Random Acts Of Crazy by Julia Kent Read Free Book Online Page A

as possible, letting myself revel in being admired. Saying anything right now would interrupt him, and that would be the comfortable thing to do, right? My inner critic told me to put myself down, that my wild, matted blonde hair and my too-tight jeans that stretched over hips wider than a goal post were turn offs, that he was only staring at me because he was stupid enough to be caught naked on the Interstate, hundreds of miles from home, or because, because, because…
    A calmer core inside told me to shut than damn inner critic off and let my inner goddess (no, not that one) shine through. Maybe that’s what Trevor saw right now, as we plugged along I-76 until we reached my exit, the glow of the gas station lights drawing me like a moth to a flame. My entire life consisted of the same eight or so highway exits, the same twenty or so roads, and all I’d ever known was embedded in these corn fields, the flat horizons, my few ventures out to go to an indoor water park or to Cedar Point.
    How strikingly different his life must be from mine! I’d managed a few classes at the state university extension, but life and money and more heaping doses of life got in the way. My Aunt Josie had made it out, shaking off the crabs that snatched at her ankles in the big pot of Peters, Ohio, her escape my model in how to find my way to Something Better than working shifts at that very gas station that pulled me closer to our trailer.
    Trevor’s warm hand sat on my thigh now, resting there as if it had every right to the skin. That was a feeling I could get used to right easy – having him claim me, acting as if I were his and he could just touch me and tell the world I was taken. Taken. How full that felt, so complete and rich and real. Men in my world didn’t elicit these emotions in me, rendering instead a sense of tolerance, a mild appreciation to be taken out for a cheap Friday prime rib special, to be escorted to the latest action movie at the cineplex, and to be ridden in the backseat of a car or in their shared apartment because, well – because.
    What else do you do with a life you didn’t choose and can’t get out of? You adapt and take whatever crumbs you can find so you don’t let your soul or body starve.
    Trevor burst out laughing suddenly, the rich baritone exuding a combo of sleep deprivation, mystification, incredulity and a touch of madness. The sound made me smile and it was contagious, too – we devolved into a cluster of giggles until he gasped and said:
    “I am so glad that you, of all people, picked me up on the road.”
    “Well, Jeffrey Dahmer was busy.” Damn, there I went. Deflecting and making silly jokes when he paid me a compliment. I looked down and wondered what on earth he saw in me, dirty jeans and fat thighs pouring out over the sides of the bucket seat. Stop that, Darla, my wiser mind shouted. He likes you because he just does. Enjoy it. Let the man make his own choices.
    He’s choosing you.
    “He’s dead,” Trevor said, nodding.
    “He’s from Ohio,” I prattled on. What a fucking turn-on, talking about a serial killer cannibal. Maybe my dating problems weren’t about the gene pool after all.
    “What’s your house like?” he asked, changing the subject and turning what had been an awkward joke into an even worse mess. My house? What house? We lived in a double-wide trailer that was older than me, with mice living under it and plumbing that was about as reliable as Lindsay Lohan on a movie set.
    “You’re about to find out,” I stammered, turning onto the road that led to my trailer park. Broken down cars and spare lumber littered the lawns of an increasing number of houses as we drew closer to my home, as if the trailer park were a magnet for trash and debris.
    “Whoa. Tornado?” Trevor asked as he gaped, watching the scene fly by, pointing to the piles of random crap in people’s lawns. “Lawn” was giving them too much credit, the tufts of grass poking up here and there like