Big Hefty Trucker (A Big Burly Romance Book 5), page 1
Big Hefty Trucker
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A Big Burly Romance
Cassi Hart
Published by: Cheeky Publishing LLC
First Edition
Copyright © 2023 Cassi Hart– All rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication / use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners. For any permission requests email cassi@cassihartromance.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Contents:
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
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About the Author
Chapter 1
Kat
Working nights at a convenience store means that I see all sorts of people. Even if the shifts tend to be quiet because of the late hour, there’s always someone who needs to refuel either the car or themselves. While the people who come in are usually cranky, I’ve never had one pull a gun on me.
There’s a first time for everything, I guess.
Having a man pull a gun on me was just something I hoped to never have a first time for.
The night hadn’t started out feeling like this would happen, but I’m sure that’s how most people feel about days that go wrong like this. I came in to work my shift after a long day of classes for the business degree my parents are making me get. I clocked in and started on my usual routine. As soon as we hit our usual lull, sometime around eight in the evening, my coworker Jim told me he was going to take his meal. I settled in at the register, knowing that he’d take way longer than the thirty minutes allotted to him, and pulled up my latest project on my phone to skim through for edits.
That was over an hour ago. Now I have a man with a gun standing across the counter from me, and I have no idea what’s about to happen. I don’t want to know what’s about to happen.
Thoughts run through my mind. I’m not even supposed to be here working. My parents explicitly forbade it. I’m supposed to be focusing on getting my degree at a fancy college so that I can start working at the business my father is CEO of. Ironically, the convenience store I’m working at is part of the chain he runs. I’m supposed to inherit it some day and take over running it. Working here was something I did under the table for spare cash, something to support myself with so that I could write in what little spare time I have left. It’s only because I’m here that I’m now looking down the barrel of a gun.
If this man shoots me, I’ll never finish my novel. All I’ve ever wanted is to become a romance novelist. I’ve spent my nights here working on it on my phone in between restocking shelves and helping customers. If I die, I’ll never finish it. I’ll never find out if I’ve got what it takes to reach my dreams.
The man glares down at me. “Hands where I can see them!”
If I do die, I guess that means my younger twin sister will get the chance to run the company, like she’s wanted to do for as long as either of us can remember. That’s the only good thing that would happen. She’ll have a chance to follow her dreams.
My heart starts to race and adrenaline surges through my body. I put my hands up, my phone still in one of them as I start to shake with fear. I can’t make myself meet eyes with this stranger, can’t make myself make a single noise.
“Drop the phone,” he orders me. I open my hand and my phone clatters to the floor. Some small part of me hopes it didn’t break on impact, but the screaming of my fight or flight instinct drowns it out. I don’t know if I’ll make it out of this in one piece—who gives a shit about my phone?
I know night shifts can be dangerous, but that’s why we always have at least two people working. Of course this would happen while Jim’s out doing god knows what. Just my luck.
“W-what do you want? Money in the r-register?” I stammer, my heart fluttering in my chest like a bird in a cage.
The man’s face twists into an ugly smirk. “Oh, I want money alright.” His eyes trace up and down my body, which makes my stomach instantly queasy. “You’ll fetch me a pretty penny.”
Oh god. He wants me? What on earth does he want me for? The theft training we have to take after getting hired never told us what to do if the robber wants us and not the money in the register. Possibilities crowd my head. Does he want to traffic me? Hold me for a ransom? If I cooperate, I may never see anyone I love ever again. But if I don’t, I’m dead. Or worse.
“Start moving,” he says, gesturing to the entry we use to get behind the counter. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
My whole body starts to shake. I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing I can think of that doesn’t end with me shot or shoved in the trunk of a car.
“P-please,” I whimper. “We have money in the register. I can unlock it for you—”
“Shut up!” my kidnapper barks. “Move it, bitch!”
I flinch and start to inch over to the entrance at the other side of the counter.
No one knows where I am. I live alone in an apartment my parents pay for, so it’s not like a roommate is expecting to see me tomorrow. My first class isn’t until the afternoon tomorrow, so it’ll be hours before I show up as absent. All the money my family has can’t buy back that time for me if I’m dead before they can throw it at investigators to find me.
I should never have started working here. Past me never should have felt rebellious. I could be at home, writing. I could be hanging out with friends, or studying in the campus library. Instead, I’m here at a job I got just to prove to myself that I could do something without my parents’ permission. My stupid stubborn streak always gets me in trouble and here I am, in the deepest trouble I’ve ever been because of it.
My brain starts to search desperately for options. The man with the gun is way bigger than me. I don’t know anything about guns or how to disarm someone. This was never something that seemed like it would be a problem for someone like me … But then again, heiresses don’t typically work at gas station convenience stores.
“I have money!” I tell him urgently as I inch forward as slowly as I can. “My family has money, way more than whatever you’d sell me for!”
“Sure they do,” he scoffs. “Wouldn’t be working here if they did.”
My face burns with embarrassment. I’m not like my parents. I’m not like my sister. I don’t want money or prestige or power, or whatever it is that keeps them in their tower running the company. I just want to live a normal life, writing novels and staying the hell out of the boardroom.
Just as I get to the entrance out onto the main floor of the store, I try one last time.
“Please,” I plead with the man, my hands still up as I look at him with tears in my eyes. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
At the same moment I ask, I see something move out of the corner of my eye, behind my kidnapper. I make myself ignore it, instead urging myself to stare at the man with the gun. Something flickers in his eyes, almost like he’s having second thoughts, before it fades and he goes back to looking brutish and menacing.
Suddenly, over the roar of my blood rushing through my ears, I hear a new voice. It’s low and rough, but warm, even inviting. It’s the exact opposite of the way my kidnapper sounds. “Hey, everything alright?” the voice asks.
The man with a gun swings his body to face the man who spoke, but he looks shocked at what he finds. I don’t blame him. Even standing ten or fifteen feet away like he is, the guy interrupting my attempted kidnapping is massive, broad and built like a wall. I can’t help noticing that he’s handsome, with thick hair and dark eyes and the kind of body writers like me dream of when they talk about their male leads. He scowls down at the man, making him look small and frail in comparison. In one of his hands is a large, steaming cup of coffee. His hand makes it look small, but that’s just because he’s so big. In the other hand is the plastic lid. When he sees that he’s now got a gun pointed at him, his brow furrows.
What happens next is a blur.
My rescuer throws his cup at the man with the gun. Instantly, the man screams as suddenly, he’s covered in molten hot brewed coffee. I’ve never been more thankful for how hot the machines keep everything. Before the kidnapper can regain his composure, my rescuer is on him. There’s struggling and scuff
My would-be kidnapper is now sprawled out on the linoleum floor of the convenience store in a puddle of coffee, groaning as he registers whatever pain he’s in. And above him looms my rescuer, the gun now in his hands and aimed down at the kidnapper.
Before I can say something, the massive man looks at me with those intense, dark eyes of his. My head swims as our eyes meet. He breaks eye contact to trace his eyes up and down my figure, but it doesn’t feel gross like it did with the guy now on the floor. It feels good, almost protective.
I watch as his handsome face softens. And then he tells me to call 911.
Chapter 2
Finn
I’ve been in a subpar mood all day. Some days are just like that. Nothing’s gone wrong, per se, but it’s not like shit’s going right either. I’m just tired, I tell myself. I’ve been working overtime, picking up new routes to make extra cash, and it’s just tiring me out more than I expected. That’s gotta be it.
Of course, it’s been like this for a while. It might be a new route tonight, but the long hours aren’t unusual for me. I’ve been working as a trucker for over a decade. It’s a lot of miles on the road, but the work has been consistent for me, and when you have bills to pay, consistency trumps everything else. I don’t regret getting into this job for that reason.
These overtime routes though … They’re wearing me out more than I’d like. I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m not even old, but I haven’t been able to work as tirelessly as I could when I was in my twenties. I’m thirty-three now, so I should know better than to push myself like I did back when I first started. But, well … My mom’s new medication isn’t covered by our insurance, so me working overtime is the only option we have.
She’s been doing so much better on this new prescription, too. I’m so proud of her for giving it a try. Her health has long been a struggle—every patient with her constellation of symptoms is different and finding a medication that helps her is incredibly hard. For a while, lots of meds actually made her symptoms worse. We had to make do with a complex treatment plan that involved multiple doctors and therapists. Finally, one of them recommended this new medicine, and watching her finally gain a little more independence for herself has been amazing.
It’s always just been me and my mom. My abusive father walked out on us when I was ten. We did okay for several years. She was doing well then because my dad was no longer making our lives hell. She had the occasional episode, but they were mild compared to what would come later. When I started at college, everything seemed to be going well, but then I got a call that she was having one of her episodes. I dropped out without a second thought to move back home and help take care of her. Trucking came a few years later, when I turned twenty-one, and I haven’t looked back.
I regret none of it. Do I wish I could have kept studying for a degree? Kind of. I went to college because I love reading and learning, but I can read in my spare time. I can still learn whatever I want, even if it’s not going towards a degree. Taking care of my family—my mom—will always be more important than draining resources on an expensive piece of paper.
When I roll into the gas station in the evening, it’s only because I can’t keep driving without some sort of caffeine in my system. I only have a few more hours’ worth of local stops to make, but I can’t get through them without stopping for a moment to myself. After a coffee, and maybe a snack, I’ll be good as new.
The convenience store attached to the gas station is quiet when I walk in. It’s clean and well stocked, but it’s just an odd time of the day. I’m sure the night shift at this place is dead like this most of the time. My eyes flit to the main check-out counter, and what I see there makes my breath catch.
Standing behind the register is a pretty young woman, typing away at something on her phone. She’s staring so intently at the screen of her phone that she didn’t even notice me walk in. Long brown hair pulled up into a bun, a plush bottom lip she’s biting as she types, and a soft, curvy figure obscured by the garish uniform she probably has to wear every time she works. She looks nothing like the kind of people I’m used to seeing in these stores.
To her, I’m probably just another customer. No use getting hung up on how pretty she looks. I make myself look away. I just need to get my coffee and get back on the road.
I sigh to myself. Like a guy like me would ever catch the eye of a girl like her. She’s youthful and beautiful and I’m just a big man driving trucks to make ends meet. I’m sure she’s got plenty of young, handsome suitors clamoring for her attention. I’m just a random stranger.
I make my way to the back corner where a sign tells me the coffee is. After a quick scan, I find the biggest cup they have and fill it with coffee from the urn labeled “light roast.” It’s steaming like crazy, even though I’m sure it’s not the freshest, so I take a lid, but don’t put it on the cup yet. The liquid is so hot I almost can’t hold the cup, so keeping the lid off will help it cool off faster.
I lift the cup to my nose, inhaling the bittersweet scent as I scan the store for something to eat. Am I even hungry? Hard to say. I can’t think of much else aside from drinking this coffee and the girl that’ll be ringing me up whenever I head over to pay.
As I walk back around the corner towards the front counter, a chill runs down my spine.
The beautiful young woman behind the counter is no longer on her phone. She has her hands up as she looks at a man standing in front of her. Fear is making her bright eyes glint strangely, the healthy blush she had before gone, leaving her white as a sheet. The man is hunched forward, dressed in all black. As I get closer, I can hear him barking orders at her. She whimpers something back, but he doesn’t relent.
The situation feels wrong. Something dark and strange stirs within me, growling angrily at the way the pretty stranger is looking at the man in front of her. It urges me forward, telling me to step in, to protect her. To make this man pay for making her feel scared or threatened or whatever it is she’s feeling.
Carefully, I begin to approach. Once I’m close enough to act but still well out of arm’s reach, I break the tense silence between the girl and the man.
“Hey, everything alright?” I ask as I look at the girl’s frightened expression.
As her eyes rise to look at me, the man facing her rounds on me and I finally see what had her looking scared shitless.
The guy has a gun.
I act instantly, instinct taking over as I spring forward. The hot coffee in my hand provides the perfect distraction as I throw it at the gunman’s head. Scalding hot splashes onto his face and hands and sinks into his clothes, and he screams and swears as his guard drops. I surge forward, wrapping a hand around the wrist of his gun hand while throwing all of my weight into a punch to his face. I feel something crunch as my fist meets his head. The force knocks him back and loosens his grip on the gun, which means I can wrest it from his hands. Another thrown elbow and the man falls to the floor, face bleeding and starting to swell.
I plant a booted foot on his chest and apply pressure. He groans and wheezes underneath me, but doesn’t say anything. He’s so dazed that he doesn’t even react when I point the muzzle of his own gun down at him.
I’m not usually thankful for my size. I’m a big dude but it’s just a part of my life, rather than something I think about. But as I stare down at this ugly piece of shit, I’m suddenly thankful that I’ve got probably seventy-five pounds on him. I could break his ribs just by stepping on him. For a moment, I think about doing it, just to prove that I can. Breaking a man’s ribs for threatening my woman? It seems more than fair.
I look up at the pretty little woman standing behind the register, her eyes wide with awe and relief. I look her up and down. No bleeding. No bullet holes. I mean, I would have heard it if he’d shot her, but I can’t help the urge to make sure she’s unharmed. I take care of what’s mine.
Fuck.
We don’t even know each other. I’m just a random person that happened to be in the right place at the right time and stepped in. She’s not mine, so why did I just call her that?
