ever’ half hour.”
“Really?”
“Hell yeah. But this time of night they’ll go through a few pots ever’ hour anyhow.”
Courtney sipped her coffee.
“What brings a girl like you in here? Can’t imagine you drivin’ a rig.”
“I’m not. I hitched this far. The trucker was going toward Miami. I didn’t want to go down there.”
The man ran his tongue over his front teeth and swallowed. “Where do you want to go?”
“Which way are you headed?”
“It for damn sure ain’t Miami. You almost need a passport to drive through the city. Try askin’ for directions if you don’t speak Spanish.” He grinned, a small crack in his bottom lip strawberry red.
Courtney finished her coffee and turned toward the man. “Where’d you say you were going?”
“Anywhere you want to go, sugar.” He grinned, his breath smelling of beer and beef jerky. “C’mon girl, jet’s jump in the truck. My rig’s fueled up and good to go all night long, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Courtney followed the man out the door, keeping her back to the three security cameras she’d spotted earlier. She unzipped her purse as she walked, her fingers touching the Beretta, her thoughts touching the face of her grandmother so far away.
***
They were in the cab of the big-rig less than a minute when he made his move. The trucker reach behind his seat and pulled out two cans of Budweiser from a small cooler. “How ‘bout a cold one?”
“No thanks. Never got used to how beer tastes.”
“I wonder how you’d taste.” He popped the top on the can and took a long pull, his Adam’s apple moving like a piston.
Courtney rested her hand on the Beretta in her open purse between her right leg and the cab door.
The man used the back of his left hand to wipe his mouth, his lips wet with beer foam and saliva. He grinned. “Best way to learn to like the taste of beer is to slip me some tongue. That way you can get the flavor little doses at a time. You got some damn pretty eyes, girl.”
“Please, just drive.”
He laughed and snorted, his eyes lowering from her face to her lap. “If you won’t slip me some tongue, I’ll slip you some. Take your pants off.”
“I’m on my period.”
“Take your panties off.”
“What if I took your head off?” She raised the Beretta and aimed right between his eyes.
“Oh shit! Put the gun down!”
“Drive!
“Huh?”
“Drive the truck! Head to Tampa.”
He held both hands up, a nerve below his right eye twitching like a beetle was crawling under his skin. “I ain’t goin’ that way.”
“You are now.”
“Listen, I’m supposed to have this load to New Orleans in a day. This truck’s got GPS on it, which means dispatch knows where it’s at twenty-four-seven.”
“You should’ve thought about that before you tried to force yourself on me.” She used her thumb to flip the safety off. “Drive.”
He cranked the diesel, his ruddy face now shiny with perspiration. He checked both side mirrors, put the truck in gear, and eased out of the parking lot. “You gonna keep that gun on me the whole way?”
“Yes.”
“You shoot me out there on the highway doin’ seventy, this rig will jack-knife, roll over and you’ll die, too.”
“But you’ll die first. Don’t talk to me again until we’re there.”
***
Although I hadn’t seen Andrea Hart in two decades, it didn’t take long to track her down. If I cared more about politics, I wouldn’t have had to use a combination of data-finding search engines, social media sites, and sites that accessed public records. I learned as much as I could about the woman I’d known as Andrea Hart.
She was now Andrea Logan, wife of U.S. senator, Lloyd Logan, a three-term member of the senate and chairman of the Appropriations Committee. More than that, he was a front-runner in the pack of candidates vying for the Republican presidential nomination. I would have known about her status earlier had
“Really?”
“Hell yeah. But this time of night they’ll go through a few pots ever’ hour anyhow.”
Courtney sipped her coffee.
“What brings a girl like you in here? Can’t imagine you drivin’ a rig.”
“I’m not. I hitched this far. The trucker was going toward Miami. I didn’t want to go down there.”
The man ran his tongue over his front teeth and swallowed. “Where do you want to go?”
“Which way are you headed?”
“It for damn sure ain’t Miami. You almost need a passport to drive through the city. Try askin’ for directions if you don’t speak Spanish.” He grinned, a small crack in his bottom lip strawberry red.
Courtney finished her coffee and turned toward the man. “Where’d you say you were going?”
“Anywhere you want to go, sugar.” He grinned, his breath smelling of beer and beef jerky. “C’mon girl, jet’s jump in the truck. My rig’s fueled up and good to go all night long, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Courtney followed the man out the door, keeping her back to the three security cameras she’d spotted earlier. She unzipped her purse as she walked, her fingers touching the Beretta, her thoughts touching the face of her grandmother so far away.
***
They were in the cab of the big-rig less than a minute when he made his move. The trucker reach behind his seat and pulled out two cans of Budweiser from a small cooler. “How ‘bout a cold one?”
“No thanks. Never got used to how beer tastes.”
“I wonder how you’d taste.” He popped the top on the can and took a long pull, his Adam’s apple moving like a piston.
Courtney rested her hand on the Beretta in her open purse between her right leg and the cab door.
The man used the back of his left hand to wipe his mouth, his lips wet with beer foam and saliva. He grinned. “Best way to learn to like the taste of beer is to slip me some tongue. That way you can get the flavor little doses at a time. You got some damn pretty eyes, girl.”
“Please, just drive.”
He laughed and snorted, his eyes lowering from her face to her lap. “If you won’t slip me some tongue, I’ll slip you some. Take your pants off.”
“I’m on my period.”
“Take your panties off.”
“What if I took your head off?” She raised the Beretta and aimed right between his eyes.
“Oh shit! Put the gun down!”
“Drive!
“Huh?”
“Drive the truck! Head to Tampa.”
He held both hands up, a nerve below his right eye twitching like a beetle was crawling under his skin. “I ain’t goin’ that way.”
“You are now.”
“Listen, I’m supposed to have this load to New Orleans in a day. This truck’s got GPS on it, which means dispatch knows where it’s at twenty-four-seven.”
“You should’ve thought about that before you tried to force yourself on me.” She used her thumb to flip the safety off. “Drive.”
He cranked the diesel, his ruddy face now shiny with perspiration. He checked both side mirrors, put the truck in gear, and eased out of the parking lot. “You gonna keep that gun on me the whole way?”
“Yes.”
“You shoot me out there on the highway doin’ seventy, this rig will jack-knife, roll over and you’ll die, too.”
“But you’ll die first. Don’t talk to me again until we’re there.”
***
Although I hadn’t seen Andrea Hart in two decades, it didn’t take long to track her down. If I cared more about politics, I wouldn’t have had to use a combination of data-finding search engines, social media sites, and sites that accessed public records. I learned as much as I could about the woman I’d known as Andrea Hart.
She was now Andrea Logan, wife of U.S. senator, Lloyd Logan, a three-term member of the senate and chairman of the Appropriations Committee. More than that, he was a front-runner in the pack of candidates vying for the Republican presidential nomination. I would have known about her status earlier had
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