Chapter 2
The pounding in my head wasn’t getting better.
It had started back at the gas station with Rhett.
Idiot thought he could slip out of my truck while I was filling it and make a run for it. Like I wouldn’t notice. Like ducking into a convenience store would somehow make him invisible.
I’d seen a lot of stupid over the years.
That ranked high.
What hadn't helped was the pretty little distraction standing in front of me, looking up with those wide, startled eyes like he'd accidentally wandered into the wrong movie.
For the briefest of moments, I thought he would hurt the boy with the clear green eyes and sexy dimples, and my heart had stuttered. Actually stuttered. I didn't like that. It was a new reaction for me, but something I quickly squashed down as far as I could so I could focus on the job.
Thankfully, after that, it was simple.
Drive.
Station.
Paperwork.
Done.
As always the paperwork took longer than the job.
By the time I got back on the road, I’d been awake for over twenty-four hours, and the headache had settled in behind my eyes. Not that I had time for a headache, or the nap required to get rid of it. I had another job lined up.
Milo Graves.
Last sighting put him about a day’s ride away from me, which meant I didn’t have time to waste.
I’d call it in later, see if the office had anything new.
For now, I drove. Drove and thought of that damned boy who'd waved—waved!
—at me during a fucking take down. He had a fucking death wish, wandering blindly into situations like that with no awareness or sense.
I exhaled slowly as I focused on the road, letting Lynyrd Skynyrd soothe my soul. I would not think about him and all the dirty things I would do to him.
A figure appeared up ahead. He was walking at a casual pace, with a backpack slung over his shoulder. I barely spared him a glance at first.
Then I did a double-take.
No. Fucking hell, no!
The boy.
The boy who was just too damned delicious for his own good.
I stared at him as I drove closer, disbelief settling in slow and heavy.
You've got to be kidding me.
He was alone. On the side of a highway. Like that was a normal thing to be doing for him.
I should have realized! But dammit, I was too distracted to make the connection at the gas station... but there wasn't another car outside. Which could only mean the boy had been a hitchhiker.
And finding him at the side of the road now proved it.
Could he be any more clueless?
For the briefest of moments, I debated driving past him. He wasn't my responsibility or problem. And he'd made it this far, so he'd figure it out.
Or someone else could pick him up.
Someone worse than me.
My jaw tightened.
Fuck. Mother fucking, fucker.
I drove past him, not slowing down, and I refused to allow myself to look back. For a whole ten seconds. Max fifteen.
"Damn it," I muttered as I hit the indicator and pulled the car over. The entire time while I waited, I seethed and tried to get a handle on my irrational anger as I figured out what I was going to say to him. Nothing came to mind that didn't involve telling him he was an idiot.
The passenger door opened before I'd settled on anything. He leaned in, smiling like we were old friends. "Well! If it isn't Mr. Batman himself. What a lovely surprise. Where ya headed, handsome?"
I lost it.
Not my temper, my complete train of thought.
I couldn't form a single word, let alone a sentence.
There was a pause that stretched out embarrassingly long while he waited for me to respond.
"Get in the damned truck," I finally barked.
He jumped slightly at the loud snap of my voice, but his smile didn't dim for a moment.
The door shut with a solid thud. He didn't hesitate or pause for a moment. Just climbed in like he'd done it a hundred times before, setting his backpack carefully at his feet before buckling his seatbelt with quick, practiced movements.
At least he did that right.
I pulled back onto the road without a word.
Silence settled in the cab. Briefly.
"Hi, again," he said.
I grunted.
That should have been the end of it.
"I'm Alfie," he continued, like we were exchanging pleasantries over coffee instead of two strangers hurtling down the highway. "Well, Alfred, technically, but only when I'm in trouble or filling out forms, and I don't think I'm doing either right now, so Alfie should do."
I kept my eyes on the road. Alfie was an utterly ridiculous name for a grown man, yet somehow it fit him perfectly.
"Thanks for stopping by the way," he added. "I was starting to think I might have to walk all the way to the next state line, and while I am committed to my journey, I feel like there's a limit to how much sweating one person needs to do in a single day."
I exhaled slowly through my nose. "Where are you headed?" I finally asked.
It was a mistake.
"Oh, that's a great question!" Alfie said immediately. "Short answer? Forward. General direction... hopeful. Specific destination?" he paused and shrugged. "Well, I suppose that's still a work in progress."
I glanced at him despite myself. He was looking out the windshield like that was a completely reasonable answer.
"You don't have a destination," I said flatly.
"You don't seem to have a name," he returned with a wide smile. "Plus, I didn't say I didn't have a destination. I just don't have it figured out yet. It's better that way, you know? That way you avoid disappointments and keep yourself open to happy surprises."
I didn't know what to do with him, so I focused back on the road. If he didn't want to give me a destination, I'd just kick him out when I got to my next stop and be done with it.
He shifted slightly in his seat, then turned toward me again.
"So," he said, bright as anything, "do you really not have a name, and if so, can I continue calling you Mr. Batman?
Because if I'm being honest, I'm quite fond of it.
It's very fitting. You've got that strong and mysterious thing down pat. "
"No."
"No... you don't have a name?" he asked.
I shot him a look that would normally cower even the seediest of criminals. And he smiled at me.
"Crowe," I finally responded.
He lit up.
“Crowe,” he repeated, like he was testing it.
“Oh, I like that. That’s a good name. Very—” he waved a hand vaguely, searching for the word “—solid. Slightly dramatic. In a cool way, not like theatre-kid dramatic. Although, to be fair, I do enjoy theatre, so that’s not an insult, just a clarification. ”
I clenched my jaw. How was he still talking?
“Is that your first name or your last name?” he asked.
“Last.”
“Oh! Okay. What’s your first name?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He hummed, like that was interesting rather than the end of the conversation.
“Okay,” he said easily. “Crowe it is.”
Silence.
I waited.
Maybe—hopefully—he was done.
“I have a blog,” Alfie announced.
Of course he did. I fought not to roll my eyes. And squashed that teensy seed of curiosity that tried to bubble up.
I also didn’t respond.
“It’s mostly travel stuff,” he went on despite my nonverbal queue for him to keep it to himself.
“Well. Travel-adjacent. It started as, like, documenting the journey, but then it sort of turned into advice and stories and occasionally warnings about gas station bathrooms, which, by the way, are wildly inconsistent and frankly deserve a rating system—”
“Boy.”
He stopped.
Blinking at me.
“Breathe,” I said.
There was a beat.
"That's so sweet!" he said, brightly.
I dragged a hand down my face.
This was a mistake.
Picking him up had been a mistake.
Letting him into the truck had been an error in judgement.
Engaging in conversation?
Catastrophic.
It was going to be a long damned drive.