ONE

POV: FRANKIE

Pussy has power.

At least, that’s what my mom used to tell me, usually with a cigarette tucked between her two fingers, blowing the smoke out of our hotel room window. With painted toes propped on the sill, large curlers rolled into her blonde hair with roots long grown out, she explained that pretty girls like us got chewed up and spat out.

“Girls like Frankie don’t get happy endings,” she’d said, cigarette pointed at me.

Her eyes were the same shade of blue as mine. However, hers always looked more severe, ringed in the eyeliner she reapplied every morning only for it to be smudged again by the time she came home, talkative and glassy-eyed, digging through her purse for her lighter for a good twenty minutes before she found it, only to do it again.

Meth made for quite the busy mind.

She took a long drag of her cigarette, blowing it out the window even though the smell still lingerred, then ashed it out inside a beer can. “We need to decide our fate before they can.”

And that’s why we needed to use our power, which is precisely what I am—and have been, for the last eight years—doing.

I wrap my cold fingers around my mug of coffee, taking a slow sip, trying not to gag at the burnt roast as I glance over my shoulder.

The truck stop diner is mostly empty, but a few candidates sit scattered around me.

One man I quickly rule out. He’s too drunk, can barely string words together for the waitress before his eyes roll into a half-assed blink and his head drops against his fist. Too unpredictable. Who knows if he’ll throw up, piss himself, or pass out. Or all three.

At the other table, three men sit together, laughing, pie crumbs spilling from their mouths. Never a group. One against three isn’t great odds.

I turn in my seat to scan the other side of the diner, and my eyes land on a man in the back booth. His head is down, attention lowered to his mug of coffee as he takes a slow sip. His burger sits beside him, half finished, a smear of ketchup next to his fries. He’s bigger than what I usually go for—not beer-belly big, but large. Thick. Muscular through the arms, even under his flannel coat. His sweat-stained ballcap hides most of his face, though how he looks doesn’t matter much.

What matters is in his back pocket.

He sits silently, barely paying the rest of the diner any attention. When he lifts his left hand to scratch his beard, there’s no ring or even an indent of one.

Bingo.

I take another sip of coffee, fish a crumpled dollar bill out of my pocket, and toss it on the counter before sliding off the stool. My boots land with a small thud against the linoleum, and I make my way over, running my fingers through my hair as I approach. It’s been a good three days since the last wash.

He doesn’t look up at my approach. Not even when I slide into the booth across from him, the vinyl creaking beneath my weight.

“Is this seat taken?” I ask.

He finally glances up, and a pair of ice-blue eyes bordered in dark, thick lashes land on me. He’s a rough-looking man, early fifties and that’s being generous, dark brows and hard lines framing his eyes and mouth, graying stubble a few days past his last shave.

“It is now.”

He swipes a fry from his plate, eyes not leaving mine as he takes a bite.

“Hope you don’t mind. You look pretty lonely over here.” I prop my elbows on the table, chin in my hands, and give him a soft smile. “Want some company?”

He chews, gaze dragging over my face, my slightly knotted and greasy hair, down to my Johnny Cash T-shirt and the silver bangles stacked on my wrists. His eyes snap back to mine.

“Don’t think I really get a choice in the matter, do I?”

The more he talks, the more I catch a slight twang in his voice. It’s hardly there, maybe worn thin from years on the road, but it’s there.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

He grabs another fry, takes a bite. “Ray.”

“Ray?”

“Pretty certain that’s what I said.”

“Well, Ray, where are you headed?”

“East.”

I smile wider. “Funny. Me, too.”

He doesn’t laugh. Nothing in his expression changes. His gaze travels over me once more before returning to his burger, and he drags the plate in front of him like I’m not even sitting there. His large hands lift the burger, and he takes a bite. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, chewing, attention somewhere else entirely.

Well, shit. Most times, men either start vibrating in their booth with excitement or tell me to get lost.

He hasn’t done either.

“So…” I try again. “Care for some company tonight?”

He takes another bite of his burger. Then another. Then he finishes it, pushes the plate aside, and tosses his crumpled napkin onto a few fries I wouldn’t mind finishing myself.

The waitress stops by to clear his plate, and he stops her.

“Piece of pie, please. Warmed.” His gaze flicks to me. “Two forks.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Sure. And I got a six-pack under this shirt.”

I lift a brow. “Do you?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “No.”

I sit back in the booth, jaw tight, and glance out the rain-streaked window. He hasn’t given me a flat-out no yet, so there’s still hope, but I’m working harder than I’ve had to in a long time. Part of me wonders if it’s even worth it, but the alternative—a drunk and three obnoxious men—seems like more work.

Besides, pie does sound awfully good right now.

The waitress returns with a slice of warm apple pie, ice cream piled high and melting over the edges onto the plate. She sets it between us, cuts me a pitiful glance, and I press my lips together as she turns away.

I hate pity. I can handle judgment fine, but pity pisses me off.

He grabs his fork and takes a bite, gesturing with it as he says, “Eat.”

I lean forward, carefully grabbing the other fork, stabbing it into my favorite part—the crust—and lift the bite into my mouth. I suppress a moan as the filling melts on my tongue, the ice cream cool and creamy against it.

Fuck. This is good.

I take another bite, again of the crust. He watches me.

“Don’t eat all the good shit,” he mutters, taking his own bite of crust.

I smirk, moving toward the middle of the slice but steering the conversation back to why I’m actually here, and it’s not to eat pie and be on my merry way. “So… I believe I asked you a question, Ray.”

“I recall.” He takes another bite, tongue darting out to catch a drop of ice cream at the corner of his mouth.

“And?” I hold my fork near my mouth, cleaning the tines with my tongue, gaze steady on him.

His attention drops to my mouth for a beat before lifting back to my eyes.

“How much?” he finally asks.

The fork clatters as I set it down and sit up straight.

Now we’re talking.

“Three hundred for the night.”

His eyes cut to mine, a dark brow lifting. “Little steep, don’cha think?”

“I know what I’m worth.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “That you do. Finish the pie.”

I debate getting up right there. More men will walk through those doors soon enough, and I can wait them out. This guy might be a waste of my time and energy.

With a sigh, I go to stand.

“Hey.”

I stop, halfway out of the booth, and glance back. “What?”

“Where you running off to?”

“Somewhere my time is valuable.”

He laughs roughly. “When was the last time you had something to eat?”

“This morning.”

“Hm.” He sets his fork aside. “You’re awfully skinny.”

“Is that why you’re not interested?” I glare.

“Who said I wasn’t?”

That puts me back in the booth.

“Alright, then what the fuck is this?”