Truck Stop Tango Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Krissy Daniels

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book in any form or by any means whatsoever without written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Kiss Me Dizzy Books

  Cover Design by:

  Julie Trisolini

  Editing by:

  Madison Seidler

  www.madisonseidler.com

  Proofreading by:

  Georgia Macey

  www.georgiamacey.com

  Formatting by:

  Elaine York

  www.allusiongraphics.com

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgements

  Coming Soon

  Other Books by Krissy Daniels

  Connect

  For Amanda K Byrne. I’m a better writer because of you.

  Rest in peace my sweet friend.

  “GET UP AND DANCE, PRETTY BOY. These bloodthirsty fuckers paid a small fortune to watch me kick your ass tonight. Let’s say we give ‘em a good show.” Rafael Turner bounced from foot to foot, circling my head, pumping his fists, taunting me, working the crowd.

  I hated lying down for anyone, especially this prick. Unfortunately, vulnerability was a necessary ruse. I’d allowed him to land one, for show, but one would be all he’d get. I’d learned to toy with my prey before going for the kill—fool my opponent, and the voracious crowd, into believing the fight was fair.

  The noise in the stadium drowned out the rhythmic thumping in my head. I peeled my cheek from the mat, sticky with sweat and blood. My jaw popped when I tested its mobility, but I ground my molars together regardless, using the pain to stifle the eager beast.

  The colorful mob surrounding the ring blurred into a kaleidoscope of blues and grays—a scene that’d become less invigorating, and more blasé over the years.

  Planting my fists on either side of my chest, I pushed hard, forcing my body to lift until I could find my legs and pull them under me. Rubbery bastards refused to cooperate.

  Damn. Hadn’t been hit that hard in years. The narcissistic fucker had been holding back when we’d sparred in the gym.

  To my left, Tito yelled, “It’s okay, T. Shake it off. Shake it off.”

  Code for not yet.

  Christ. How much longer?

  The crowd chanted, “Turner. Turner. Turner.”

  Rafael played to the cacophony of praises, one of his many weaknesses. He could grandstand all he wanted. Gave me time to gain my bearings.

  “Turner. Turner. Turner,” they continued.

  Thirty seconds ago, it’d been my name rolling like thunder through the stadium.

  No loyalty anymore. I was so done with this shit.

  Pushing to my feet, I stumbled backward, the rope catching my fall. I chanced a glance in Tito’s direction. Standing behind him, wearing a pinstripe suit, Luciano held a drink in one hand and his daughter, Aida, in the other.

  My gut tightened. Bad shit was going down. Luciano never left the safety of his office.

  Give the signal. Give the fucking signal.

  “You good, pretty boy?” Rafael bounced toward me, planted a glove behind my head, and pulled me in for a kiss. A fucking kiss. Goddamn showboating motherfucker.

  The crowd exploded.

  Vibrating with rage, I shoved him away, clearing my field of vision in time to watch my boss saunter down the dark corridor leading toward the locker rooms, head hung low.

  “I know you used to fuck her.”

  I snapped my attention back to my opponent.

  His hazel eyes narrowed. Rolling muscle bunched and coiled under his dark skin. “Aida is mine. I’m gonna make sure you never forget that.”

  Possessive fucker. Aida belonged to nobody. Damn, I couldn’t wait to take him down.

  Tito yelled, “Give him hell, Rocky.”

  Code for unleash the beast and end the cocky bastard.

  ‘Bout fucking time.

  Shaking the tension from my arms, I blocked surrounding stimuli, dropped my walls of restraint, and zeroed in on my target.

  “You’re going down in two, douchebag,” I said with a smile.

  Rafael’s smirk disappeared.

  I lunged, Rafael dodged left, miscalculating, throwing himself into my right hook. I struck again, landing a blow that guaranteed he’d be drinking through a straw for the next two weeks.

  Rafael’s head hit the mat. Fight over. Three rounds too late for my liking.

  Reveling in the uproar, I spun a slow three-sixty, taking in the view one more time. Then I closed my eyes, and pictured her face in the crowd, chanting, Rocky, Rocky, Rocky.

  Fuck. I shook that fantasy from my thoughts and focused on the here and now.

  One fight left. One win. Then freedom.

  Luciano Voltolini would no longer own me. My debt would be paid.

  I hadn’t noticed Tito jump into the ring, but suddenly he was shoving me under the ropes, through waving hands and flailing arms, and down the dark corridor, his hand a firm pressure between my shoulder blades, not allowing me to slow for anyone.

  Three of Luciano’s whores stood at the entrance to my private room. Most days, I would’ve ignored the blonde and invited the others in. After taking Turner to the mat, I’d briefly considered spicing up the mix.

  “Not today, ladies.” Tito waved them away and opened the door for me.

  My knees buckled when I crossed the threshold and absorbed the scene, the moment that would forever haunt me in its frightening simplicity. Luciano sat on my couch, elbows to knees, head to hands. No drink. No women. No bodyguards.

  When I stepped closer, his eyes, always calculating, always fearsome, suddenly liquid and vulnerable, lifted to meet mine. In all the years I’d known Luciano, I’d never witnessed a lick of emotion on his face.

  Things were about to get ugly.

  Tito stepped beside me, clearing his throat. His eyes, too, were glassier than usual.

  “What?” I managed to mumble through my foreboding.

  Luciano Voltolini, the East Coast’s most feared and elusive criminal, rose to his feet, cupped my shoulder with one hand, and wiped his eyes with the other.

  “Tango, son. It’s your mother.”

  Impressive, how my legs managed to hold me upright while Luciano, childhood friend of my father, explained the details of my mother’s sudden death. Crazy, how I couldn’t remember trashing my dressing room, but recalled the one thought roaring through my head.

  I’m going home. I’m going home to my girl.

  I LIFTED MY FINGERS ONE BY ONE off the sticky grip of the steering wheel, then forced my hands to my thighs, fighting the urge to ball them into fists and make a punching bag of my dash. As her form took shape through the windshield, I pulled the bill of my Yankees cap lower and sunk into the buttery leather of my Range Rover.

  Holy Christ, I couldn’t take my eyes off her lean, muscular legs. Her frayed cut-offs could barely be considered attire at all, but I couldn
’t imagine her looking more beautiful. No designer in the world could improve on her small town, all-American girl beauty.

  As she passed, her flip-flops smacked an annoying yet familiar rhythm between the sidewalk and the bottoms of her feet. I gripped the steering wheel again to anchor myself, because damn, was I itching to jump from the car, chase her down, and tangle my fingers through that blonde mess of coils cascading down her back.

  Without glancing my way, Slade Mason trotted up the worn, wooden steps of her porch. The same weathered boards we had carved our names in as kids.

  My stomach rolled at the sight of her. She was skinny. Too damn skinny. But those legs? Shit. Sweet, creamy skin stretched over lean muscle, no doubt carved from two decades of walking every-fucking-where she needed to go.

  I laughed, remembering senior year and my many failed attempts at persuading her to buy a car.

  “Walking makes me happy,” she would always say. And that was that. Her driveway remained as it always had been—empty. Nothing but slabs of cracked cement posing as a dull gray, urban mosaic brightened only by veins of wild grass and dandelions.

  As she fumbled with the grocery bags in her arms, and bent to set them down, my cock roared to life. I’d always loved that ass. High, tight, a perfect handful. Over the years, it had claimed the starring role in many late night jam sessions with my right hand and a hot shower.

  I glanced at the time on my dash. Nine-fifty. Shit. Forty minutes to get to the church. My stomach knotted. Why wasn’t she dressed? Surely she’d attend Mom’s funeral. A volatile mix of dread and regret billowed through me. I rubbed my temples to quell the oncoming headache. God, as much as I hated to admit it, and despite the fact that I hadn’t seen her in six years, I needed her to be there. I’d counted on it.

  I drew a deep breath and gripped the door handle. I had to do this. Would she forgive me? Fuck it. Didn’t matter. I wouldn’t forgive me. But, damn. I needed to face Slade before I could face the town.

  Sucking in a breath of courage, I pushed the door open and dropped one foot to the asphalt. I heard a squeal as the front door of her house swung open. I paused, heart in my throat, and watched a little shit jump into her arms and tackle her to the ground. His raven hair, a sharp contrast to her blonde waves, pointed every which way on his head.

  “Mommy. You’re home!” He hugged her tight.

  Mommy? Impossible. The kid was tall. Six or seven, by the looks of him. Slade was a virgin when I’d left six years ago. I would know. I was the reason she’d remained untouched.

  Slade’s arms wrapped in a protective cage around the boy, and she rolled to her side, planting kisses up and down his face.

  My heart dropped to my gut. Motherfucker. A kid.

  I scratched the nagging tingle at the base of my skull. A child. Hadn’t considered that. Was there a husband? Didn’t matter. Not like I came to proclaim my love and beg her to take me back. Just needed to clear my conscience of the damage I’d done all those years ago.

  Maybe then, I could go back to being the Tango she’d once known. The Tango I wanted to be again.

  That was what I told myself, anyway. Truth? I needed to convince her to come with me, walk into the church, hand in hand. Hell, she could walk ten feet in front of me, wouldn’t matter. Just needed to know those blue eyes were out there watching me.

  I stood frozen, one foot glued to the ground, the other still inside my car, arms perched over the top of my door. Move, jackass. Move. It’s now or never.

  I was about to call her name, when a stout, older woman, waddled onto the porch with a knitting bag over her shoulder.

  “Thank you, Marion,” Slade shouted, tickling and kissing the little shit in her arms.

  “Any time, sweetie.” The woman carefully maneuvered the steps and shouted a goodbye before cutting through the neglected lawn toward the house next door.

  Slade pushed to her feet, grabbed the grocery bags, and then finally, her gaze fell on me. Those eyes. Those fucking eyes. My crack. Lighting me up from head to toe. I lifted a hand, offering a pathetic wave, all confidence lost.

  Smile. Smile for me. Please.

  Slade’s beautiful face dropped, along with her shoulders. She shook her head back and forth in a slow no. Warning me to stay away. Gutting me.

  I watched, wrecked beyond comprehension, while her boy opened the door and gestured for her to go in.

  “What a gentleman. Thanks, babylove,” she said, glancing back at me one more time before disappearing behind the door.

  Babylove. Bile rose in my throat. I hadn’t heard or spoken that word since the day I walked out of her life, a hotheaded, selfish coward. My pet name for Slade. An endearment she shared with her son, as if it had never been special, had never meant anything to her at all.

  Like I’d taken a punch to the gut, I crumpled into my seat, and closed the door. Deflated. Disgusted. Dangerously close to losing my shit.

  “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I roared, pounding the steering wheel, releasing the rage before it could boil over. “Babylove,” I grumbled, testing the name. My tongue soured.

  I revved the engine, and rolled down the street, away from the only girl I’d ever loved.

  The only man I’d ever loved. Parked on my street. In front of my house. Waving hello like he’d only just returned from a trip to the corner gas station. Was he insane? Had he forgotten that he’d shattered me into a million pieces, then disappeared? For six years.

  Ouch. I knew there was a chance I’d see him while he was home for the funeral. I’d no idea it would kill me. And it was killing me.

  I stood with my back pressed to the door, struggling to breathe, eyes closed tight to keep the tears at bay, fighting a tidal wave of nausea.

  He can’t hurt you again.

  Tango Rossi had broken me. With time, I’d glued the shattered pieces back together. Some of them had fit. Some hadn’t. I’d stuck them together anyway, a morbid, mosaic human sculpture. I was happy with the outcome.

  My mom used to say that the glue we used to repair our broken hearts made us stronger. I’d always believed her, because no matter what, Mom had always held her head high, always smiled through the pain, and loved harder than anyone I knew. Of course, Mom had suffered a new broken heart every week, and her glue had come from a bottle filled with eighty-proof liquid.

  What she’d failed to mention, what became painfully obvious while I trembled against my front door, was that glue was useless against the very thing that broke you in the first place. I was living proof. Because after seeing Tango’s face, my put-together pieces were crumbling to the floor one by one.

  For the first time in my life, part of me—well, most of me … okay, a tiny bit of me—wished he’d never existed. The knot in my stomach, formed of nostalgia and worry, wreaked havoc on my sanity.

  I glanced at the time. The funeral would start soon. Had he expected me to attend? It made no sense. But why else would he have come to my home?

  “C’mon, Mom.” Rocky pulled on my pinky finger.

  Rocky. My glue. The reason I could never break again. I shook my head, hoping to clear the image of Tango’s face from my thoughts, and forced myself to follow my son into the kitchen.

  “Marion made a pancake stack,” Rocky shouted and jumped into his chair, eyes wider than the sticky, buttery heap piled in front of him. The boy rarely ate more than two pancakes, but Marion loved cooking for Rocky, and insisted that pancakes weren’t pancakes unless they were piled at least ten high.

  “She did?” I asked, shoving milk and yogurt into the fridge. “Think you can eat the whole thing?”

  He nodded and stabbed his fork into the fluffy pile.

  I reached for the cupboard to grab a coffee mug, unnerved by the tremble in my hands. After filling my cup, I sat next to my beautiful boy and stared long and hard at his brilliant green eyes. The color, a tad darker than his father’s, should’ve haunted me, but instead offered a solace I hadn’t experienced in years. “Have you danced today, ba
bylove?”

  “No, Mom. I waited for you,” he mumbled with a mouth full of flapjack.

  God, I loved my kid. My heart swelled. I scooped him into my arms, sticky face and all, and spun around the kitchen to the tune he hummed. Together we jumped, shimmied, wiggled, and laughed. We never let a day go by without dancing together, even if for only a few, short seconds on the kitchen floor. Breathless, but happy, Rocky climbed back into his seat.

  For the first time in ages, I wished I didn’t have a business to run. I’d given my waitresses the day off for Marta Rossi’s memorial service. They had both attended her dance classes for over two years. They adored her. Everyone did. Everyone but me.

  “Mommy?” Rocky reached for the syrup bottle. I snatched it before he made contact.

  “No more. That’s too much sugar. I need you on your best behavior today. You have to help me at work.”

  “I do?” He bounced in his chair, and, just like that, the pancakes were ancient history and Rocky was all business, hands to hips, brows pinched. “How come? I thought you didn’t like to bring me with you.”

  “Sweetie, I love having you with me. It just isn’t right to make you hang out for the whole day.” Truth was, I enjoyed bringing my son to work. The older patrons loved him. The younger crowd treated him as one of their own. Those my age, the people I’d gone to school with, those who knew my history, they made me wary. Six years had passed, and I still heard the occasional whispers and taunts. People believed I had done something to run Tango out of town.

  “Biker whore,” was the most common term I’d heard whispered. I could handle it, but I sure as hell didn’t want Rocky asking questions. Besides, the rumors were far less damaging than the truth.

  “But I like playing at The Stop. Especially when I get to help.”

  “Honey, today shouldn’t be too busy. Tucker said he’d stop by and pick you up later this afternoon. Take you fishing. That sound good?”

  Rocky squealed and trotted down the hall. “Fishing! I’m gonna catch the biggest one this time.”

  I sighed and gulped my coffee before cleaning our breakfast mess. I wondered what Tango would wear for the funeral. A nice suit? Maybe a dress shirt and slacks? Would he cry at the service? I hadn’t shed a tear for his mother. That fact saddened me more than her passing. I’d known her my whole life. I should’ve wanted to mourn. I just didn’t have it in me to care about someone who’d turned on me the second her son left town.