Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Hoss

God help me, the picture didn’t do her justice.

I’ve never seen lusher, more dramatic curves on a female and my hands are desperate to grip them, trace them, memorize every mind-blowing inch. We’re alone in this godforsaken truck stop and she’s so horny she’s tripping all over herself, flushed, picking up coffee mugs and setting them down with a rattle, as if she’s completely forgotten how to do her job. Virgin. No doubt about it. My dick is hard as stone for the innocent waitress—

And I’m here to traffic her.

I’m here to drug and smuggle this beautiful creature across the border to Canada before she’s taken to parts unknown. Sold off. Never to be seen or heard from again by her loved ones. Used to slake the lust of sick, depraved men for the rest of a severely shortened life.

At least, that’s what I’ve been hired to do.

What I will do? Another story entirely.

Finally, she sets down a steaming mug of coffee in front of me and it’s everything I can do not to knock it aside and reach across the counter, haul this gorgeous girl into my lap and pop her cherry right here on this rusty stool. I’ve been sick with hunger since my boss showed me Tatum’s picture, a candid shot of her cleaning her clothes at a laundromat, leaned over a folding table, her brow furrowed in concentration while she drew in a sketchbook.

I’m not a man who has ever been absorbed by lust. Women are occasional entertainment. I don’t remember their names, faces or anything they say to me. But hell if there isn’t something about this one. A picture of her has kept my stones in a chokehold for a week. I’ve dreamed about her. Imagined her in stores and in passing vehicles. Everywhere. Actually seeing her in person, though? There’s no comparison. If she touched me, I swear to God, I’d lose my grip on whatever control I have left. She’s soft and blushing and sweet and everything I’ve always thought was a myth.

And if my boss gave this job to someone else, I might never have known about her.

I drain the scalding hot coffee to distract myself from that horrifying thought.

“Would you like something to eat…” She looks at me expectantly, a smile flirting with the corners of her incredible mouth, no idea that I’m the big bad wolf. “That was your opening to tell me your name,” she quips, sliding a menu in my direction. “Seems fair, since you already know mine.”

Is it unwise to tell her my name? Absolutely. Does my will to hear her say it in that musical voice override any concerns? Christ yes. “Hoss.”

One of her brows ticks up. “Hoss?”

I grit my teeth to combat the rush of blood to my cock. “That’s right,” I growl.

Her throat works with a nervous swallow. “What would you like to eat, Hoss?”

You. Whole. Now.

I need to get a hold of myself or she’s never going to trust me. I need her to trust me, so I can help her. That means being patient. Putting my burning need on hold until I’ve done what is necessary. “Do you have any pie?”

She nods toward a row of clear cases. “Cherry and apple.”

A pained laugh almost escapes me. “Cherry.”

The lights flicker overhead while Tatum is cutting me a slice of pie, adding whipped cream and bringing it back, setting it down in front of me. “It’s a bad one tonight,” she murmurs, adding a fork to my plate. “The roads must have been terrible.”

I grunt in agreement, sinking the fork into the flaky crust and carving out a huge bite. Watching her pupils dilate as I carry it to my mouth and slide it in. “Let’s just say I like it much better in here.” I swipe my finger through the cream and lick it off, imagining I’m tonguing it out of her pussy while she gasps and squirms. “I thought it got lonely out on the road, but you’re pretty isolated in here, too, without any customers.”

She glances over her shoulder toward the back of the diner. “I have my sketchbook to keep me company.”

Sketchbook. The one she was drawing in at the laundromat. I’ve been dying to know what she was drawing. Been dying to know everything about her, really. All I know so far is her name, age and address. Plus the location where she’s supposed to be delivered in a week’s time—not that it matters a damn bit. “What do you sketch, Tatum?”

Her lashes sweep down to hide her eyes. Shyly. “I’m a comic book artist. Or…aspiring, anyway. I’m still saving up for art school.” She gives the empty rows of booths a wry look. “Tonight isn’t exactly going to put me over the top.”

Art school. Comics. This girl has a whole future planned out, but my boss takes none of that into account, does he? She’s just a number. A payday.

Not to me, though.

“Why comics?”

“I can’t imagine wanting to do anything else,” she whispers, growing animated, eyes sparkling. Gorgeous beyond words. “There are no rules. And so much of the worldbuilding can be done in photos. For someone like me who doesn’t like a lot of description, but loves dialogue, it makes the story so much more compelling. My…”

I realize I’ve been holding my breath listening to her talk. “You what?”

“My favorite series is called Comeback Girl. The heroine is this underdog, all the odds are stacked against her, but she fights back every time.” The sound of pouring rain fills the diner, but my heartbeat is louder. “Sometimes when I’m bored and there are no customers, I think of what Comeback Girl would do. And this place becomes my secret lair where I plot world domination. Or at least, plot to take down the bad guys.”

I’m a bad guy, aren’t I?

Technically, yes. I’m one of the worst out there.

That fact sticks in my throat and stops me from responding.

When her words have been hanging in the air too long, she grows visibly self-conscious. Twin spots of red appear on her cheeks and eyelashes fluttering, she looks away quickly. “I’ll leave you to y-your pie,” she stammers. “Just signal me if you want a refill on that coffee.”

She turns to leave and my fork is already clattering down to the plate, my hand shooting across the counter to trap her wrist. “Stay,” I rasp, unable to hide all of the desperation. “I’m sorry, I’m not…great at making conversation.”

Sympathy makes her eyes go from brown to honey colored. “Most truck drivers aren’t. I usually talk enough for the both of us.”

“Why aren’t you doing that with me?”

“I don’t know. You’re different.”

“How?”

“Drivers usually remind me of my corny uncle Pete,” she explains, slicking her lips with that pretty pink tongue. “You don’t remind me of my uncle at all.”

My cock pounds in my jeans. “Good.”

“Why is it good?” she breathes—and I realize my grip on her wrist has tightened.

I’m guiding her through the opening of the counter and dragging her around to my side, despite my better judgment. All the way into the V of my thighs, her belly stopping an inch away from my bulge. Jesus, I want to yank her closer. All the way. But I rake my knuckles up and down the curves of her sides instead, listening to her soft, surprised expulsions of air. “It wouldn’t be appropriate to stand like this with your uncle, Tatum.”

Her gaze travels to my mouth and lingers. “If we’re getting technical, I shouldn’t be standing like this with a customer, either.”

I flick a glance at the kitchen. “Is the cook going to rat you out?”

“No. I don’t know.” She’s getting flustered. Her nipples are in hard little points and she knows I can see them, clear as day, and it’s causing her to shift around in between my outstretched thighs. Making me want to trap her, hold her down like a fucking predator. “I-I’ve never done anything bad enough to test his loyalty,” she adds.

“Maybe we should.”

“How?” she asks.

“Tell him you’re closing early and let him see us leaving together.” I drag her an inch closer, my hands flexing on her full, perfect hips. “By morning you should know whether or not he squealed to your boss.”

“So it would just be an experiment?” she says quietly. “I wouldn’t actually go to your truck.”

“Yes, you would. We have to make it believable.” I lean in and inhale against the side of her neck, letting my chest press to her tits. “Once we’re in my truck, of course, we’re just going to play Monopoly, but he won’t know that.”

She giggles.

A full-on, girlish little giggle and God help me, my world tilts sideways.

I grow so stiff behind the zipper of my jeans that my vision triples and I start to sweat. Oh shit. Shit. That giggle. I need to hear it again. I’m aching for a replay, my balls drawing up tight to my undercarriage. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Do that again,” I order thickly, my mouth open on the slope of her shoulder. “Laugh like that again, baby. Come on.”

“I…can’t do it on command. You have to give me something to laugh about.”

My fingers move of their own accord, tickling her sides—and that giggle fills the air again and I don’t know what comes over me. Teeth on edge, I crush her against my chest and continue to wriggle the fingers of my right hand into her side. She thrashes around, letting loose that sweet, innocent sound and I want more. More. My hand drags down over her plump, sexy ass to her bare thighs and I squeeze them in turn, making her squeal and dance around, her tits jiggling around between us.

“You like that, baby? You like when I tease and tickle you?”

“Stop!” she cries. “It’s too much. I can’t breathe!”

“You love it.” I surge to my feet and drop her ass down on the nearest stool, leaning back a little so I can witness the effect of what I’m doing. The way her skin is turning rosy, her eyes glassy—and that giggle. It’s like angels singing. Only it’s not having a heavenly effect on me whatsoever. My dick is throbbing in time with her tinkling laugh. And this stool is not good enough. I need her beneath me wiggling around like this. I’m fucking panting for it. My cock is swollen and my breathing is ragged, my hunger becoming rawer by the second. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but I’m too revved up to care. I want her naked and tittering beneath me, all flushed and breathless, calling me…

Calling me…no.

Am I sick in the head and never realized it?

Or is it Tatum alone making me need something I never could have imagined?

I don’t have a chance to answer that question, because a horn beeps twice in the parking lot and Tatum gasps, pulling out of my grip and off the stool. She stumbles a little, trying to catch her breath, and all I can do is sit there and reel at what almost happened. I almost blew this whole operation.

She straightens her skirt and tucks loose hair into her ponytail, her cheeks on fire when she looks over at me. But then, oh hell, she gives me a wobbly smile and my heart slingshots up into my throat. In that moment, I remember why I was sent here. To traffic this sweet girl so some faceless monsters could make a profit from her pain. I won’t be worthy of her until I’ve made her safe. I won’t deserve her until the threat has been eliminated. The need to commit violence against anyone who would think to harm her is teeming in my chest. Multiplying.

I will begin tonight.

“Tatum,” I bark, before she can greet the incoming customer.

She blinks at me. “Yes?”

“You will be here tomorrow night.”

It’s not a question, but she answers anyway. “Yes. My shift starts at four.”

I have a week before she is expected to arrive in Canada. I have time. That’s how I reassure myself on the way out the door of the truck stop diner, everything inside of me screaming to go back in, collect the girl and lose myself in her.

Soon.