Chapter 1

Bronx

The highway stretches outlike a lover"s beckoning arm, and I press the pedal of Ol" Faithful a little closer to the floor. The truck rumbles beneath me. Wind whips through the open windows, tangling my hair, feeling like rough caresses on my weathered skin.

"Freedom," I growl to myself, the word tasting sweet as sin on my tongue. The road is mine alone. It"s just me, the hum of rubber on asphalt, and the vast, unclaimed horizon.

As mile markers tick by, I let memories flicker through my mind. Each one is a flash of heat. My cab has been a sanctuary, and tonight, it"s just me and the open road, a testament to the solitude I embrace and the freedom that runs through my veins like wildfire.

"God, I love this," I confess into the empty space, my voice rough as gravel. It"s the truth, raw and unfiltered. Nothing beats the feeling of owning the road and chasing the sunset until it bleeds into the dark velvet of night, every mile a new possibility.

I live for this.

The neon sign of a roadside diner cuts through the twilight like a beacon, pulling me in. "Eddie"s" it says, flickering with a buzz that syncs up to my own restless energy. I swing Ol" Faithful into a spot, killing the engine and letting the silence crash over me. The truck"s vibrations still linger in my bones as I step out, stretching my back with a groan that feels like sweet release.

I stride toward the diner, the gravel crunching under my boots, music to my ears after hours of nothing but the drone of the highway. Pushing open the door, the bell above chimes, announcing my entrance like I"m some sort of prodigal son returning home.

The place is dripping with nostalgia, walls plastered with vintage ads and road signs—ones I"ve probably passed a hundred times on my travels. A jukebox in the corner croons an old country tune, the kind that makes you want to slow dance with a pretty girl or drink whiskey straight from the bottle.

"Take a seat wherever, hun," calls out a voice from behind the counter. It's got that warm, motherly vibe that almost makes me miss home.

Almost.

I find a stool at the counter, the red vinyl squeaking a welcome as I settle in. The air"s heavy with the scent of sizzling bacon and onions, mixed with the undertone of burnt coffee—smells that speak of comfort and a world that doesn"t change no matter how many miles you run.

"Whatcha havin", sugar?" A waitress sidles up, notepad in hand, pencil tucked behind her ear. She's got that look—seen it all, heard it all, yet still smiles like she means it.

"Give me the biggest burger you got," I say, my voice raspy. "And keep the coffee coming."

She winks and saunters off, hips swaying to the music that now seems to throb in time with my pulse. Around me, the low hum of conversation weaves through the clatter of cutlery against plates, forming a lullaby for weary travelers.

"Another day, another dollar," I mutter to myself, tipping my hat down over my eyes, just taking it all in—the hustle of life happening around me, a stark contrast to the isolation of the cab. For a moment, just a fleeting moment, I let myself sink into the tapestry of voices, laughter and the clinking of mugs.

As I wait for my order, I scan the joint without much interest and think of my soon-to-be companion: a greasy, heart-clogging excuse for a meal. It"s just what I need after a long haul, something solid to ground me before I hit the road again.

"Here ya go, big guy," the waitress says as she slides the plate in front of me, a mountain of meat and cheese staring back. "Anything else I can get ya?"

"Just keep the coffee coming," I reply, my stomach growling louder than the trucks outside. Time to dig in and enjoy the simple pleasures, the kind only a place like this can serve up hot and without pretense.

My eyes drift away from the plate as I eat. They wander across the diner, past truckers swapping stories and locals drowning in their pies, until they snag on her.

I stop chewing mid-bite, my eyes transfixed like I've just seen an angel.

And maybe I have.

She"s like a splash of color against the drab backdrop—the girl sitting all by herself in a booth, gaze anchored to the tabletop.

Who is she?

She"s got this pink hair that"s shouting for attention amidst the sea of trucker caps and work-worn faces. Her skin"s fair, almost glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights, making her look out of place, like she"s meant to be somewhere brighter, somewhere that doesn"t reek of overused frying oil.

I don"t know her name yet, but damn if I don"t want to. It"s not just her looks. It"s the way she"s trying to make herself small, shoulders hunched, fingers fidgeting with a napkin. There"s a story there, and I"m a sucker for a story.

Then she lifts her head, and our gazes collide, and fuck. It"s like getting hit with a live wire, that jolt zipping through me, fierce and unexpected. Her eyes are wide, big and innocent-looking but shadowed with something else, something that whispers of trouble and tales untold.

I feel a pull that makes me want to unravel her mysteries and fix what"s broken. She"s got this allure, youthful but laced with a quiet strength that calls to me. She"s a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, and I"ve always been good at solving puzzles.

Focus on your food, I tell myself, even as I can"t tear my gaze away from her. There"s vulnerability there, in the slant of her brows, the tight set of her mouth. And it hooks me, right in the chest, tugging with a force I haven"t felt in a long while.

"Damn," I exhale, a whisper lost in the clatter of the diner. My heart"s doing this weird drum solo, and I"m hooked. Something tells me this girl"s gonna be more than just a pretty face to wonder about. She"s gonna be a storm, and hell, I"ve always had a thing for storms.

"Dammit, Bronx, what"re you thinking?" I mutter under my breath. My heart"s a freight train in my chest, pounding out a rhythm that"s got nothing to do with the crappy country song twanging from the jukebox. The girl—just a slip of a thing with hair like candy floss and eyes full of secrets—she"s got me twisted up inside something fierce.

Can"t just walk up to her, I reason with myself, while my body"s already leaning off the stool, every muscle coiled to close the distance between us. I don"t know what kind of baggage she"s carrying. Could be trouble. Big trouble. But damn, the way she bites her lip, lost in thought or whatever"s on the page she"s scribbling on—hell, makes me think a little trouble might be just what I need.

***

I'm obsessed with the girl. I've never stayed in one place too long, but I stay here because she's here. I watch her curl up and fall asleep in the booth of the diner for two nights straight before I realize just what's going on with her.

And I'm not having it. Not on my watch.

With a grunt, I push off the counter, feeling the scrape of the stool against the tiled floor. I stride over, boots echoing like gunshots in the hush that"s settled over the diner. I"m big enough to cast a shadow over her table, but I keep my voice low, rough with the rasp of too many smokes and not enough sleep.

"Hey," I say, and it comes out gruffer than I intend. "Mind if I join you?"

She looks up, and it"s like catching a glimpse of the sun—blinding and brilliant and damn near knocks me off my feet. There"s a flicker of something in those brown eyes. Could be caution, could be curiosity. Hard to tell.

"Sure," she says, and there"s a tremor in her voice that matches the one in my gut. She slides over, making room, and I slide into the booth across from her, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, far enough that I"m not crowding her.

I shift into the booth, the worn vinyl squeaking under my weight. The flickering diner lights cast shadows over her face, but can"t hide the surprise—or is it a spark of interest?—in those wide-set eyes.

"Didn"t mean to startle you," I say, my voice low, trying to smooth out the edges.

"It"s fine," she murmurs, tucking that rebellious lock of pink hair behind her ear. The simple gesture sends a ripple through me, stirring something that"s been sleeping for too damn long.

"Long day?" I ask, leaning back against the seat, trying to appear casual, though every nerve in my body is tuned to her frequency.

She nods, her lips curving into a half-smile that doesn"t quite reach her eyes. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Where you headed?" I keep it light, but I"m itching to know her story, to hear the melody of her voice as she spills her secrets.

"Just...away," she answers with a shrug that speaks volumes.

"Me too," I admit, and it"s the truth. Always driving towards the next horizon, never looking back.

"Seems we"ve got that in common," she says, a hint of warmth creeping into her tone.

"Bronx," I introduce myself properly, extending a hand across the table. Her fingers are slim, cool against my rough palm, and I realize I don"t want to let go.

"London," she replies, and the name rolls off her tongue like poetry or sin—can"t decide which. Her name fits her, somehow—exotic and familiar all at once.

"Nice name," I say, releasing her hand reluctantly. "Ever been?"

"To London?" She laughs, and it"s like music, all sweet and low. "Nope. But maybe one day."

"Got big dreams, huh?" I ask, intrigued by the layers I"m starting to uncover.

"Doesn"t everyone?" Her gaze holds mine, challenging, defiant.

"Suppose so," I concede, finding myself lost in the depths of her eyes. They"re like pools of melted chocolate, deep enough to drown in.

"Tell me about yours," she urges softly, leaning forward, elbows on the table.

"Mine?" I chuckle, scratching at my beard. "Ain"t nothing special. Just...freedom. The road."

"Sounds lonely," she observes, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Sometimes," I agree, and it"s more of an admission than I"ve allowed myself in years.

"Maybe we"re all just looking for someone to share the road with," she muses, and there"s a yearning there that echoes inside me.

"Maybe," I murmur back, the space between us charged with unspoken possibilities.

We talk—really talk—and it"s like stripping down layers, getting to the bare bones of who we are. With each word, each shared laugh and lingering glance, the connection between us tightens, drawing us closer.

It"s dangerous, this game we"re playing. She's nothing more than eighteen, and here I am a man in his late thirties.

But I"ll be damned if I don"t want to see where it leads.

I lean in, resting my elbows on the cool surface of the diner"s counter, hooked on every word slipping from London"s lips. "So, what"s this dream of yours?" I probe, my curiosity genuine and insatiable.

She pauses, biting her lower lip for a heartbeat before releasing it. "I want to paint," she declares, her voice steady but her eyes ablaze with passion. "Not just canvas and walls, mind you. I want to capture life—its raw beauty, its chaos. Make something that screams and whispers all at once."

"Sounds intense," I say, impressed by the fire in her. It"s like watching a storm brew over the desert—beautiful, unpredictable, powerful.

"Life is intense," she retorts with a shrug, though her smile tells me she"s pleased with my reaction. "If you"re not living on the edge, you"re taking up too much space, right?"

"Right," I chuckle, feeling that unfamiliar tug in my chest. Vulnerability isn"t usually my thing, but with London, it feels like throwing caution to the wind ain"t such a bad idea.

"Your turn," she prompts, leaning back against the red vinyl booth, her gaze locked onto mine. "What secrets are hiding behind those brooding eyes, Bronx?"

"Secrets, huh?" I muse, letting out a low laugh. "Ain"t nothing too exciting. But I guess one thing I"ve never told anyone..." I trail off, debating whether to share it, then decide what the hell. "I write poetry. Nothing fancy, just thoughts and feelings that hit me when I"m out on the open road."

"Poetry?" She looks surprised, and yeah, I get it. A rough-around-the-edges trucker spilling his soul in verse isn"t exactly common.

"Guess we"ve both got more to us than meets the eye," I add, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over me.

"Seems so," she agrees, a softness in her voice that makes me think we"re peeling back layers neither of us expected to shed tonight.

The air between us is thick with anticipation, our conversation a slow dance as we reveal hidden pieces of ourselves. There"s a thrill in the risk, in the sharing of dreams too fragile for daylight. And damn if I don"t want to keep dancing until the music stops.

But, finally, it does, and then the silence stretches between us, the kind that says more than words ever could. I can"t tear my eyes away from London"s face, the flickering neon lights painting her in shades of mystery. Her lips part just slightly, and there"s this moment, this electric fucking moment, where the world narrows down to just the two of us.

"Bronx," she whispers, and when her voice sounds like that, fuck, I"m helpless against it.

"London," I murmur back, and my hand moves before my brain catches up, reaching out to brush a stray strand of pink hair behind her ear. My rough fingers graze her soft skin, and her breath hitches, a shiver rippling through her. It"s a simple touch, but it"s loaded with all the things we"re not saying.

I lean forward, elbows on the table, and I"ve never been so damn aware of every inch of space separating us. "You here hitching a ride?" The question hangs heavy in the air.

She nods, biting her lip, and I can almost taste her uncertainty mixed with defiance. "Yeah. I was." She pauses, her gaze locked onto mine. "But I haven"t found the right one yet."

"Let me tell you something, sweetheart." I don"t break my gaze, the intensity of the moment etched into every crease of my face. "The road can be a cruel companion or a silent confidant. But it ain"t no place for someone like you to be thumbin" rides from strangers."

A flicker of vulnerability crosses her features, and then she hardens it, that sassy edge creeping back in. "And who"s to say what"s right for me, huh?"

"Nobody," I concede with a slow nod. "But I"ll be damned if I let you ride with just anyone." My voice drops lower, a growl tinged with something raw. "You need a lift, London? It"s yours. On one condition though," I add, feeling that familiar protective surge rising up within me.

She leans in, curiosity lighting up those big brown eyes. "What"s the condition?"

"Simple." I stare right into her soul, hoping she understands the gravity behind my words. "You ride with me—only me. Because I won"t let any harm come your way while you"re under my watch." The words hang between us, an unspoken oath from a man who knows the loneliness of the road all too well.

London"s gaze never wavers, and there"s a spark there that tells me she gets it. She understands this isn"t just about a ride. It"s about trust, about the uncharted path we might be starting down together. And damn, if the thought doesn"t excite and scare the hell out of me at the same time.

"Okay, Bronx," she says, her voice soft yet certain. "I"ll ride with you."

And just like that, the deal is sealed—not with a handshake but with a look that says more than a thousand handshakes ever could. We"ve both got our secrets, but for now, they don"t matter. Right now, it"s just the open road ahead and the promise of what might be—a journey neither of us expected but maybe it"s the one we both need.