Chapter 3
The moment their rig—no, the rig—rolled into the massive truck stop, Kota’s stomach growled loudly, making him grimace. The smell of diesel, hot asphalt, and fried food drifted in through the vents, making his hunger sharpen into something almost painful.
Walker snickered at the rumble. “There’s a diner here. We’ll grab something to eat before we bed down for the night. Okay?”
Kota wanted to weep at the idea of a meal of any kind. How long had it been since he’d eaten? Probably not that long ago, but it felt like decades. Like his entire life before climbing into this truck had happened to someone else.
“Can I shower afterwards?” Kota asked, eyes locking on the shower sign lit up beside the large building. “Does it cost a lot?”
“I got credits,” Walker said. “We’ll shower after we get some food in you.”
Kota felt a flash of guilt over having no money to contribute. He had only a couple days’ worth of clothes, an empty wallet, and a flip phone that had likely been dead for hours. Everything he owned could fit into a backpack. It was a depressing realization.
“What time is it, anyway?” Kota asked around a yawn.
“Early,” Walker said vaguely. “Or late, I guess. Depending on your point of view.”
It had been dark when Kota had left with that Early guy. It was still dark outside. It was starting to feel like some kind of endless night in a horror movie.
Walker donned a backwards baseball cap and grinned at Kota a moment before he opened his door and hopped down from the truck, his boots scraping on asphalt. Kota could still hear the low hum of a motor. Walker must leave it on for Cake, so she doesn’t get too hot or too cold.
The thought made something warm unfurl in his chest. A professional killer who remembered to keep his cat comfortable. The contradiction should have been alarming. Instead, it was weirdly endearing.
Kota didn’t realize he’d just been sitting there until his door popped open and he almost tumbled out. Walker caught him easily, setting him on his feet with no effort.
One second, he was falling, the next he was wrapped in solid muscle and steady hands.
“I could’ve done it myself,” Kota mumbled.
Walker smirked at him. “Given your earlier exit from Early’s vehicle, I wasn’t taking any chances. You’re not exactly graceful.”
Kota flushed until his ears burned. “You’re hilarious,” he snarked.
Walker didn’t retort, just started whistling a jaunty tune. Only then did Kota have time to read the words on the cap he was wearing.
My Cat Thinks I’m Cool.
Liar.
Kota barely knew Walker or Carrot Cake, but he could say with confidence that the fat orange cat merely tolerated Walker’s presence, which was a miracle in itself given Walker’s personality.
Though, Kota wasn’t really one to talk. Nobody had ever thought he was cool, whether they walked on four legs or two.
Walker held the clear glass door of the large building open for him, arm perched high, forcing Kota to walk beneath it, like he was trying to reinforce to him just how small he was in comparison.
Kota glowered at him as he passed, earning another smirk and a cheeky wink that he couldn’t help but think was Walker playing to their audience.
Still, when they brushed against each other, Kota’s whole body tingled.
His skin felt overly aware of the older man’s presence, every accidental touch lingering longer than it should have.
Kota had never been so instantly attracted to or entranced by another person before.
Walker was like gravity, keeping Kota tethered to him.
They stopped at the counter and requested to use the showers, then booked a time slot for an hour later. Kota couldn’t help but note that Walker only booked one. Maybe he hadn’t planned on showering? Or maybe he wanted them to shower together?
The thought hit him so suddenly he nearly choked on absolutely nothing. His face immediately started heating.
Walker glanced at him. “You okay?”
“Yep.”
“You look like you’re having a stroke.”
“I’m fine,” Kota lied.
Walker’s mouth twitched suspiciously.
Kota glanced around, noting that the diner was pretty busy despite the early morning hours.
There was a group of men sitting around a large table towards the back.
Some had plates with piles of food, while some just nursed beverages.
The air smelled like burnt coffee, fryer grease, and syrup, all of it layered over the faint diesel stink clinging to everyone who came through the door.
There were a few solitary truckers staring into their cups, like the black sludge within was a scrying mirror and not three-day-old coffee.
Kota noticed a plump older lady in a t-shirt and jeans, her long gray tresses caught up in a bedazzled pearl-encrusted hair clip, sitting beside a man of similar age and build.
They were in a deep discussion about a girl named Kinsey, who was apparently their granddaughter.
“You’re staring,” Walker said, amusement evident.
“Her hair clip is so fancy.”
Walker laughed again, shaking his head like he found Kota hilarious. He led them to a booth far in the back, close to the windows, away from the various groups dotted around the large space.
Of course, he did. A professional killer probably didn’t like having his back to a room.
If the diner had a name other than the truck stop itself, Kota hadn’t noticed it, but as they sat, he couldn’t help but note the mustard yellow and rust color scheme that made him feel a bit queasy. Or maybe that was just the murder-adjacent road trip catching up with him.
Hard to say.
Before he could ponder it for long, a woman breezed up to the table in a pair of black pants and a polo shirt that bore the same nauseating colors.
She smiled at Walker when she saw him, revealing a crooked yellow front tooth.
“Well, hey, there, Tex,” she said, her thick accent making Kota wonder where exactly they were on the map.
“Haven’t seen you here in a dog’s age. I thought you died. ”
He’d never heard someone turn the word died into two syllables before.
“Hey, there, Gem. I’m still alive. Barely.
How ya been?” Walker asked, with a casual laziness Kota had yet to witness in his short time with the older man.
It was strange seeing him like this—relaxed, familiar, almost charming.
Like there were versions of Walker other people got that Kota hadn’t known existed yet.
“Same shit, different day,” she fired back, plopping down two comically large menus covered in sticky laminate. “Who’s this youngin’?”
“This is Kota,” Walker said. “I’m giving him a ride to the West Coast.”
“LA?” she asked. “You look like one of those pretty boy Hollywood types.”
Kota snorted in disbelief. “Me? Hardly. I can barely remember my own social security number, much less a whole script.”
She gave a dry cackle that had all eyes on them for an exaggerated moment. Kota sank a little lower in the booth, heat crawling up his neck. “Fair enough, Hollywood. What can I getcha all to drink?”
“Can I just get water?” Kota asked timidly.
Walker raised a brow at him. “Do you actually want water?”
“Yeah?” he said, like it was a question.
“Order something else, too,” Walker said, seeing through his obvious lie.
Kota shook his head. “It’s alright.”
Walker sighed, giving him an irritated look. “I told you I’d take care of you until we reached our final destination. Order something else or I’m gonna order you chocolate milk in a sippy cup.”
Kota choked on his own indignant squawk, face turning pink. The worst part was, based on Walker’s expression, he absolutely would. “Diet Coke, please.”
“You got it, Hollywood,” she said. “And for you, sexy?”
Walker gave her a flirty look that instantly set Kota’s teeth on edge. The reaction startled him—sharp, ugly, and completely unreasonable. He had known this man for less than a day. He did not get to feel possessive. “You know what I want, Gem.”
“Coffee so strong you can stand a spoon up in it?” she asked.
“Exactly.”
“One Diet Coke, one Satan’s special, comin’ up,” she said, then disappeared.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Kota leaned forward across the table. “Is her accent real?”
“Not sure,” Walker admitted with a shrug. “Seems rude to ask.”
That somehow made Kota laugh. A professional killer drawing the line at being impolite.
Outside, trucks were lined up, exhaust making the air seem smoky. There was a heaviness to it. Like the weather was about to turn. Kota could feel it.
Gem returned with their drinks and took their orders. Walker ordered an omelette the size of Kota’s forearm, and Kota ordered french toast that was honestly far too good for the cost.
The smell alone had his mouth watering. Warm cinnamon, butter, maple syrup. His stomach cramped painfully, reminding him just how long it had been since he’d had a proper meal.
When they were finally alone, they ate in silence, one of Walker’s boots pressing against Kota’s sneakered foot beneath the table, the other propped beside Kota’s thigh on the booth. It felt oddly intimate given that they were strangers.
Not strangers, exactly. But certainly not friends. Trauma-bonded, maybe.
“Tell me something about yourself,” Walker said.
“Like…” Kota hedged.
“Anything. Dazzle me,” Walker teased.
“There’s nothing dazzling about me. I’m a high school dropout with too much anxiety and not enough Lexapro. You?”
“I’m a trucker who has a…unique side hustle,” Walker answered.
“A unique side hustle is selling feet pics or being mean to losers on the internet for money,” Kota said. “I’m pretty sure the trucker part is your side hustle and the…other thing…is your real job.”
Walker chuckled. “What do you know about feet pics and fin dom?”
“Apparently not as much as you,” Kota said, feeling out of sorts suddenly.