Page 197 of Heartbeats & Highways

“And what?” he demanded in exasperation.

“Don’t get mad at me,” I snapped. “I was just curious.”

“I’m telling him where we’re stopping. We haven’t touched on the subject of me being on probation with the club. He voted in favor of the probation.”

“You said the vote was unanimous,” I murmured. “But somehow I didn’t put that together. You mad at him for it?”

“No. He had to vote that way. He had to vote for what’s in the best interest of the club. He’s loyal to me, but it was the right call, and I respect him for it.”

We fell silent and it was clear neither of us wanted to talk anymore. He turned on some music, and I pulled out a sketchpad and a pencil. I curled my knees up to my chest to make my lap a makeshift desk.

It wasn’t comfortable and I soon lost interest.

I leaned my head against the seat rest and closed my eyes. I was jostled awake, and my bladder immediately let me know it was full.

Savage had pulled into a truck stop with a big travel center.

I set my sketchpad aside. “I need to use the bathroom.”

He nodded. “I’ll get gas and then go in after you.”

I went inside the travel center and used the facilities and then I bought us snacks for the rest of our day’s drive. I was already sick of being in the car; I wanted to get to our final destination. I wanted the quiet and the solitude, not the endless buzzing sound of rubber tires on the highway.

“You’re up,” I said when I got back to the car. I opened the candy bar and took a bite.

Savage pulled the car into a parking spot to make room for the next customer in line and then he went inside.

By the time he came back to the car, twenty minutes had passed, along with two candy bars finding their way into my belly.

He held a plastic bag.

“What did you get?” I asked, buckling myself in.

“It’s for you.”

My heart cartwheeled. “Me?”

I reached into the bag and pulled out a lap desk with a cushioned bottom that rested on my legs.

“So you can draw easier,” he said.

“Thank you.” I looked at him. “That was thoughtful of you.”

He frowned.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re being polite.”

“Uh yeah, it’s called having manners.”

He shook his head. “No, I mean you’re talking to me like you would talk to a stranger. What’s going on?”

“Truth?”

“Truth.”

“I hate being in the car. I hate feeling trapped. I hate that everything is so . . .”

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