Page 15 of Texas (Route 69 #1)

Fifteen

S tanding in her kitchen, Kristin pours me a mug of coffee.

Black. Exactly like I want it, and I try not to think about the domesticity behind it.

The kitchen’s quiet except for the soft clink of her spoon against her mug and the faint hum of the fridge.

She’s barefoot, hair pulled back, in a tank top, and linen pants.

It’s hard not to stare. There’s something dangerous about how easy this feels.

About waking up to warmth and coffee and bare feet on tile.

It’s the kind of thing I tell myself I don’t want, but this morning, I’m not so sure.

Leaning against the counter, arms crossed under her breasts, Kristin studies me for a moment. “You look like a woman with too much brain activity for this early in the morning.”

“Guilty.”

She tilts her head. “You thinking about what we did on that hill?”

Unable to help myself, I smile into my mug. “You mean the part where we had a nice picnic with a view or when you rode me on the Harley until we couldn’t move anymore?”

With a little laugh, she pushes off the counter. “I think you know which part.”

“I suppose I do,” I say. “Something I’ll never forget.” She walks to the fridge, putting away the creamer she enjoys in her coffee. The way her hips move makes my thighs tense. I shift in my chair and take another drink.

“I’ve got a full day at the clinic,” she says as she glances toward me. “Three prenatal appointments, a walk-in I suspect is more serious than she’s letting on, and Mrs. Tomas called. She can’t come to the house today. Her grandson’s got strep.”

I nod. “You need anything before you go?”

Kristin closes the fridge and turns to me. “No. But you look like you need to burn something off.”

Damn, she reads me well. “Yeah, something.”

She walks toward me, her fingers trailing along the back of a chair. “There’s a road that cuts through the hills,” she says. “Locals use it to get to Austin without all the construction. It’s quiet. Long. Good curves.”

My mouth pulls into a slow smile. “You like to drive it in the Corvette?”

“I used to. Before Will started tracking my mileage.” Her words hurt to hear.

The way she says it, all calm and controlled, but there’s a tremor under the surface.

I don’t poke at it, and she leans down and kisses me.

Her lips are warm. They taste like coffee and something sweeter.

She pulls back enough to whisper, “Be careful.”

“I always am.”

Kristin raises an eyebrow. “That’s a lie.”

I grin. “Maybe,” I say as I finish my coffee, and rinse the mug. Stepping out into the heat already settling over things, the Harley gleams in the driveway, black and solid, waiting for me.

Following me out, Kristin stands on the porch with her arms crossed, watching me. “Will I see you for dinner?”

Swinging a leg over, I settle into the seat.

“Count on it,” I say as I fire up the engine.

The rumble settles something in my chest. She waves once, and I roll out slowly, gravel under my tires.

When I hit the highway, I open her up. The road stretches out in front of me.

It’s two narrow lanes where trees crowd both sides.

The sun’s rising, baking the asphalt. I pass a sign saying Austin is thirty miles ahead, and I give her more gas.

The fields are wide and empty. The wind cuts through the heat, lifting the sweat off my neck.

I let the bike eat the miles and try not to think too hard.

But I do. Because the quiet is never really quiet.

It’s just a pause between storms and when you’ve lived the way I have, you start to hear trouble before you see it.

As I ride, I think about what it would mean to stay in Dogwood Bluff, what it might look like for someone like me.

If I could ever do it. And then I see it.

A black truck in my rearview mirror. It’s big and familiar but not close enough for me to see who’s in it.

Still, I can guess. I clock it. No big deal.

At least not yet so I keep going. The road curves, dips, opens up again, and the truck stays behind me.

Then there’s another one. This one is white and older.

Parked up ahead on the shoulder, it’s angled just enough to look casual.

But I know it’s not. I can feel it in my spine.

The way the black truck behind me mirrors my speed.

The way the white one doesn’t move. They’re not here by accident.

My pulse kicks and I shift gears to pick up speed.

The black truck stays with me. The white one rolls forward, slowly.

No turn signal. No brake lights. Only movement.

My options narrow and I try to veer left.

The black truck surges behind me. The white one creeps across the center line.

They’re boxing me in, totally deliberate and controlled.

I scan for plates, but they are mud-caked.

I glance in the left mirror and finally catch a glimpse of a man’s face through the windshield.

Sunglasses. Ballcap. Blank expression. This isn’t random.

This isn’t some kids messing around. This is planned.

Practiced. The kind of trap that only works if you’ve done it before, so I know I’m not the first target they’ve followed down this road. I’m under attack.

Dropping a gear, I try to shoot the gap.

The white truck speeds up. The black one closes behind me.

They’re forcing me toward the shoulder. I grit my teeth and scan the terrain.

That’s when I see it. A narrow gap in the fence along the road where the wire has twisted back and the posts lean out.

Beyond it, it’s only a field that looks rough and uneven, but I don’t see any better choices. There’s no time to think and I gun it.

The bike surges forward as I aim for the break.

The fence scrapes my arm as I pass through.

The front wheel hits a rut. The rear tire skids.

I lose control and lay the bike down. The Harley slides and I roll, hit the dirt hard, and come up on my knees.

My elbow’s bleeding. My jeans are torn, and my ribs are tender when I move.

My throat tastes like metal, but I’m breathing and that’s all that matters right now.

For a second, all I hear is the rush of blood in my ears.

I want to roar and tear something apart, but I stay still.

Because stillness is control and control is survival.

Pushing to my feet, my eyes on the road, I see the trucks have stopped at the fence.

They are simply sitting there with their engines idling.

No one gets out. So, I wait. I want them to come through.

I want a fight. I want to put my fists into someone’s face and feel them break, but they don’t move.

They sit there for another thirty seconds, then they back up, turn opposite directions and disappear.

I stand in the dust, chest heaving. “Fucking cowards.”

Walking to the bike, I see the mirror hanging loose.

The left side is scraped. The clutch lever is bent but still intact.

I right her, kick once, and she sputters, then roars back to life.

Letting out a sigh of relief, I ride back toward Kristin’s.

The sun’s higher now and the air’s thick with heat.

My arm is sticky with blood, and my jeans are stiff with dirt. Everything aches.

I pull into Kristin’s drive right as a gray sedan I don’t recognize pulls out. For a second, I think the worst. That’s she’s had an unwanted visitor, but then I see she is on the porch, waving at the car. Then our eyes meet. Her hand drops, and she runs toward me.

Killing the engine, I swing off the bike. My legs are shaky. My elbow hurts like hell. Kristin stops in front of me. “What the fuck happened?”

I shrug like none of this is a big deal. “Took a detour into a field.”

Her eyes scan my body and my bike, and I can see her taking in the dirt, the blood, the busted mirror. “Reggie.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not,” she says. “Tell me what happened.”

“Two trucks. Tried to box me in and forced me off the road.”

Stepping closer, her fingers brush my forearm. “Did they chase you?”

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “They stopped at the fence. Watched me eat dirt and then took off.”

Her face tightens. “You could’ve been killed.”

“But I wasn’t.”

Kristin’s breath comes faster. Her hands curl into fists. “I should cancel the rest of my day. I should—”

“No.” I shake my head. “You have patients. People who need you.”

“You need me.” For a beat, I want to tell her I don’t need anyone. Ever. But I know what she means so I reach out, and cup her cheek.

Her skin is warm. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll just bandage myself up and chill.”

She leans into my touch, then pulls back. “Promise me you’ll stay in the guesthouse. Lock the door.”

“I will.”

Stepping closer, she kisses me hard and fierce, then turns and walks back to the house.

Her car pulls away five minutes later. She looks back once and waves.

I watch her go, then walk into the guesthouse, lock the door, and sit on the edge of the bed.

My elbow’s throbbing. My ribs feel bruised.

The trucks are gone, but I still feel their eyes.

I wanted them to come through that fence.

I wanted to fight, and that part scares me. Not the trucks. Me.

Lying back, I stare at the ceiling and let the silence stretch.

I try not to think about the violence, the threat, or the crackling edge of it all.

Deep down, I think I wanted a reason to let go, and that’s not good.

Suddenly, Kristin’s voice echoes in my head.

“You need me.” I close my eyes. “Fuck,” I whisper. This just got real.