Chapter 1: The Woman Who Ran

Yeah, you heard me right—I'm a love motel driver.

You heard that right—it’s not what most people picture when they think of a trucker. What I haul in the back isn’t your usual cargo. Nope—it’s queen-sized bed frames and thick, plush mattresses, set up so nice any roadside motel would be jealous. Sometimes I joke to myself: I’m running the world’s most private, mobile honeymoon suite. Not that anybody else would ever believe it.

I just keep cruising down empty backroads until whoever’s in the back is done. The hum of the engine and the dark, winding lanes are my constant company, my headlights sweeping over forgotten barns and old mailboxes half-swallowed by weeds. Nothing but me, the truck, and the dark.

Today, after I parked, a woman burst out of the trailer, sobbing. The way she stumbled, clutching at the air, her shoes barely on, it was like she was running from a nightmare that had followed her into daylight. I’d seen a lot, but this was new.

She grabbed my leg, tears streaming down her cheeks, begging me to help her. Her hands shook, leaving little damp spots on my jeans. Her words tumbled out—too fast, almost tripping over each other. I could barely catch half of what she said.

She even whispered she’d do anything for me if I agreed. There was desperation in her voice, but something else too. A kind of wild promise that made my skin prickle.

Lighting a cigarette. Driving. Feeling the subtle rocking and muffled sounds from the trailer. That’s my job. That’s my life.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just the smoke keeping me steady. Maybe it’s the only thing that makes the silence between trips bearable.

My name’s Dean Foster, and I’ve been doing this for five years. Five years. Five years of secrets, five years of stories I’ll never tell.

I get it. Most folks think it’s weird. Why would anyone pick my truck over a cozy motel? The first time I explained it to a bartender, he just stared at me, like I was making it up for a laugh.

Simple: here, there’s no need to show ID, and nobody worries about their info getting logged. No paper trail. No credit card statement. Just cash, and the open road.

Unlike a motel, with security cameras at every turn, tracking every guest. Heck, even the crappiest motels have a camera pointed at the ice machine these days.

Most importantly, the cops never check this kind of setup. I’ve never seen a patrol car tail me, not once. Out here, I’m invisible. Not once. Out here, I’m invisible.

On the outside, my rig looks like a refrigerated produce hauler. The kind you’d see rolling up to a diner with crates of lettuce and tomatoes. Nobody looks twice.

All the paperwork and licenses are legit. I even keep a few crates of old onions in the front compartment just in case anyone gets nosy. You never know.

But inside? Soft carpeting and solid beds. Even the walls are padded with soundproof foam. The first time someone steps inside, they always laugh. Nervous, amazed—like they can’t believe it’s real.

After picking up guests at the agreed spot, I drive loops along quiet, camera-free roads until they’re done. I’ve mapped every turn, every shortcut, every place where cell service drops out. It’s my routine. I stick to it like gospel.

For five years, nothing ever went wrong. Not a single hitch. I prided myself on that. Until today.

But today, something did.

That afternoon, I picked up a couple at a deserted rest stop outside Silver Hollow. The kind of place with one busted vending machine and a payphone nobody’s touched since Clinton was in office.

A pot-bellied, balding guy in a polo, and a young, stunning woman. The contrast was almost comical—like something straight out of a trashy tabloid.

The moment I saw her, I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help it. She had that kind of beauty that makes you forget your own name for a second.

Swear to God, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I’ve seen a lot of folks come and go, but her? She was something else.

In the sunlight, wearing just a tank top and cutoffs, her skin looked almost luminescent. She almost glowed, even with all that dust in the air.

Her delicate face and big, soulful eyes just about knocked me flat. There was a sadness there too. Like she’d seen too much for her age.

It wasn’t until I heard the heavy trailer door slam that I snapped out of it. The sound echoed, snapping me back to the job at hand.

Money really does buy everything. Sometimes it buys things it shouldn’t.

Muttering under my breath, I started the engine, half-distracted. Couldn’t help it. My hands shook as I put the truck in gear.

Her image kept replaying in my mind the whole drive. Every curve of the road brought her back to me. Like a song I couldn’t get out of my head.

Listening to the faint sounds coming from the back, I chugged some Gatorade. It tasted like chemicals, but I didn’t care.

My rate’s three hundred an hour. Not cheap, but not crazy either.

That guy just tossed me a grand, booking three hours. Didn’t even blink. Just handed it over, like he was buying a burger.

Normally, I’d be pumped about the extra hundred as a tip. That kind of cash can make a week feel lighter. This time? Not so much.

But this time, those three hours dragged on forever. I kept checking the clock. Tapping my fingers on the wheel. Waiting for it to be over.

Finally, when time was up, I parked and opened the trailer door. My heart pounded in my chest, for reasons I couldn’t explain. I didn’t know why.

A wave of perfume hit me, and a soft body crashed right into my arms. It was like being hit by a summer storm—unexpected, overwhelming. I just stood there, stunned.

I stood there, stunned. This woman clung to me—face full of terror, hands gripping my shirt, her whole body shaking. She looked up at me like I was the only lifeline she had left.

Before I could say a word, she spoke in a shaky voice.

*"Please, help me."*

She pointed with a trembling hand at the trailer, like something awful was inside. Her finger quivered, and her breath came in short, panicked bursts. I didn’t want to know what she’d seen.

What the hell happened? My mind raced. My heart thudded so loud I could barely hear her.

I tried to calm her, then walked slowly into the trailer. Every step felt heavier. Like I was walking into a nightmare. The air was thick with dread.

When I saw the man on the bed, I froze. My stomach dropped, and for a second, I thought I might be sick. Shit.

He was dead. No doubt about it.

His fat face was red, and the corners of his mouth still had a satisfied grin. It was the kind of smile that made my skin crawl. I’d never seen a dead man smile like that.

Even weirder—he was still... you know. Still standing at attention. Like some kind of sick joke.

I sucked in a breath. My hands shook as I wiped them on my jeans.

After thinking for a long time, I decided to call 911. It was the only thing that made sense—at least, that’s what I told myself. What else could I do?