed since the Clinton administration.”
“That bad?”
“I took one sip and thought I might actually die.”
He snorts quietly. “You still drank it, though.”
“I was desperate.”
“That’s how they get you.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “What about you?”
“West Texas,” he says without hesitation. “Coffee tasted like burnt dirt and regret.”
“That’s…vivid.”
“It’s accurate.”
I laugh again, softer this time, but real. The sound feels strange in my own chest.
Unfamiliar.
Like something I used to do all the time and somehow forgot how.
We fall into a rhythm after that, conversation slipping a little easier between us with each mile. Nothing heavy. Nothing that feels like either of us is digging where we shouldn’t.
Just…talking.
He tells me he prefers older music when he’s driving, something about newer stuff trying too hard to be something it’s not.
I tell him I grew up listening to whatever my dad had playing in the garage, which meant a lot of rock, a lot of country, and the occasional song that probably should not have been played around a kid.
He asks about Lexi without making it feel like an interrogation.
“What’s her thing right now?” he says.
“Her thing?”
“Kids always have a thing. Phase. Obsession.”
I glance back at her, the way she’s curled around Bunny like it’s part of her. “Stuffed animals.”
“Yeah?”
“Not even one specific one. It rotates. But this one…” I nod toward Bunny. “This one’s stuck.”
“Security,” he says.
The word is simple.
Too simple.
But he says it like it’s obvious, like it doesn’t need to be explained, and something in my chest tightens again because he’s right.
“She takes it everywhere,” I say quietly. “Sleeps with it. Eats with it. Talks to it.”
“She trusts it.”
It’s not a question.
“No,” I admit. “She trusts that it won’t change.”
He nods once, like that makes sense to him. It probably does.
We ride like that for a while, the conversation threading in and out of silence without breaking, until I find myself asking something I hadn’t planned to.
“How’d you get your road name?” The second the question leaves my mouth, I wonder if I crossed a line.
But Joker doesn’t hesitate. “Had it before the club,” he says.
That surprises me. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
He exhales through his nose, like he’s debating whether to answer. Then he says, “Group home.”
I go still. That wasn’t what I expected.
“There was a kid,” he continues, voice even, eyes still on the road. “Big for his age. Thought that gave him the right to push people around.”
My fingers tighten slightly in the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
“He liked picking on Shadow,” Joker says. “Back then, Shadow hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet. Skinny, quiet. Easy target.”
I glance at him. There’s no emotion in his voice. But there’s something underneath it.
Memory.
“I stepped in,” he says simply. “Dropped the kid in one punch.”
My breath catches slightly. Of course he did.
“After that,” he continues, “he’s looking at me like he can’t figure out what just happened. We’d just had a Batman marathon that weekend.”
I feel something building in my chest, something unexpected.
“And I looked at him and said, ‘Why so serious?’”
There’s a beat. Then another.
And then I start laughing.
Not a polite laugh. Not a quiet one. A full, unexpected, can’t-stop-it laugh that hits me so hard I have to brace a hand against the dashboard because I actually can’t breathe for a second.
“Oh my God,” I manage between breaths. “You did not.”
“I did.”
“That’s—” I gasp, shaking my head. “That’s so bad.”
“It worked.”
“I can’t believe that’s how you got your name.”
“Could’ve been worse.”
“How?”
“They could’ve called me Penguin.”
That sets me off again. I lean forward slightly, laughing harder now, the sound filling the truck in a way that feels too loud and too bright for the life I’ve been living.
I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this.
Not forced. Not careful. Not measured.
Just…laughing.
It startles me even as it happens.
Because it feels good. Because it feels normal. Because for a few seconds, I forget everything else.
When I finally catch my breath, I sink back into the seat, pressing a hand to my chest.
“Okay,” I say, still smiling. “That was worth asking.”
Joker glances at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he looks back at the road. “Glad I could entertain you.”
“You did.” The words come out softer than I intend.
Something shifts again between us. Not uncomfortable. Just…real.
We drive in silence for a while after that, but it doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It feels like something settled into place.
Eventually, Joker signals and takes an exit. “We’re stopping,” he says.
My body reacts before my brain does. I grab the wig pulling it and the cap back on. Tension spikes sharp and immediate. Public. People. Exposure.
I sit up straighter, my eyes already scanning the gas station ahead, the dim lights, the cars parked near the pumps, the few figures moving in and out of the building. “I can wait,” I say quickly.
“You need anything?”
“No.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell me I should stretch my legs or use the bathroom or get fresh air. He just nods. “Alright.”
That alone eases something in me.
He pulls up to a pump and kills the engine. “Stay here,” he says.
It’s not a command. It’s a statement.
I nod.
He gets out, and I watch him through the windshield as he moves around the truck. He doesn’t look at anyone directly, but I can see the way his attention shifts, the way he positions himself without making it obvious.
He’s aware of everything.
The people at the other pump. The man near the entrance. The car that just pulled in.
He doesn’t hover. He doesn’t make a scene. He just exists in a way that makes it very clear that anyone paying attention should not get too comfortable near this truck. And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.
I keep my eyes down as much as I can, pretending to adjust something in my lap, my heart still beating too fast as people move in and out of the store.
Nobody approaches. Nobody looks too long. Nobody notices.
When Joker comes back, he opens the rear door first.
Lexi stirs immediately, her eyes fluttering open, confused and groggy.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
She blinks up at him, clutching Bunny tighter. “Where we?”
“Stopped for a minute.”
She frowns, still half asleep. “Okay.”
He reaches in and hands her a small juice box without making a big deal out of it. “Drink that.”
She takes it automatically, still blinking.
No fuss. No cooing. No over-explaining. Just…handling it.
I watch the whole thing like I’m seeing something I don’t quite understand.
He closes the door, walks around, and gets back in.
Lexi sips her juice quietly, still waking up. “You funny,” she says suddenly.
Joker glances in the mirror. “Yeah?”
“Gummy bear funny.”
“That’s my specialty.”
She nods like this is a very important conclusion. Then she settles back again, Bunny tucked under her chin, juice box still in her hand.
I stare at Joker for a second longer than I should. Because the way he handled that was so…easy.
So natural. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Just competence.
And something about that does something dangerous to my nervous system.
Because men like him are not supposed to be good with kids. Men like him are supposed to be rough, unpredictable, distant.
And yet—
He just took care of my daughter without making it a thing. Without making me feel like I owed him something for it. Without making her feel like she was a burden.
That matters more than it should.
He starts the truck again, and we pull back onto the road.
The darkness closes in around us once more, the gas station lights fading behind us like they never existed.
Lexi finishes her juice and falls asleep again not long after, Bunny still clutched tight in her arms.
I settle back into the seat, my body finally loosening in a way I don’t quite trust.
But it’s there. That feeling. Quiet. Unfamiliar.
As the miles stretch out ahead of us and the world outside the truck disappears into darkness again, I realize something slowly, carefully, like I’m afraid to say it too loudly and scare it away.
I feel safer here.
In this truck. With this man.
Than I have anywhere in a very long time.
And I don’t know what to do with that.