Marked for Love 1 by Jamie Lake Page B

in a terrifying snarl. That's the first time I got a decent look at him. He had long dark hair, salt and peppered, and a closely trimmed light beard. His skin was olive complexioned, and he was ruggedly handsome: that I could tell right away. He had the most intriguing green eyes, with speckles of multiple colors that held a mystery, a history, but these were intense eyes: the type you don’t want to cross and you know to obey.
    His hard physique told me that he must be some kind of prior military. Obviously no longer, because of how long his hair was, but he certainly hadn’t let himself go. Something made me intensely interested in this guy’s story. He wore no jewelry, not a watch or necklace to give away any kind of preferences. His long-sleeved shirt was red checkered flannel, at least it seemed to be in this lighting, and the sleeves were rolled up to just above his elbows, like a working man would do. I couldn’t help but notice a few scars across his knuckles, as if he was used to fighting or grappling something. One of the marks seemed to be fresh. It was a dark mark, darker than the other ones, because it was brimming with blood, and it extended around his right hand, down the side of his pinkie finger.
    I jolted when I realized he had caught me ogling his hands. I almost apologized, but he cut off my words with “Where you heading to?” It was only the second thing he’d said to me as he started up the engine again. There was an authority in his voice that I feared would make my own voice quiver even more.
    “Oh, just in town. Anywhere in town would be fine,” I answered, getting a little nervous and intimidated by how certain and unwavering he sounded. Over the rain it was impossible to make out the lyrics to the song coming through the radio. It was something slow, and the male singer had a deep rumble to his voice that had a way of lulling you to sleep.
    “All right,” he said as his truck slowly ambled off the shoulder and back onto the highway, picking up speed down this lonely forested freeway, sloshing through the slippery and winding roads. I imagined that it had to at least be from the mid-'90s. There was an original cassette player in the middle of the dash. With that, the deep red pleather seats, and the unshakable smell of smoking tobacco, it reminded me perfectly of my grandfather’s old pickup. Back then, these trucks were the fabric of society. You drove your produce into town, hauled wood around your farm, or packed in your family for the trip to Sunday morning church. It seemed like he tried to take care of it: he probably took the same kind of care with all of his belongings, but age was getting the better of this truck. Cracks were showing in the dash. The pleather was frayed around the edges of the seat, most noticeably where your legs scrape against it to get in and out. Maybe this guy got the truck from his dad, or his grand dad. It didn’t seem like he was old enough to be the original owner. This truck looked like it belonged to an age nearly forgotten.
    “What about you, um, where are you going?” I asked, wiping my face from the rain.
    He took a deep breath. “Home.” Maybe he was just weary, or maybe he didn’t like answering small talk; I couldn’t tell.
    “Oh, okay,” I said, trying to be perky. “What were you doing all the way out here?” We had to be at least 20 miles away from the city, but maybe there was a town along this road I didn’t know about. I knew this forest covered a lot of ground.
    “Hunting,” he said flatly. There was a heaviness in his words. I tried to remember: was it deer season already? Or maybe this man hunted something else. I almost wished I had paid more attention to my father’s teachings on different game and when the best time was to snare each one.
    So instead I had to meekly ask, “Oh...get anything good?”
    He looked at me, and I swear just a hint of that wicked smile returned as his eyes ran from my crotch to my face.