Read Online CRIME THRILLERS-A Box Set by Billie Sue Mosiman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Billie Sue Mosiman
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stupid like reaching for him. She could already feel his big hands on her. She began to burn again, to squirm uncomfortably in the seat. She grabbed the door handle and jerked open the door, scrambled out into the fresh air. She shut the door quietly, just until it clicked, leaning down to stare through the window at Cruise's sleeping face to be sure he hadn't wakened. She smoothed her hair as well as she could. She composed herself, trying to quiet the hidden hunger. She would go into the truck stop and wash in the ladies' room. She'd drink some coffee and get over this mad rush of maniacal lust.
What was wrong with her? Is this what it was to be an adult, to feel this uncontrollable, aching fire take you even as you slept innocent and pure?
She noticed most of the day was gone. The sun was falling down the sky, sinking fast to the flat horizon. It was a shock to think she'd slept most of the daylight hours away. Getting just like Cruise. But what could she expect with him telling her stories all through the night, keeping her captive with his melodic voice. She suspected that's what he wanted-to rearrange her sleeping rhythms. Well, he was the boss on this particular joyride.
She looked up at the sign perched on the edge of the roof of the restaurant and read the name. The White Elephant Cafe. A fat dirty white elephant sat back on his haunches and trumpeted at the sky. Hah. Out here in the middle of God knew where, that's all they could think to call it, she guessed. It was a low-slung job in mud-red brick. The trim was painted brown and white. It could be torn down and no one would lose money.
She went through a glass door and found herself in a small store. Refrigerated cases of beer and soft drinks, milk, cheeses, luncheon meats. Aisles of trucker stuff. CB mikes and connections, logbooks, envelopes, every over-the-counter medicine ever put on the market.
A dull, wrung-out rag of a woman manned the cash register. She filed her nails, not bothering to look up as Molly entered.
To the left was a hallway with rest rooms. Molly headed for the ladies and held open the door for a big woman dressed in tight jeans and a blue workman's jacket. She must be a trucker, Molly assumed. Looked the part anyway. Didn't look like anybody's momma.
After relieving herself, washing her face, hands, neck, and upper arms with soap and water, she tried to get a brush through her red frowsy hair. Giving up trying to get it to lie down and behave, she scooped water into her hands and smoothed it over her head. The natural curl coiled into even tighter ringlets that fell around her pale face like corkscrewed ribbons. She patted them into place with a brown paper towel. Satisfied she was presentable, she left the rest room to find the cafe.
It was at the end of the hallway past four video games lined on one wall. A trucker in greasy jeans played Tetris, the Russian game of falling shapes one had to fit together into lines. Molly noted in passing he wasn't too damn good at it either. She could beat him with one hand tied and her eyes blindfolded.
She wandered into the jumbo room of the cafe. She took a trucker's booth where a black phone hung on the wall at table level. She sat staring at it a full minute. Nah. She
couldn't call him, her dad. He'd want to know where she was, why'd she leave, would she come back? She couldn't stand the pain of it. To be truthful she missed him already, but she'd get over it, she knew. She had to. She could not live with him, could not, could not.
She watched the young waitress. Her hair was short and lacquered stiffly. She wore a teddy bear sweatshirt and faded jeans that fit her all too well. While she waited to be served, Molly cataloged the stuff this joint had on the puke-pink Formica table. The jumble sat on every table.
Mcllhenny Co. Tabasco sauce, Cajun Chef hot sauce, ketchup, sugar shaker, salt and pepper shakers, napkin holder, margarine and jelly tubs (apple and mixed fruit), low-cal sugar
What was wrong with her? Is this what it was to be an adult, to feel this uncontrollable, aching fire take you even as you slept innocent and pure?
She noticed most of the day was gone. The sun was falling down the sky, sinking fast to the flat horizon. It was a shock to think she'd slept most of the daylight hours away. Getting just like Cruise. But what could she expect with him telling her stories all through the night, keeping her captive with his melodic voice. She suspected that's what he wanted-to rearrange her sleeping rhythms. Well, he was the boss on this particular joyride.
She looked up at the sign perched on the edge of the roof of the restaurant and read the name. The White Elephant Cafe. A fat dirty white elephant sat back on his haunches and trumpeted at the sky. Hah. Out here in the middle of God knew where, that's all they could think to call it, she guessed. It was a low-slung job in mud-red brick. The trim was painted brown and white. It could be torn down and no one would lose money.
She went through a glass door and found herself in a small store. Refrigerated cases of beer and soft drinks, milk, cheeses, luncheon meats. Aisles of trucker stuff. CB mikes and connections, logbooks, envelopes, every over-the-counter medicine ever put on the market.
A dull, wrung-out rag of a woman manned the cash register. She filed her nails, not bothering to look up as Molly entered.
To the left was a hallway with rest rooms. Molly headed for the ladies and held open the door for a big woman dressed in tight jeans and a blue workman's jacket. She must be a trucker, Molly assumed. Looked the part anyway. Didn't look like anybody's momma.
After relieving herself, washing her face, hands, neck, and upper arms with soap and water, she tried to get a brush through her red frowsy hair. Giving up trying to get it to lie down and behave, she scooped water into her hands and smoothed it over her head. The natural curl coiled into even tighter ringlets that fell around her pale face like corkscrewed ribbons. She patted them into place with a brown paper towel. Satisfied she was presentable, she left the rest room to find the cafe.
It was at the end of the hallway past four video games lined on one wall. A trucker in greasy jeans played Tetris, the Russian game of falling shapes one had to fit together into lines. Molly noted in passing he wasn't too damn good at it either. She could beat him with one hand tied and her eyes blindfolded.
She wandered into the jumbo room of the cafe. She took a trucker's booth where a black phone hung on the wall at table level. She sat staring at it a full minute. Nah. She
couldn't call him, her dad. He'd want to know where she was, why'd she leave, would she come back? She couldn't stand the pain of it. To be truthful she missed him already, but she'd get over it, she knew. She had to. She could not live with him, could not, could not.
She watched the young waitress. Her hair was short and lacquered stiffly. She wore a teddy bear sweatshirt and faded jeans that fit her all too well. While she waited to be served, Molly cataloged the stuff this joint had on the puke-pink Formica table. The jumble sat on every table.
Mcllhenny Co. Tabasco sauce, Cajun Chef hot sauce, ketchup, sugar shaker, salt and pepper shakers, napkin holder, margarine and jelly tubs (apple and mixed fruit), low-cal sugar
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