2. Clara
CLARA
Tears sting my eyes, and a lump I can barely swallow around sits heavily in my throat I as I walk out into the blistering heat of the sun, burning from high in the hazy sky.
Fucking Texas. Hotter than Satan’s taint and it’s only April.
I navigate the parking lot, dodging cars and wayward buggies, holding Billie’s hand, Tom holding her other hand, until we come to the car.
This fucking car. I swear, I could light it on fire and revel as it burns to nothing but a shell.
But, of course, I can’t. I need this damn car to last us long enough to get to wherever the hell we’re going. Christ, I don’t even know anymore.
The plan had been to get as far away from West Virginia as we could.
The east coast wasn’t far enough, so we headed west. San Diego looks good this time of year.
But then, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Arkansas, the engine wouldn’t start after we stopped for a bathroom break.
I know nothing about cars. Less than nothing, probably.
All I knew was that the tank was still three-quarters full, so we weren’t out of gas.
But that was the extent of my mechanical expertise.
Thankfully, we were at a truck stop, and one of the friendly truck drivers was able to take his eyes off my tits long enough to take a look under the hood.
“Looks like your starter motor, darlin’,” he’d said, to my chest.
Eight hundred bucks later, plus the cost of an extra night in a motel I hadn’t budgeted for, we were on the road again. Only now, here we are in god knows where, Texas, unable to risk going any further until I can make us some more money.
“I’m sorry, kids,” I say to Tom and Billie, unlocking the car.
And I am sorry. I’m sorry for everything.
Sorry, and terrified because even if he never finds us, even if it’s only just the three of us from now on, I’m scared that one day my babies—the two souls that each own a half of my heart—are going to look back on these days, and they’re going to hate me for the mistakes I made, for the mess I got them into.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Tom mutters, helping a sniffling Billie into her booster seat.
Shaking my head, I pull open the trunk, placing the grocery items inside.
My stomach roils as I look at all we got.
Things we couldn’t do without, like toothpaste, and washing detergent, ramen, and hot dogs.
God, it’s only the no-name brands—the cheapest off the shelf—but with the war going on, things are so goddamn expensive nowadays.
I take a moment to try and ease my racing heart, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes to relieve the pressure building behind them.
I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have one hundred and fifty dollars left to my name. We can’t sleep in the car tonight. Not again. I don’t have the excuse of not being near a motel like I was able to use the last two nights. We drove by three motor-inns on the way into this damn hell hole.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
I jump from the deep, unexpected voice that drawls from behind me, spinning around with a gasp to find a man standing right there. Far too close for my liking. With a shuddered exhale, I take a step back, putting as much space as I can between us.
“I’m sorry,” the man says, holding up a hand as if to placate my obvious unease. “I-I didn’t mean to startle you. You… forgot these.”
When I notice the grocery bag he’s holding up between us, my brows knit together with confusion when I see the contents are the items I left inside, the ones I couldn’t afford, that damn dog poking out the very top.
“We didn’t—those are not ours,” I finally say, my words resolute as I look at the man again, taking him in.
He’s young. Younger than me, at least. Probably twenty-something.
Tall. Wide shoulders cause the black T-shirt he’s wearing to stretch tight across his broad chest. The cowboy hat perched on top of his head casts a shadow over his face, but blue eyes cut through the darkness, and they’re almost piercing when they meet mine.
His lips quirk behind a neatly trimmed mustache, hiding the hint of a smile that causes a set of dimples to ghost his cheeks.
He’s obviously handsome. But I get the distinct feeling that he knows it.
“It’s okay, you can trust me.” He takes another step closer.
“No.” I shake my head again, because I can’t trust him—I can’t trust anyone—and I can’t accept whatever it is he’s offering. I won’t. “I-I—”
“Mom?”
I startle, turning to see Tom standing behind me, looking from me to the man to the bag and back again, his little chest puffed out all protective. “Is everything okay?”
The man’s eyes narrow a touch as he looks down at Tom, his face turning white like he’s seen a ghost or something. My heart lurches up into the back of my throat because I immediately assume that means he knows. I don’t know how, or why, but he knows.
“Tommy get in the car,” I whisper.
The man clears his throat, that dimpled grin returning. “Your mom forgot these,” he says, indicating the plastic bag he’s still holding.
“We don’t want those,” I bite back, acting a hell of a lot tougher than I feel on the inside, that’s for damn sure. “We don’t want anything.”
The man purses his lips, looking down at the bag contemplatively before glancing toward the car. When he’s not looking, I reach a hand behind me, stopping Tommy from getting any closer.
“Well,” he starts, his voice a little louder as he digs his hand into the bag and pulls out that godforsaken dog. “I guess if y’all don’t want these, I’ll just have to give ’em to—”
“My doggy!”
I close my eyes and release a heavy sigh at the sound of Billie’s delighted squeal coming from inside the car. Great. Before I can tell her no, her door swings open and she’s bounding out all excited and so damn innocent it cracks my heart.
The man’s eyes flit to me, a flicker of smugness flashing in his gaze as he looks down at Billie, her grabby hands held up in the air.
“This yours?” He holds the dog out to her, quirking a brow.
She nods so fast it causes her wild blonde curls to bounce up and down.
He tugs the dog back, holding it to his chest, eyeing her dubiously. “What’s his name?”
“Hmm.” Billie hums out loud as she ponders, little rosebud lips twisted to the side. “Curly.”
“Curly?” the man balks incredulously. “Well, I’d have gone for something like Tank or Killer, but I guess Curly’ll do.” He hands Billie the fluffy mastiff, and she squeals again, clutching it to her cheek and openly swooning.
“Thank you, Mister!”
“Mister?” He scoffs, but then he tips his hat and nods. “You’re welcome, Miss.”
The man turns back to me then, a knowing look in his eyes as he retrieves the Butterfinger bar from the bag and holds it out, dangling it in Tom’s direction.
Tom looks up at me, like he isn’t sure, but it’s not like I can take the dog back from Billie now.
So, it’s only fair he gets his candy fill.
With a roll of my eyes, I nod once, and his little face lights up.
But as he approaches the man, he’s tentative, wary, so unlike Billie as he accepts the candy bar with a murmured, “Thanks,” before scurrying to his sister and ushering her back into the car.
“Thank you,” I say flatly, turning away from the man to finish organizing the trunk. And I expect him to leave—good deed done—but he doesn’t. He lingers. And I’m fully aware of him standing right there, anxiety swirling in my chest.
“So,” he says. “What brings y’all to Summer?”
I don’t answer. Not only because it’s none of his business, but I don’t have a lie made up yet. I need to get my story straight, and I need to relay it to the kids so that they don’t accidentally blow our cover.
“Long way from West Virginia.”
At that, I snap my head up, fight or flight mode kicking up a notch deep inside my gut.
Spinning around, I take a step closer to the man, glaring up at him all while my heart races. “Are you a cop?” I ask, searching his person for a badge. But all he’s got is some ridiculous, shiny belt buckle that’s almost as big as a dinner plate. “Because legally you need to tell me if you are.”
“I-I… don’t actually think that’s true, but no—” He chuckles, holding his muscular, tattooed arms out either side of him. “I mean, no offense to the law, but do I look like a damn cop?”
“How do you know where we’re from?” I press, trying to act calm when all I keep imagining is that he’s a member of a Texas chapter of the club, and this is his way of keeping us here, stalling. In a matter of minutes, a bunch of leather-clad bikers will probably pull into the parking lot and—
“Your license plate, ma’am.” The man’s words interrupt my thoughts, and I catch the smirk he bites back.
My gaze dips to where his calloused finger is pointing. To the license plate that clearly says West Virginia. Way to play it cool, Clara. I barely contain my own grimace, keeping my chin held high in a show of confidence I sure as shit don’t feel on the inside.
“Cole Dawson.” The man grins, holding his hand out.
I don’t shake it. Just give it a look of indifference before meeting his eyes and arching one of my brows, impatiently tapping my foot.
Retracting his proffered hand, Cole clears his throat, and then he takes another step closer to me, dipping his head and lowering his voice as he says, “You need help?”
When I realize what he’s asking, and exactly where his gaze has settled, it’s only then that I remember my bruises.
It’s hot as hell down this way of the world, even in April, and my tank top fails to conceal much, but I thought they’d faded enough.
Obviously not. I swallow hard, averting my gaze and looking down, tugging my ball cap a little lower to shield what I can.
“I’m fine,” I say so quietly I’m not sure he hears me.
Cole pulls back, and I peer up at him again, noticing an unfamiliar look flash in his gaze, the firm set of his jaw that causes a muscle to tic in his cheek. “You guys got a place to stay?”
I nod, hoping like hell one of the motels in town has a vacancy.
“It ain’t safe out here to be sleepin’ in your car.”
At that, I take a step to the side, trying to hide the obvious pillows and blankets shoved into the trunk. “We’re not sleeping in the car,” I mutter, feeling simultaneously offended and guilty for putting the kids in any kind of danger the last two nights.
Cole nods, but he says nothing, one eye narrowing as he looks down at me like he doesn’t believe a word I say.
Then, reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet, plucking a piece of paper out of one of the slits and handing it to me.
It looks like a receipt from the Stop and Shop and I quirk a brow again, hoping he doesn’t expect me to reimburse him.
“I wrote my number on the back.”
I fold my arms across my chest, refusing to accept it.
He sighs and drops the receipt into the plastic bag before taking out a big value pack of Nicorette I know I sure as hell didn’t leave behind on that counter.
Placing the bag into the trunk of my car, Cole takes a few steps back, still looking at me in a way that makes me feel almost naked, vulnerable in the worst kind of way.
“Why do you care?” I find myself asking, even though I know I shouldn’t.
Cole sniffs and removes his hat to rake his fingers through a mop of wavy dark hair as he glances up at the dull blue sky, tinged with the haze of dust that lingers in the air. Replacing his hat, he tips it down a touch.
“This is Texas, ma’am,” he says with a casual shrug of one of his broad shoulders. “Believe it or not, we actually give a damn about one another down here.”
With another tip of his hat, his gaze does one final assessment of me, raking over me slowly from my head to my toes before meeting my eyes, and with a curt smile, he turns and walks away.
I watch as he swaggers a little arrogantly through the parking lot to a big black shiny truck with what looks like the image of a snake emblazoned across the side of it.
And it isn’t until I know he’s gone, the loud rumbling of the engine fading off down the street, that I turn to the plastic bag and open it, pulling out the receipt and reading the messy scrawl written on the back:
Cole 806 555-5643