CHAPTER TWO

She awoke disoriented, breathing heavily and scrabbling for her pocket to make sure the cash and phone were still there. But her hand got caught up in cloth, and she sat up quickly, banging her elbow painfully against the door.

Emma took a deep breath, gritting her teeth against a curse. She'd been covered with a blanket, and the cab was dark and silent, the truck's motor off. Rubbing her elbow, she threw off the blanket and looked around, fingering her money nervously.

The driver's seat was empty. Emma leaned forward and peered out the windshield; they were stopped in the deserted parking lot of some kind of rest stop. Well, more just a trashy little gas station attached to a small convenience store, illuminated by a pair of feeble sodium lights.

Jones had said he wouldn't be pulling over until they passed Boston. Pulling out her phone, Emma opened the GPS app. Sure enough, they were somewhere in the middle of Massachusetts, just off the interstate near Worcester; she'd been asleep for nearly three hours. They hadn't been stopped long: although the cab was comfortably cool, the snow was still melting on the hood of the rig, sliding off in enormous drops. It had long since begun to stick to the ground, though, piling up against the building in soft drifts.

She leaned forward again, gazing through the snowflakes at the gas station. There was no sign of life, except for the lights from inside the convenience store; it even looked like the gas and diesel pumps had been shut off for the time being. She wondered if Jones had gone inside for some reason.

Emma shifted, the leather creaking beneath her, suddenly aware of how badly she needed a toilet. Made sense, seeing as how she hadn't used one since before leaving the truck stop to hitchhike.

Staring forward intently, waiting for a sign of movement, it was a minute before she noticed the soft, intermittent buzzing noise behind her. Whipping around, her breath in her throat, she realized it was coming from behind a curtain hanging between the seats. That was the sleeper part of the cab: and with astonishment, she recognized the noise as a quiet snore.

The alarm faded from her veins, and slowly she relaxed back into her seat. So, Jones had simply pulled the truck over and gone to sleep in the back. Exactly, she realized, as he had said he would do.

The thought boggled her mind. Even if this wasn't his rig, and he simply drove it for a fleet, he'd left her completely unsupervised inside it. Why would he do that? she wondered, perplexed. The doors were both locked, but only from the inside. And although there were no keys to be seen anywhere in the dim cab, for all he knew she could trash the truck's engine, rob him blind, and run off. Or, if she were so inclined, murder him in his goddamned sleep, rob him blind, then just take the keys and drive off.

"Lucky for you, I'm not the type," she muttered. Reaching over, she pulled up the lock on the passenger door, then put her gloves and hat back on. If he was fool enough to go to sleep with a perfect stranger—a hitchhiker, no less—sitting two feet away, he'd survive an unlocked cab for the few minutes it took her to use the gas station's bathroom.

Cracking open the door, she winced at the gust of icy wind that slipped into the cabin. Hastily, she hopped out and slammed the door behind her. No sense letting it get any colder inside than necessary; she'd be getting back in shortly.

Emma trudged through the dark parking lot, scanning the outside of the gas station. Yup, there it was; a battered metal door with a "Men / Women" sign on it. She wondered briefly how awful it would be inside, but didn't hold out much hope. Even decent rest stops on toll roads were sometimes disgusting. The best she could wish for was that maybe there was plenty of toilet paper.

To her dismay, as she drew close, she saw that there was a padlock on the door. "Oh, come on," she said bitterly. She'd been plenty of places where they kept the bathroom key inside, but a friggin' padlock? The discomfort was only growing worse, though, drifting in small pains through her lower stomach now, and Emma reluctantly turned to walk around the edge of the building.

The door jingled, predictably enough, as she opened it. Stamping her boots on the mat to get the snow off, she cautiously approached the register. A pair of young men sat behind it, laughing and paying no attention to her.

" 'Scuse me," she said, trying her best to look friendly. One of the men looked up; they were perched on a stools playing cards on the narrow counter. "Can I get the bathroom key, please?"

The man looked her briefly up and down; then his jaw worked, moving a plug of chewing tobacco around. Emma felt her stomach sink as the corner of his mouth curled.

"Well, sure," he answered at last. The other man finally looked up from his hand of cards; he was clean-shaven while his companion was bearded, but they were both that low level of grubby she expected from a gas station attendant in the middle of nowhere, clad in faded Patriots hoodies and sneakers that may once have been white. "But you gotta buy something first, miss."

He tapped the counter in front of the registered; under the scratched plastic panel, half-covering an array of sample lottery tickets, was a hand-lettered sign. Bathroom for Customers Only.

Emma's hand convulsively clutched in her pocket. She forced herself to smile, swallowing back her anger. "I get it. But… I'll just be a minute. Promise," she said, aiming for a winning tone. She could see the key hanging on the wall behind the two men, dangling from a nail pounded in between two cages of cigarettes, the word Bathroom scratched in faded ink on its wooden fob.

"Uh-huh," came the uninterested response. The guy chewed again, exchanging a glance with his buddy. Then he shrugged, grinning. "And there are a lot of things you can do to get that minute. The easiest thing would be to buy something, though."

There was a soft jingle from behind Emma as someone else came into the store. She ignored it, sidling up to the counter a little closer. Damned if she was going to waste a single dime of her limited money just to use the bathroom! "Come on, guys," she said, smiling and hoping it looked charming rather than desperate. "Just this once? Help a girl out. I really gotta go."

The first guy just looked up at her, exasperated, and shook his head. "You heard him, woman," said the second man, eyes back on his cards. "Unless you're looking to give us something for that key, it's staying back here."

His tone implied that more than cash could be currency. Emma clenched her teeth, disgusted, trying to think of something, anything, to say next—perhaps she really should just buy some stupid little thing. She craned her neck to look down under the counter, wondering which pack of gum was the cheapest.

But she was interrupted by the bump of a shoulder, brushing her aside. A hand reached past her to drop a bag of chips and a pair of wrapped sandwiches onto the counter. She had already opened her mouth to retort something, when she looked up and saw it was the driver, Jones.

He didn't even look at her, his face turned towards the gas station attendants. "And a pack of Pall Mall menthols," he said, reaching into his pocket to pull out a scruffy leather wallet.

Emma blinked: his velvety baritone voice had taken on a fairly convincing and totally unobtrusive Midwestern American accent. The first attendant grinned and slowly stood up from his stool. "All right," he said amiably, punching the items into the cash register and tugging a plastic bag from below the counter. "That'll be twelve-fifty, even."

Emma felt her throat constrict. As the attendant turned his back to get the cigarettes, she saw Jones incline his head slightly; surreptitiously, he winked at her. In the darkness earlier, she hadn't been able to see the color of his eyes. Now she found herself a little breathless at their brightness and hue, the light blue of forget-me-nots, especially remarkable in contrast to the long, dark lashes surrounding them.

He pulled a twenty from his wallet and handed it to the attendant. Emma took a breath. "Really?" she said to the attendant with all the anger she could muster, gesturing to Jones. "The only thing that matters is the almighty dollar?"

The man said nothing, eyes creasing as he counted out a handful of bills and change, then slammed the till shut. "If you need to use the bathroom, it's around back," he said, ignoring Emma and hooking a thumb over his shoulder, then holding out his hand to Jones with the change in it.

Her trucker companion took back his change, slipping it and the wallet back into his coat pocket, and shrugged. "Sure. Better to go now than to have to pull over down the road," he joked.

Emma scowled as the attendant chuckled, then reached back and took the key off the wall; Jones plucked the cigarettes from the counter and stuck them in his back pocket, then picked up the bag. As the key was offered to him, he took it, nodding in thanks. "Be right back with this," he said.

Emma waited until he was gone, the door clashing shut behind him, then turned to the attendants one last time. "Seriously, please," she said, letting her desperation out. "You won't just let me use it once that guy's done? I swear, I won't wreck anything in there."

The second man was the one to look up this time. There was a toothpick perched behind his ear, and she could see some kind of faded tattoo on the side of his neck. His expression had gone from neutral to truly unfriendly. "You know, I'm starting to think the boys in blue could convince this gal just how serious we are about the rules," he said evenly. "What about you, Matt?"

"Oh, I dunno. Maybe I just need to show her the flat end of my belt," responded the first attendant, casually. He riffled his cards, then folded them and looked up at her. There was something sharp and cold behind his eyes.

Emma put up her hands, feigning fear. It wasn't difficult. "O-okay. All right. Sorry." She backed away from the counter, moving toward the door. "No need for cops. I'm going," she added.

It was still freezing outside, but the pain had become jabs of agony through her whole pelvic region, making her almost double up as she sidled back around the building. A toilet, my kingdom for a toilet, she thought faintly, feeling tears come to her eyes.

Jones was standing outside the bathroom door, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. The padlock had already been removed from the bathroom door. He saw her, and pulled the door open, craning his neck to look behind her. "Be quick about it, lass?" he suggested calmly, in his normal voice.

Too desperate to snap something back at him, Emma just nodded and darted inside the bathroom, moving a hand frantically up the tiled wall to turn the lights on. Her hand found the switch, and the fluorescents snapped on overhead just as Jones shut the door behind her. She didn't even pay attention to what it looked like, just leaped toward the single toilet, fumbling for her belt.

When she'd finished she washed her hands, staring in the mirror at her own pale, hollow, slightly sweaty face. After all that, it was a pretty nice bathroom, relatively clean, with paper towels and soap and all. Obviously that was why those assholes kept it under such a tight guard. She heaved a sigh of relief, wiping the water from her hands and pulling her gloves back on.

She opened the door and went back outside. Jones gave her a little smile, then took one last drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt away. The hot embers made a little pfft as they went out in the snow.

Emma had to stop herself from sniffing for a stray hint of smoke. "That's a terrible habit," she said gruffly, hugging herself against the freezing gusts of wind.

Jones shrugged and reached up to replace the padlock on the door. As he braced his arm against the frame to hold the door shut, she noticed for the first time that his left wrist ended in a hooked metal device, rather than a hand. Emma opened her mouth to say something else, but thought better of it.

He didn't seem offended by her remark, though. "Aye, it is," he answered seriously, and finally snapped the padlock shut through the ring. "Utterly disgusting. Other chemical vices don't really lend themselves to a life of driving, though."

Jones held up the key fob and jingled it, making a regretful sort of face, then turned to trudge back into the store to return it. Emma stayed put, slightly regretting her sarcastic jibe. She'd smoked on and off for years when she was younger, and missed it desperately sometimes. Odd, though: his truck hadn't smelled of cigarettes.

After a short moment the door jingled a final time, and Jones came around the building, shoulders braced against the wind. No doubt the attendants had questioned him about that whiny girl who was trying to use their precious bathroom; but he didn't seem perturbed. He'd pulled the ugly mesh baseball cap lower on his forehead, and she saw now that it had some kind of military company logo on it, like the hats veterans wore.

"Were you in the armed forces?" she asked curiously, as they trudged back toward the rig.

He looked at her blankly for a moment; as she pointed to his cap, realization dawned on his face, and he touched the brim with a smile. "Oh. Yes, a long time ago," he answered. He wasn't wearing a glove, and she wondered how his fingers weren't frozen off yet; hers were already going numb.

"Here, or, uh… across the pond?"

He laughed. "Yes, back home," he answered, amused. Following her to the passenger's side door, he reached up and unlocked the door, then opened it for her, its hinges protesting slightly in the cold.

Usually those kind of chauvinist tricks irked Emma, but with uneasy gratitude, she felt that Jones was probably doing it out of genuine politeness. She climbed up into the cab with as much grace as she could muster, and settled back into the seat, watching out the window as he rounded the engine compartment to his own side. No one had come out of the gas station, so their little subterfuge had apparently worked.

Jones opened the door and tossed the bag of food up onto the dashboard, then hauled himself up and into the driver's seat with a quick exhalation, slamming the door behind him. Twisting in the seat and squirming to get his hand into his back pocket, he pulled out the slightly squashed cigarettes and shoved them into the same plastic bag. "I don't even smoke that often," he said, somewhat apologetically. "It just… seemed like good timing."

Emma clenched her teeth. Maybe he wasn't expecting to be thanked, but she did owe it: no telling what those sexist assholes might have tried to pull. "It was," she answered finally, and added tightly, "Thanks. For… for not making that any more embarrassing than it had to be."

Her companion smiled then, genuinely pleased. Emma swallowed, her heart fluttering a little as the expression creased dimples into his wind-reddened cheeks. "Quite welcome," he said, dipping his head.

They were both silent for a moment. Jones seemed to be hesitating; then he finally spoke. "Now. I don't want to put you on edge again, love," he said in a low tone, making a palliative gesture. "But I sleep on the floor back there, always have. So the fold-down bed above is free and quite clean, if you'd like to use it. I don't have much more than that spare blanket and an extra pillow, but it'll stay warm in here for a while, especially if I shut the curtain."

Emma looked outside, biting her lip; from inside the relatively cozy cab, the whirling snow outside looked quite pretty. "You're not worried about… you know, getting stuck in the weather?" she asked. As if he would have gone to sleep earlier if he'd been concerned about that.

Jones shook his head, making a confident little moue. "I checked it before I laid down earlier. Should be flurries through the night, but it's not cold enough to stick to the pavement. And anyway, if it does, the salt trucks will be through before we set out again."

His tone was so perfectly placid that Emma sighed. It would certainly be much more comfortable to lie down than to worm her way into a half-supine position in the upright passenger's seat. And after the trust he'd already shown her… perhaps it was time to reciprocate.

"Okay," she answered at last. The suspicion reached up and grabbed her heart one last time, though. "Just don't—" she began. Jones' lips didn't move, but a smile creased his eyes. "Don't try anything, all right?" she said, rather weakly.

To his credit, he didn't roll his eyes or look exasperated, which would have been a pretty reasonable response. If he was going to try something, he would have done it already, her mind said grumpily.

"Wouldn't dream of it, lass," Jones assured her gravely. Then he reached forward into the bag and pulled out one of the sandwiches, offering it to her. "I got two," he said, rather unnecessarily, with a shrug.

Emma was about to decline the offer, but just the sight of food made her stomach awaken, rumbling silently. "Thanks," she said reluctantly, and took the sandwich, unwrapping it from the clingy plastic. Turkey and swiss on wheat bread; Henry would have loved it.

They ate in silence, watching the snow fall outside. A car pulled off the highway for a few minutes, a pair of women clambering out into the chill. One stayed at the pump to refill the car, while the other went into the store, emerging with a bag full of goods. They would have let her use the bathroom for sure, Emma thought tiredly.

Jones reached around behind her and pulled out a lined bucket, dropping his discarded plastic into it; Emma followed suit. Wordlessly he got up and pulled aside the curtain behind them, fastening it behind the driver's seat. It was too dark to see much of what he was doing, but she heard a clunk as he lowered the fold-down bed into position. Then he reached underneath, to the floor, and pulled out a pillow.

"Floor's a little wider, so I stay down there to stretch me legs out," he explained with a sheepish smile, and gave her the pillow. "There should be more than enough space for you up top, though."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Emma responded. A long time back, even before Henry, she'd once hitched with a trucker who had a sleeper cab so big he'd installed bunkbeds on one side and a tiny full kitchen on the other. But at least this one was tall enough that Jones could stand upright with ease, and given the width of the cab, she'd have plenty of leg room as well.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but shut his lips, gave her one last nod, and crouched down to crawl into the lower area. There were a few thunks as he kicked off his boots; a rustling as he shifted around, grunting a little, to find a comfortable position; then silence.

After a while, Emma stood, peering into the top bunk. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could see small windows at either end, the flaps over them closed at the moment. There was a step on her left, just above a mesh-fronted little cabinet, and she used that to climb up into the bunk, taking off her own boots and tossing them back down into the passenger footwell.

The mat was only about a couple inches thick, more of a sleeping pad than a real mattress. But it felt like heaven compared to the hard plastic bus station bench she'd slept on the night before. Emma pulled the blanket over herself and laid her head on the pillow, not caring that it smelled faintly of Old Spice, and closed her eyes. There was a rustle of plastic and a jingle as Jones drew the curtain back across the compartment, leaving them in peaceful darkness.

You lucked out, and you know it, was her last thought, before she fell asleep again.