Chapter 15 Bitsy #2
Once the clothes were dried, she spent an extra twenty minutes carefully folding them and hanging the blouses and blazer on the plastic hangers she had salvaged.
Lennon’s coat came out pristine, the deep black wool looking heavy, rich, and entirely revitalized.
She smoothed it down carefully, draping it over the back seat of her car so it wouldn't wrinkle.
By the time she pulled into the sprawling gravel lot of the TA Truck Stop on the interstate corridor, the afternoon sun was already sinking into a weak, bruised purple horizon.
The truck stop was a massive, self-contained ecosystem. Huge diesel rigs idled in long, roaring rows; their exhaust pipes sending white plumes of steam into the twilight. Bitsy walked inside the main travel center, navigating past rows of electronics and heavy-duty trucking gear to the shower desk.
"One shower, please," she told the burly man behind the counter.
"Ten bucks," the burly man behind the counter said, grunting as he input the cash transaction. He handed her a receipt with a printed number. "We’re running a bit of a wait, hun. Probably twenty minutes. We’ll call your number over the loudspeaker when a stall opens up."
"Thank you," she murmured, her fingers curling tightly around the slip of paper. She looked down at the bold, black ink printing her assigned number—forty-two—and memorized it instantly, holding the ticket like a lifeline.
She took her old duffle bag containing her clean clothes and walked over to the driver's lounge area.
Finding a quiet booth in the corner, away from a group of drivers watching a football game on a mounted television, she sat down.
She pulled the sleek, heavy silver laptop Wyatt had given her out of her bag.
The truck stop offered free high-speed Wi-Fi for drivers, and within seconds, the premium terminal was connected.
The screen was incredibly crisp, the processing speed unlike anything she had ever used.
Her fingers danced across the trackpad out of pure, deep-seated habit, pulling up public real estate indices and zoning registries for the Bridgeport metropolitan area.
Her mind automatically began evaluating data sets, filtering commercial property values against industrial expansion grids.
It was intoxicating. For a few minutes, the weight of being homeless and terrified vanished behind the cold, clean logic of predictive scripting.
Then, a sudden, violent memory slammed into her consciousness.
Keep the laptop closed this weekend.
Wyatt’s voice echoed so clearly in her head that she practically jumped.
Her heart leaped into her throat, her chest heaving as she stared at the glowing screen.
He had explicitly told her to leave it alone.
He had given her a clear directive, and here she was, violating it because she couldn't control her own hyper-vigilant compulsion.
A wave of intense guilt and panic washed over her.
Even though he wasn't here, even though there was no possible way he could see her sitting in a truck stop lounge through the encrypted hardware, she felt like she had shattered a fragile glass boundary.
She had broken his trust before her first official day even started.
With a sharp, frantic snap, she slammed the laptop lid shut. Her hands were shaking as she shoved the silver machine back into her bag, zipping it securely. She swallowed hard, forcing her eyes down to her lap, her knuckles white as she gripped her own knees.
"Number forty-two, your suite is now ready. Number forty-two."
Bitsy stood up instantly, her legs slightly weak as she grabbed her bag and walk down the secure, tiled hallway behind the counter. She scanned her receipt at the electronic lock of Suite 7 and stepped inside, clicking the heavy deadbolt shut behind her.
The room was clean, smelling strongly of industrial bleach and pine cleaner.
It was basic—a standard plastic shower stall, a porcelain toilet, a small sink with a large mirror, and a stack of rough, white towels sealed in plastic.
To anyone else, it was a utilitarian pit stop on a long haul.
To Bitsy, it was a five-star luxury resort.
She stripped off her worn clothes, her body shivering against the cooler air of the room before she stepped into the stall and turned the dial completely to the red.
The water pressure was incredible, a hard, scalding stream that hit her back and immediately began to melt away the agonizing knots of the previous night.
Bitsy closed her eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath as the steam filled the room, obscuring the mirror and the tiled walls until she was entirely alone in a warm, white cocoon.
She used her cheap shampoo, working it into a thick lather, scrubbing her scalp until her skin tingled.
She took her time, carefully shaving her legs and underarms, utilizing every single drop of her allotted forty-five minutes.
She didn't want to leave. The hot water felt like a physical shield against the reality waiting for her outside the door.
When she finally turned off the valve, her skin was flushed a deep, healthy pink. She dried off with the rough towels, combed through her damp hair, and pulled on a set of clean, soft sweatpants and her last remaining comfortable hoodie.
Walking back out into the main building area, she felt ten pounds lighter, though her stomach was rumbling again. She walked over to the glass hot cases near the register, checking her remaining cash before ordering a single, thick slice of pepperoni pizza wrapped in a cardboard sleeve.
Carrying her dinner, she went back out to her car.
The night had completely set in now, the temperature hovering well below freezing as she drove away from the bright lights of the interstate, navigating back toward the familiar, shadowed streets where she usually slept.
She always made sure to change up her parking location periodically to avoid drawing security's attention, shifting between a few different lots.
Tonight, she was tracking back to her primary standby: a large, 24-hour grocery store lot.
It was busy enough that a parked car wouldn't look completely out of place, yet quiet enough in the late hours that she could tuck herself into a far, unlit corner of the pavement away from the main entrance traffic.
She killed the headlights, letting the car coast into the deep shadow of an overgrown chain-link fence.
She kept the engine running just long enough to eat, pulling the greasy slice of pizza from its sleeve.
It was lukewarm now, the cheese slightly congealed, but she chewed slowly, reserving the substance of it while the small brown teddy bear sat propped against the dashboard, his black plastic eyes staring blankly back at her.
She had just swallowed her last bite when the phone on her passenger seat suddenly vibrated, the screen flashing bright against the upholstery.
Bitsy froze, her napkin pressed to her lips.
It was a text from Wyatt.
You didn’t acknowledge my message last night. Report in. Did you eat?
Bitsy stared at the words, her throat going completely dry.
Report in. It was so aggressively commanding, so entirely devoid of corporate pleasantries that it made her chest heave with a chaotic mix of panic and an incredibly strange, buried sense of warmth.
He was checking on her. He was tracking her silence.
She picked up the device, her thumbs hovering over the virtual keyboard as she tried to construct a response that sounded normal, professional, and entirely unbothered.
Yes, Mr. Calder. I received your message. I apologize for the delay. I am fine—