Run, Rose, Run(3)

“I was wondering how long you were going to sleep,” Eddie said. “I was getting lonely.”

She tried to push his hand away, but he squeezed tighter.

“Relax,” he said. His fingers dug into her thigh. “Why don’t you move closer, Ann? We can have a little fun.”

AnnieLee gritted her teeth. “If you don’t take your hand off me, you’re going to be sorry.”

“Oh, girl, you are just precious,” he said. “You just relax and let me do what I like.” His hand slid farther up her thigh. “We’re all alone in here.”

AnnieLee’s heart pounded in her chest, but she kept her voice low. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Sure I do.”

“I’m warning you,” she said.

Eddie practically giggled at her. “What are you going to do, girl, scream?”

“No,” she said. She reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out the gun. Then she pointed it at his chest. “I’m going to do this.”

Eddie’s hand shot off her leg so fast she would’ve laughed if she weren’t so outraged.

But he got over his surprise quickly, and his eyes grew narrow and mean. “Hundred bucks says you can’t even fire that thing,” he said. “You better put that big gun away before you get hurt.”

“Me get hurt?” AnnieLee said. “The barrel’s not pointing at me, jackass. Now you apologize for touching me.”

But Eddie was angry now. “You skinny little tramp, I wouldn’t touch you with a tent pole! You’re probably just another truck stop hoo—”

She pulled the trigger, and sound exploded in the cabin—first the shot, and then the scream of that dumb trucker.

The truck swerved, and somewhere behind them a horn blared. “What the hell’re you doing, you crazy hobo bitch?”

“Pull over,” she said.

“I’m not pull—”

She lifted the pistol again. “Pull over. I’m not kidding,” she said.

Cursing, Eddie braked and pulled over onto the shoulder. When the truck came to a stop, AnnieLee said, “Now get out. Leave the keys in and the engine running.”

He was sputtering and pleading, trying to reason with her now, but she couldn’t be bothered to listen to a word he said.

“Get out,” she said. “Now.”

She shook the gun at him and he opened the door. The way the rain was coming down, he was soaked before he hit the ground.

“You crazy, stupid, trashy—”

AnnieLee lifted the gun so it was pointing right at his mouth, so he shut it. “Looks like there’s a rest stop a couple miles ahead,” she said. “You can have yourself a nice walk and a cold shower at the same time. Pervert.”

She slammed the door, but she could feel him beating on the side of the cab as she tried to figure out how to put the truck into gear. She fired another shot, out the window, and that made him quit until she found the clutch and the gas.

Then AnnieLee grabbed hold of the gearshift. Her stepdad might’ve been the world’s biggest asshole, but he’d taught her to drive stick. She knew how to double-clutch and how to listen to the revs. And maybe songs weren’t the only thing she had a natural talent for, because it didn’t take her long at all to lurch that giant rig off the shoulder and pull out onto the highway, leaving Eddie screaming behind her.

I’m driving, she thought giddily. I’m driving!

She yanked on the horn and shot deeper into the darkness. And then she started singing.

Driven to insanity, driven to the edge

Driven to the point of almost no return



She beat out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

Driven, driven to be smarter

Driven to work harder

Driven to be better every day



That last line made her laugh out loud. Sure, she’d be better tomorrow—because tomorrow the sun would come out again, and tomorrow she had absolutely no plans to carjack an eighteen-wheeler.





Chapter

3



Ruthanna couldn’t get the damn lick out of her head. A descending roll in C major, twangy as a rubber band, it was crying out for lyrics, a bass line, a song to live inside. She tapped her long nails on her desk as she scrolled through her emails.

“Later,” she said, to herself or to the lick, she wasn’t entirely sure. “We’ll give you some attention when the boys show up to play.”

It was nine o’clock in the morning, and already she’d fielded six pleading requests for Ruthanna Ryder, one of country music’s grandest queens, to grace some big industry event or another with her royal presence.

She couldn’t understand it, but people just failed to get the message: she’d retired that crown. Ruthanna didn’t want to put on high heels, false eyelashes, and a sparkling Southern smile anymore. She wasn’t going to stand up on some hot, bright stage in a dress so tight it made her ribs ache. She had no desire to pour her heart out into a melody that’d bring tears to a thousand pairs of eyes, hers included. No, sir, she’d put in her time, and now she was done. She was still writing songs—she couldn’t stop that if she tried—but if the world thought it was going to ever hear them, it had another think coming. Her music was only for herself now.