Bayou Born(44)

But how did Branna feel about him? He’d been hesitant to ask in her muscle-relaxer haze. Her touch made him sizzle. His hard-on about killed him. He hurt for hours. If she’d gotten past his shirt...probably any zipper movement would’ve made him come. Last night, he resolved not to take Branna to bed again, unless she was stone-cold sober. It took all he had to resist her. But he wouldn’t risk taking advantage of her condition. She had to have a clear head, clear eyes, and a clear heart.

Had it been any other woman, he’d be a sexually satisfied man. With Branna, the wait would be worth it.

Nearly noon, he exited the interstate at Junction and pulled into a gas station on the southwest corner for diesel fuel. The station could pass for a left over movie set out in the boonies. The mostly deserted truck stop was straight from the sixties with white fading paint and several old tin advertising signs nailed to the sides. Four overhangs stretched outward from a center building, like marks on a compass showing north, south, east, and west, and shaded fuel pumps.

The spot-in-the-road with cheap eats and girlie magazines on a large magazine rack behind the counter had occupied that corner of Junction since the early forties. No other town around for miles. At night, the place lit up so bright that photos from space identified it. The station’s reputation was well known in certain circles. Sometimes vehicles, from the smallest sports car to SUVs to eighteen-wheelers, required delicate ballet moves to avoid collisions. However, most of the time James had driven this route with Bobby, the place was No Where’s Land empty.

For the last fifty miles, his stomach had rumbled, and his mouth watered for the barbeque that waited.

“Where are we?” Bobby yawned, stretching his arms and arching his back.

“Get your arm out of my face,” James snarled. “No Where.”

Bobby grunted. “We can’t be nowhere. We’re here, and that’s somewhere.”

“So you’re somewhere. Then why ask?” Hunger made him cranky. Or maybe it was his lack of sleep. It took a boat load of energy to resist Branna. He’d lain awake most of the night. They had plenty of time for sexual exploration once she was well.

“Boy.” Bobby slapped him on the arm. “All I can say is, you need to get laid.”

“Mind your own business.”

They exited the truck at the same time, slamming doors. Bobby went off to the restroom while James slid a credit card quickly through the slot at the pump. He unscrewed the fuel cap, placed the nozzle in the hole, then flipped the lever.

Diesel fuel sloshed into the empty tank, and James scanned the area. He was the only one in the west wing. The other three bays were empty. He glanced over at the other gas lanes and noticed an old Camaro and older Mustang end-to-end fueling up. He admired the rides. During his teenage days he’d considered robbing a bank for the chance to own a low-slung sports car—even if it needed a paint job, the muffler had a hole, and the seats were torn. As long as it had a good stereo and got him from point A to B, that was his dream.

Deep bass rumbled from the speakers in one of the cars. James couldn’t discern which one. A couple of boys hanging out the windows of the old blue Camaro yelled at the kids in the green Mustang. He couldn’t hear exactly what they were yelling, but it didn’t sound serious.

When his fuel line shut off, he replaced the nozzle. He’d never liked the smell of diesel. He began his walk-around to check the straps on the load, making sure all remained secure. He noticed the top of the load had shifted a bit and using the ropes, he scaled the bales. Thirteen feet off the ground offered a great view from that vantage point.

When he heard tires squeal, he turned in the direction of the sound. The Camaro burned rubber, shooting out of the station like a blue flash. The teens with the Mustang shouted and gestured at the Camaro as it sped eastward. A second later, the Camaro u-turned, headed back toward the station, squealing tires the whole way. Smoke and the acrid scent of burnt rubber drifted to his nose.

Movement by the front door of the station grabbed his attention. Bobby sauntered out doing his proud-rooster walk carrying a yellow bag of candy. Uneasy, James waved at Bobby to hurry, then gave a loud piercing whistle—their signal to warn the other of possible danger.

The Camaro circled around the station and pulled through an empty bay, barely slowing.

Loud pops echoed under the metal roof.

Bobby did a running dive under the trailer while James dropped flat against the top of the hay bales. Screams pounded in his ears. He recognized gunshot when he heard it. A handgun. Thankfully not a rifle. Or an automatic weapon.

Where was Bobby?

James scrambled to the edge of the load and looked down.

The Camaro circled the west bay and came back again. More shots fired. Screams pierced the air.

Where the hell was Bobby? Grabbing a strap, he repelled from the top of the load. On the way down, a burning pain seared his arm.

Someone screamed, “I’m hit! I’m hit!”

The Camaro never slowed. It took off west bound. James tried to read the tag number, but was unable to get it.

“Bobby!” he hollered over the screams.

When he made it to the ground, he heard Bobby repeating, “Oh, shit!” Panic grabbed him. He ran to the side of the trailer, dropped to his knees, expecting the worse.

Bobby rolled out from beneath the flatbed trailer, knocking James onto his back.

“Are you hit?” James asked.

Scampering to standing, Bobby grasped James’ hand and pulled him up.

Bobby’s t-shirt was torn, his hands were scraped from his baseball-slide under the trailer, but no blood.

“Damn James! You’re shot!”

Surprised, he looked at his right arm. It oozed red. It was more of a burn than pain. A bullet must have grazed him.

Beside the Mustang, a young teenaged boy lay on the ground shrieking.

James ran to the boy. Bobby followed. One of the station’s attendants started administering first aid when another teenaged boy started pointing at the one on the ground and yelling, “Oh God!”

The station’s attendant wrapped a bandage on the first kid’s arm. He held a blood soaked pad on the kid’s shoulder. “Stop squirming. I called 911. Help is on the way.”

Three boys hopped into the green Mustang. The engine turned, and they sped away, abandoning the injured kid. The Mustang headed in the same direction as the Camaro.

“Was this crossfire of a gang war?” Bobby asked the injured boy.

“This wound looks superficial, grazed the arm. But that shoulder, that looks serious,” the attendant told James.

“What’s your name?” James asked, kneeling on the other side of the young teen.

“Yo mama,” the boy gritted out.

“I’m gonna get Yo-mama some water,” Bobby said, then walked back into the store.

The ambulance arrived and immediately the EMS workers started their triage. One man worked on the kid while another treated James’ wound. He refused a transfer to the hospital. “I’ll be fine.”

When police arrived, they separated him from Bobby for questioning.

“It happened really fast. I don’t know if the kids in the Mustang returned fire or not.”

“A trip to the hospital won’t make you a sissy,” the officer said.

“I’ll be okay. EMS has patched me up.”

“You’re our only eye witness. If we catch them, you might be called to trial. The kid looks like he’ll recover, so at least this won’t be a murder case.”

The officer took his personal information, snapped some photos, and let him go.

More than an hour after they’d pulled into the station, he and Bobby sat down for barbeque. Adrenaline had erased his earlier hunger pangs, but he ate anyway.

“Damn. Bobby, I thought you’d been shot. The way you were yelling, I expected to see blood everywhere.”

“Blood? Me? I took a running dive, and I fell on the chocolate covered peanuts. Squished them flat. That hurt. It was like buckshot in the chest. The nice lady behind the counter replaced my bag for free.” Bobby held up the new bag and beamed. “It’s all about priorities, man.”

“You’re right. And this little incident has put mine into perspective.” Images of Branna curled beside him in bed filled his mind.





Chapter 31

Branna pulled the Mercedes into a parking spot downtown. The lot was mostly empty, even though noon had barely passed. Did folks flock out of town for the weekend? The trip to the pharmacy was more to burst the bubble of isolation than a need to pick up items. Accustomed to people coming and going on a daily basis, always joined at the hip with someone who shared her same DNA, the solitary quietness of her cozy house made her jittery. Monday couldn’t come soon enough. She wanted her routine restored. Though she’d have to deal with the damage to the Volvo, teaching and students would make the days ahead exciting. In the meantime, a milk shake at the old-fashioned soda fountain would do as a boredom buster.