Southbound Surrender (9 page)

“I decided to tell you because I thought maybe, just maybe, it would give you motivation to move on. You know where this mystery girl is now – not exactly a hard-boiled mystery considering she’s only two hours away – and she’s taken. She’s happy and has moved on.” Hudson pauses. “And I think it’s time for you to do the same.”

But I know that I’ll only be happy with Piper, and I know she feels the same way. Well, let me rephrase that, I hope like hell she feels the same way because in the five seconds of silence that Hudson has afforded me, I have come to terms with what I need to do. I don’t give a damn about the universe. I’m not going to let it play me like this.

It’s my turn to convince the universe that I belong with Piper Sullivan.

The world around me freezes. I’m in a noiseless bar with an unmoving Holly perched with a glass in her hand and a stagnant slob next to me with his belly resting against the bar. I know if I turn I’ll see the two girls behind me, one blonde, the other brunette, with their arms suspended in the air and their skirts riding high on their thighs. And Hudson is on the other side of me with something in his hand that I can’t quite make out. It’s earth-shattering silent, a vacuum of space, and I’m waiting for a bullet to slowly move toward my face like Keanu Reeves in
The
Matrix
.

But no bullet whizzes past my face. Instead, Hudson shoves what he has in his hand flat against my chest before displaying his showcase smirk. “Her address.”

***

“You ready?” Viv yells from deep inside the shop, somewhere between a stack of tires five feet high and a greased-up forklift. Her dry, red curls pop up next to the forklift’s steering wheel. I’m gainfully employed by a brute of a woman with a mop of potpourri for hair. Viv started V&S Carriers over thirty years ago with one truck and one driver: herself. Fast forward three husbands and forty trucks later, and you’re standing in the small mom and pop shop – minus the pop – that I work for. Word of advice: don’t ask Viv what the ‘S’ stands for. Trust me, you don’t want to know.

“More ready than you know,” I say, grabbing my log sheets from the filthy desk that’s crammed in the corner. While most of the trucking industry in the twenty-first century utilizes computerized logging, Viv has been adamant to keep her patented logging system she developed twenty years ago. All you need is a paper, pencil and half a brain. Unfortunately for Viv, some of the other truckers are missing that last component. I’m an Einstein compared to some of these fools.

“The load is ready for pick-up in Green Bay,” she says. “You got until Wednesday night to get it to Miami. Stay on the straight and narrow, Cash Money. That load’s over three hundred grand and you know I’m only insured to a quarter of a million. I’m taking a chance you don’t royally screw this up.”

“Do I ever?”

“There’s a first time for everything, smartass.”

I hope she’s right about firsts, but not about screwing up the load.

“Hey, you dirty bastard,” Viv yells again, but this time her whole body emerges. It folds out like a stubby thumb. “You forgot to ask me if I want to come with.”

“Can’t have you coming along today, Viv,” I reply. It’s a nickname she only grants me the privilege of calling her. See, me and Viv get along pretty well if you haven’t figured that out already. I think I’m the son she never had, or maybe the smart, charming husband she never married. Either way, it’s kind of weird, but I like her, and more importantly, I like working for her. She’s got spunk. It’s important for your boss to have spunk.

“And why not?” She asks with her hands on her hips like a plump teapot. “You got someone else riding with you?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Maybe?”

“Well, not exactly right now, but I think…” I start but she doesn’t let me finish. Viv’s got the patience of a two-year-old and unmatchable brashness. That’s what happens when you hang around truck drivers with half a brain too long.

“Too much thinking,” she says with a wave of her hands. “Just drive. And be sure to wrap it.”

***

I press my sneaker against the first grated step of Cash Money and stop to peer at the diamond-patterned shadows on the asphalt below. They look like an interlocking puzzle. Big Dave might call this the first step into the passage to true enlightenment. While it seems a little extreme, I’m taking the first step toward reclaiming what the universe took from me.

I haul myself the rest of the way up, climb in and throw my bag on the passenger seat where I hope Piper is sitting in less than three hours, if I’m lucky. A set of blue eyes penetrate me from the dash. I shoot a reluctant look at the picture Big Dave taped to my dash before I even took off on my first trip. Luella
.
My mom’s eyes study me with their softness, and her voice sings in my ears from the recording I found last night. Her words dance in my head as I finger the edges of the photo. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life missing Piper.

She
will
be sitting in that seat in less than three hours.

I pick up the bag and throw it onto the bed behind me.

As I place my hands on the keys, I run through a mental checklist of the truck. I’ve got my log for miles and hours. The provisions are stocked in the fridge, and I’ve got a few changes of clothes in my bag, more than I would usually take, including a new shirt I picked up this morning. Phone. Wallet. Shampoo. Toothbrush. Cologne. And the last two things are wrapped neatly in a plastic bag. That sounds creepy, but it’s not. You have to trust me on this one. You’ll see what I’m talking about later.

Cash Money roars to life, the rumble coursing through my body like a drug, and I give my diesel-guzzling baby a few seconds to warm up before I shift into gear. I steer my truck through the parking lot and onto the open road and into the blaring light of hope for a lost love.

Other people might call it the sun.

I ignore this fact, set my phone on the dash, and plug in my hands-free set to make the call I make every time I go on a trip, even though nine times out of ten, he already knows where I’m going, when I’m leaving, and when I’ll be back. I’ve afforded him that courtesy over the last year, and I know he appreciates it.

“Hey there,” Big Dave’s voice booms through my ear. “Where you headed today?”

“Miami,” I reply even though this trip is part of that ninety percent I just mentioned.

“Miami. A sun-soaked city near the Atlantic,” he says.

“Ranked one of the cleanest and richest cities in America,” I add. “With the second-largest population of Spanish-speaking individuals and with a port dubbed the Cruise Capital of the World.”

“Take some pictures,” he says. He always tells me to take pictures and always asks to see them after each trip. I usually come home with a handful, most of them blurry since I’m driving along the highway.

“Of the run-down warehouse of some back alley where murderers hang out?”

“Oh, Cash. Come on. There’s so much more to see,” he says. “How long you going to be gone?”

“Five days. I should be back on Friday night or Saturday morning.”

“I’ll see you then. Drive safe.”

“I will.” I’m about to hang up, but something stops me. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

My heart pounds in my chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Mom?”

The silence between us is stifling. No, make that suffocating.

“What do you mean?” he asks slowly, his words hollow and short. We both know what I mean. I take a deep breath and let it fly.

“I was digging through some stuff in the basement last night looking for some oil for my bike when I saw the box with a big heart on it.”

Suffocation, again.

“You weren’t supposed to see that box,” Big Dave chokes out a whisper. “I thought I put it back, out of sight…”

“Well, you didn’t, and I listened to the tapes inside. I listened to her voice,” I say. “She has a voice like an angel, up until she starts in on her jokes of course.”

“Drunken sailor.”

“Drunken sailor,” I repeat with a smile. “The one about Pete in the boat is pretty funny.”

Big Dave lets out a small laugh on the other end.

“Why didn’t you tell me about her?” I ask again.

“I don’t know, Cash,” he says. “I just…”

“You just what?”

“I just didn’t want you to worry,” he says. “Even as a kid you worried about the smallest things. You worried about the trees losing their leaves, you worried about the ant that wasn’t going to make it back to the anthill, or about the cut on your finger that might get infected. I think it’s because you just always knew too much about life, Cash. You’re too smart for your own good. If you would have known about your mom, then you would have worried about what it could possibly mean for you, even though the odds…”

“I’m going to pick up Piper on my way to Miami,” I interrupt. I don’t want to hear about the odds and the percentages and the likelihood of it all. Not now, at least. Not with Piper on my mind.

“We have to talk Cash,” he starts.

“Not until I get back. I’m not letting anything or anyone stop me.”

“You know where she is?” he asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, I do,” I say with my eyes intent on the road ahead of me.

“The universe…”

“I don’t care about the universe, Dad,” I say. “She’s the one.”

I’m about to hang up for the second time when I hear him say what I least expect him to say.

“Then go get her.”

Chapter 7

Two hours later, I’m staring at the chipped paint of a front door I’ve never seen before, and I simultaneously love and hate this door. I hate it because it’s the only thing standing between Piper and me. I love it because it’s the only thing standing between Piper and me. I look down at Hudson’s scrawled handwriting on the post-it note, and I suddenly become hyper-aware of how awkward and scary and panic-inducing this scenario is. Here I am, a guy that she doesn’t want anything to do with, at her front door with a semi-truck behind me, blocking Park Street from both sides. No cars in, no cars out for as long as it takes me to convince her to get in the truck with me.

The picture I’m painting sounds bizarre and pathetic, but I hope like hell it’s not. I don’t look back at my truck because I know I’ll see what Piper will see if she opens the door, and it will make me sprint off this porch faster than you can say systolic heart failure, which I’m pretty sure is about to happen.

I lift my hand to knock on the door.

Before my fist makes contact, the door opens to a guy about my height except he’s about twenty pounds heavier with a jawline that rivals Hudson’s and a thick scar that snakes near his eyebrow. A Quentin Tarantino-style badass that for some reason, looks vaguely familiar. I can’t quite place him though.

“Yeah?” he growls.

So it’s true, some guys actually do growl. Maybe Piper wasn’t lying about the whole boyfriend thing and if this is him, I’ll be in a world of hurt in no time. I can see him taking me in his gorilla hands and crushing me up like a beer can.

“Um,” I manage to mumble around the enormous lump that’s catching like a ball of cat hair in my throat. It’s disgusting. I stand straighter.

He lets out a small laugh between his thick lips before grabbing the door frame with his right hand. His fingers curl around it, and his tattoo on his forearm grows. I try to ignore the naked woman on his arm but her blonde hair is making my head dizzy. It looks like Piper

This is usually where any normal person panics, runs the other way, and rages into a fit of self-loathing while either punching a wall or eating a carton of Haagen-Dazs. I’m usually a midnight cookies and cream kind of a guy, but the blood splattering of punching a wall sounds a bit more enticing at the moment.

Then I hear the voice that I’ve missed for five years.

“Get out of the way, Kelly.” Piper ducks underneath his arm and pops up in front of him. She pushes her butt into his thigh, and he lets out a rumble deep in his chest that makes me cringe. He shoots one last look of contempt at me before sauntering back into the house. The fact that his name is Kelly brings a grin to my face and takes the edge off the nervousness.

“Cash Rowland. I wondered how long it would take you.” The Piper Sullivan standing before me is better than my best sketched memory of her. Her eyes are more endless and her hair is more golden. And those peach lips, they’re faultless. She’s leaning against the doorframe in a pink shirt and tight jeans that hug her delicious hips.

I imagined this moment for five years – FIVE FREAKING YEARS – and I played it over a million times in my head. I rehearsed the lines over and over. The reunion went something like this: First, there’s a cue of violins and time stands still while our gazes meet. I brush a strand of hair out of her face and trace my hand across her flushed cheek. I tell her that I’ve been waiting for this moment for the last five years. I miss her smile. I miss her everything. And she tells me the same and falls into my waiting arms. The rest is history.

Nothing even remotely close to that is about to come out my mouth, but there is nothing I can do to stop it. It’s coming now, that instinctual crap that makes me way too honest and completely unlikable in this moment.

“You lied to me.”

I can hear the air deflate from your balloon. Sorry about that. I want to kick myself, too.

“I exaggerate to a lot of people,” she says as she rests her head against the doorframe. Her hair falls down her shoulders in a golden cascade that makes my chest throb.

“You never went to Princeton,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. This is just getting worse.

“I didn’t,” she says slowly. “I never said I was going to go there. I said I applied and thought I would
have
to go there.”

“Do you have an Aunt Belinda?”

God, where am I going with this? You can feel free to scream at me. I’m screaming at myself.

“Yes.”

“Does she live in California?”

“No.”

“Have you been in Madison the last five years?”

“Yes and no.”

“Should I believe anything you tell me?”

“Yes and no.”

“Come on, Piper,” I groan and bounce my knees. She drives me wild, and I know that I should probably just turn around and leave. I should shut Piper out of my life for good and piss on fate and everlasting love and all that other stuff. But she pulls me back in with four little words.