Page 65 of Jensen

“Nothing. We’re in West Virginia,” he says, wincing. “Getting closer. Do you need food?”

I release him, trying to pull myself together. “No, I’ll be okay.”

“Last chance before we stop for the night.”

“I’m fine.”

My eyes burn. I rub them, blinking hard. We’re driving in a remote area, but up on the hill, I can make out a handful of neon signs. They come into focus: curvy bodies, playing cards, lurid letters advertising gentlemen’s clubs. We’re definitely in West Virginia. Jensen clears his throat, glancing up at the biggest sign emblazoned with a barely clothed woman.

“I always know the second I cross the West Virginia border,” he rasps. “Swear to God, you’d think the whole damn economy rides on a poker chip and a pair of tits.”

“I only came here a few times,” I say. “My mama would always tell me to shut my eyes when we drove past those signs.”

Jensen’s mouth thins.

“What? You think they should outlaw it?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, but gambling exploits people who don’t have shit to begin with.”

My brows rise. He’s got a sense of justice. I didn’t expect that.

“You’ve never gambled or went to a strip club?” I ask.

“You’re a little too bold,” he shoots back. “Do you go to strip clubs and casinos?”

“I’m not very experienced, about anything. You’re the second man I’ve ever slept with,” I admit before I can bite it back.

Tension hums, filling the truck cab. I didn’t feel embarrassed about that before, but now, my face is warm. The silence drags for a good half mile.

“Is that true?” he asks.

“That you’re the second man I’ve slept with?” I ask. “Yeah. Just you and Leland.”

“Hmm.”

I shift to face him, pulling the seat belt out to keep it from choking me. “What? I’m not a prude. I just didn’t have an opportunity.”

“How old are you?” he asks, a little forcefully.

“You’re not supposed to ask a lady her age.”

He hits the brakes, pulling to the side of the road. Pale eyes turn on me, and I’m caught in his headlights.

“How old are you?” he repeats.

Cowed, I shrink against the door.

“Twenty-three,” I whisper.

His lips part. “But you have a son? How old is he?”

I wet my lips. “Landis is four.”

He’s calculating, brows lowered. Finally, he runs a hand over the lower half of his face, mustache and stubble rasping.

“What am I getting into here?” he asks. “Is Leland just your ex-husband, or is he a statutory rapist? Because I’ve got a quick and easy lead nose cure for the latter.”

I shake my head, rattled. “No, I was eighteen when we met. I just got pregnant real fast. He married me before we had Landis.”