Paranormal Anthology With a TWIST (17 page)

The truck stop was one of the better ones he stopped at, he tried
to find quality wherever he could, but the road was master and places along it
were not always top-notch. The Nickelback had been around since the thirties,
but upgraded to keep up with the times. A nice diner tucked in one corner, a
bank of showers and nice restrooms, and the fact the owners knew how to treat a
customer right, kept Dominic coming back.

 
“Howdy, Dom,” Chuck
said from behind the diner counter. “Your usual?” Dominic smiled. He loved that
Chuck and Amy knew his order. It made him feel like he was at home, or as close
to a home as he would ever have. His dream home wasn’t on wheels.

“Thanks, Chuck,” Dom replied and attempted to make his way to the
restroom before being interrupted by the old man’s ramblings.

“Damn, you’re aging well, boy. It seems I keep getting older while
you don’t age a day. The road must be treating you well, huh Dom? Yeah, I
remember when I bought this beauty back in 1954 from that bitter old cuss,
Gritty Smitty. Shoot, I was only twenty-two then yet I remember it like it was
just yesterday…”

Dom rolled his eyes at the old man’s rambling, one-sided
conversation as he allowed the man’s voice to fade in the background and made
his way to the bathroom. Even though Dom has been a regular face for decades,
old Chuck always seemed to tell the same story, reliving the times when he was
just a young man, fresh out of the service, money burning a hole in his proverbial
pocket. He was hitching rides across the country looking for adventure, and
maybe, a place to call home. Gritty Smitty was the old fellow that had been
manning the pumps. He was a bitter old cuss, who hated the stench of gasoline
and abhorred people. That day in May 1954 changed both of their lives, or so
Chuck says. Smitty sold faster than a lightning strike and hopped in the
nearest truck that was heading anywhere but there. Charlie stood in the dust
holding the keys to his new life.

Now, old Charlie, better known as Chuck, had owned the Nickelback
Truck Stop since 1954; it was his livelihood, his home, his universe. Whatever
happened there, Old Charlie knew every gritty little secret, or so he liked to
tell Dom anyway.

Once Dom returned from the bathroom, Chuck seemed to be in his own
little world, staring at the steaming pot of coffee in his wrinkled hand.

“Earth to Chuck, you in there, dude?” Dom’s asked quizzically.

Chuck chuckled, a deep throaty sound that filled the air. “Cool as
a cucumber, kid.”

As expected, a thermos filled to the brim of hot, rejuvenating
coffee with just a hint of sweetness and two breakfast burritos hot off the
griddle were waiting for him. The aroma of spicy sausage and hot sauce made him
salivate at the thought of taking a bite out of those righteous rolls that were
currently seeping grease through the white paper bag on the counter. Slapping a
twenty on the counter, he winked and left before the usual argument over the
tip being too much ensued.

Checking his phone, there was still no word from Rose. He got into
his truck, ate his breakfast, and thought things over. Concern outweighed her
foolish rules. He had to call—that was all there was left to do. They had
an arrangement that phone calls were to be limited, generally initiated by her.
When she called, he stopped and called right back, no matter where or
when—that was the way things were to keep her happy. She knew he was
heading in for the weekend... Maybe something had happened—he had to
know, he loved her. Stuffing the trash from breakfast into his garbage bin and
taking a shot of hot, liquid courage, he grabbed his phone and made the call.
He wasn’t sure if she would pick it up. It rang and rang, and just as he
thought it would never stop, she picked up.

“Dom?” Rose’s voice came from his phone, sounding weak and
frightened.

A wave of concern washed over him. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

Tears were what he heard first, which caused him to slam his fist
into the steering wheel. “He hurt me. One minute I was safe, then hell! I need
you—can you come now?” she begged, her voice stabbing him through the
heart.

“Rose, you need to call the police. If you’re hurt, I can’t get to
you quick enough. Call them now, or I will,” Dom demanded, worried she may be
more injured than she was letting on to spare his concern.

“Dominic, no! I’ve already been down that road and I even saw a
doctor. I don’t need the law right now—I just need you. I’m scared.
Please, Dom.”

“I’m heading out now. Screw the delivery! I’ll be there at ten
sharp. Stay at home, lock the door!” he said with urgency through gritted
teeth.

“Remember, I love you!”

“I love you too—need you,” she said with a whimper before
hitting the button to end the call.

Anger coursed through Dom’s body; an electric shock jolting him
into action. He contemplated going against Rose’s wishes and calling the police
again. She didn’t sound stable enough to be at home by herself. But what would
he do? What would he say? He didn’t know who hurt her or the extent of her
injuries. It might be best if he assessed the situation in person before making
such a drastic move.

He punched the starter button, and Betty Lou roared to life, like
a lioness ready to pounce. He cranked the stereo to max volume, causing Eminem
to pound through the speakers, shaking the cab with the power of the music.
Shifting into gear, he slammed his foot onto the gas pedal and the engine
growled—a similar sound slipping from Dom’s lips as he beat his fist
against the steering wheel in pace with the song. The intensity of the anger
surged through Dom and the engine revved to meet his ferocity with equal
passion. They barreled down the highway like animals on the hunt; their passion
synchronizing as they flew forward into the blazing horizon.

Rose smiled as she put her phone down. He had fallen for
it—hook, line, and sinker. She knew he would. He wore his heart on those
worn flannel sleeves. He was one rare bird of a man. She usually steered clear
of guys like Dominic, but something about him had drawn her in that night, almost
two years ago. They’d both been on the prowl at a local nightclub, Eclipse di
Luna—and not necessarily for each other. It was a magnetic attraction
that could not be ignored. They enjoyed that night, and a few more, before she
discovered that Dom was a truck driver—an over-the-road, long haul
driver. He was the perfect man—able to fulfill her wants, needs, and
occasional desires—hers to control, not underfoot every day, and giving a
required freedom that a traditional relationship hindered.

He was a good man; never failed to take care of her, no matter how
crazy her requests might be. Thanks to Dom, the rent was paid, the bills were
not an issue, and she had many pretty things to call her own. Now was not the
time to reminisce though—now was the time to prepare. Preparation was the
key to success. She had very little time to waste. She cleaned the tools
methodically, placing them in the cabinet. She mopped the floor with the bleach
first, and then the Biokleen disinfectant. Finished, she rushed back home to clean
up and give herself a makeover to die for.

Dom was just outside of Atlanta on I-285 and nearing his exit for
his delivery. He already called the loading dock operator and told him there
was no way he could make it until he checked on his girl. He contemplated
making it anyway, knowing he had made good time. But the deliveries didn’t
always go smoothly and one snag in it would have caused him to blow a fuse. The
tension was already pouring from him like a suffocating fog. Over the phone,
the operator sensed he was not to be messed with and finally agreed the
delivery could wait until the afternoon.

With the stress of the delivery out of his way, he raced to the
company lot. As an owner/operator, it was nice to have the privileges that were
afforded him with his company. He had worked his way up the ladder, paid his
dues, earned a good reputation, and made a name for himself. Special clients
started requesting, and then demanding, that he be their driver. He had things
to be proud of, things worth living for, and things worth fighting for.

He yanked off I-285, onto Constitution, got ‘Betty Lou” parked and
locked up, then hopped into his Dodge Durango and began the short drive over to
Rose’s campus area apartment. The clock on his dashboard read nine forty-five
a.m. He was making great time.

He originally hoped tonight would be a new beginning for them. He
thought of the velvet box that sat in his pocket and prayed he would have the
chance to ask her soon. He desperately needed a hot shower, but his lady needed
him—the idea fueled his anger. His hopes of proposing someday waged war
with the emotional outrage he felt for the garbage that had hurt his beautiful
lady. He had no idea the extent of damage Rose had endured. His heart burned
with hatred for the unknown attacker, and ached with love for his precious,
hazel-eyed girl.

Rose found Janice buried under a blanket on the couch, an ice pack
on her forehead, the curtains shut tight. Another migraine, another drama
scene. Unbearable! She was close to smacking her upside the head and stuffing
her in the closet. She was tired of playing nurse. She had no time for it. An
argument ensued, tempers flared, unspoken words suddenly spewed forth. Hurt,
angry, and dejected, Janice relented and agreed to go over to a friend’s place
to stay for the night. Janice had only given in because it was Dominic
coming—and not Kevin.

The tussle with Janice made it a fast makeover. She looked in the
mirror—what a shame to soil such beauty, yet the deed must be done. She
pulled her makeup kit from under the sink—her deluxe, costume-grade kit.
No typical color palette would meet her needs today. She blended a variety of
base creams to get the perfect shade of paleness, thoroughly covering her face
and upper torso. A little ochre blended into the base helped her create the
faded bruises on her arms, and around her neck and wrists. She dragged her
beautifully manicured nails repeatedly down her abdomen and arms, bringing
blood. She allowed this to flow and mix with the makeup, and then wrapped gauze
bandages around her arms. She flexed her arms, forcing more blood to flow,
soaking the bandages a bit. Medium violet, Phthalo blue, buff, mars black, and
titanium white were placed on her palette. With the colors, she worked to make
her eyes look sunken, bruised, and abused. More vibrant bruising was added to
her neck, resembling fingerprints embedded within the skin.

Makeup attended to, it was now time for the costume and final
touches. She dug in an antique trunk she stored in the corner of her room,
clothing flying everywhere. Sweatpants, check. Ratty t-shirt with stains topped
by an oversized cardigan, definitely. Slouch socks with house slippers,
absolutely. Checking the clock, she shrieked; she had mere minutes to finish.