Honeybun on the Run

CHAPTER ONE-3

CLOVIS CLENCHED HIS hands into fists, forcing them to remain on his knees, as the asshat across the bus disrespected his pretty companion. The worst part for Clovis, the part he never understood, was that she took it from him.

Like she deserved it.

His fists loosened on the thought. He’d never get that. Women never deserved mistreatment. Sometimes it was best to walk away...to bite your tongue so you didn’t say something in the heat of temper...but disrespect? Not a chance.

His mama had raised him better than that.

The pocket of his jeans started to vibrate and Clovis frowned. Dang Alf. He’d never been good at rolling with the punches. Clovis had learned years earlier, in the superheated geography of Afghanistan, that he needed to be flexible to survive.

In his mind he was still surviving. Always surviving.

The bus rumbled down the highway, the interior lights flickering occasionally, as if all the bulbs were on the edge of expiration, awaiting only a good pothole to send them to their deaths. He half wished they’d hit that pothole. He felt exposed sitting up there, with darkness beyond the cloudy glass, lit for everyone to see.

He preferred staying in the shadows.

His phone vibrated again and Clovis hit Ignore. He quickly texted Alf.

Can’t talk right now. I’ll keep you posted.

A moment later, Alf texted back. Phillips and Dael following in white Dodge Charger. Stay in line of sight.

Clovis’s thumbs flashed over the keyboard. Got it.

He slid the phone back into his pocket and laid his head back, scoping out the other passengers through the reflection in the glass. Near the front, a few rows behind the driver, was a young black woman and a boy of about four. The kid bounced off his seat like a frog on meth, his tiny ball cap sideways on his head from being constantly beaten against the seat as he hopped and bashed against it over and over. His all-suffering mother had told him a dozen times to calm down and sit still, but Clovis knew that wasn’t going to happen. He remembered being a kid...energy sizzling through his veins like a shot of pure adrenaline. He and his brothers had spent every minute of every day outside, playing ball and running around, until the energy became manageable enough for them to come inside and sit down to eat under his mom’s critical, always assessing eye.

Clovis smiled. His mother had demanded perfect manners at the dinner table. No squiggling, no fighting, no hopping around. She was a smart woman, was Mrs. Honeybun. She knew eight boys living under the same roof would quickly overrun the parents if she didn’t keep them under a tight rein.

And tight the rein was. Like a vice. But love softened it. Love and acceptance.

Clovis watched as the mother across the aisle gently grasped the boy’s narrow shoulders and placed him back on his butt on the seat. He’d never understand the depth of patience women had with their offspring. He’d always considered it one of the great wonders of the world.

In front of him, five rows up, was an elderly man with longish, snow-white hair and a long beard. He wore a pastel blue fedora, the brim circled in strips of black leather with turquoise beads on the ends. Like Clovis, the man stared out the window at the lights and cars flashing past. He hadn’t moved since Clovis sat down and seemed deep in thought. On his way up the aisle, Clovis had taken note of the walking stick the man held, resting on the floor between his knees with both hands covering the worn brass handle. Given his age, Clovis decided the older gentleman was most likely suffering from a hip issue.

A shrill giggle drew Clovis’s gaze to two young girls across the aisle. Blond and blue eyed, they looked to be in their early teens and he remembered seeing a harried looking woman in an ill-fitting blue suit settling them on the bus, kissing them on the cheek, and then climbing off the bus with a worried look on her tired face. She’d stood as the bus pulled out, her dark eyes glistening with tears. When she’d waved goodbye the two girls hadn’t seemed to notice. They were high on their adventure. Clovis speculated they were being sent to spend time with their father. Most likely the victims of a nasty divorce.

Despite their obvious joy in the trip, Clovis couldn’t shake a sense of depression at their plight. Clovis was a hard core traditionalist and believed kids should live with both parents whenever possible. But he was pragmatic enough to know that sometimes it wasn’t possible and, from what he’d seen, they had a good mom, one who was worried about them traveling alone. He decided in that moment he’d keep an eye on them.

A harsh, wet cough sounded from the back of the bus, deep in the shadows created by the wall of the bathroom. Clovis spotted her in the window reflection, dark greasy head bowed and emaciated shoulders vibrating under another wet cough. Smoker. Maybe more. Could be meth, Clovis speculated. The woman scrubbed a bony hand across her lips and tucked lank, dark brown hair behind one ear. She was unnaturally pale, her eyes shifting constantly around the bus. Paranoid. Probably meth.

Clovis frowned. He’d have to keep an eye on her too. She sounded like she needed medical care.

The first, heavy thrum of rain drops hit the roof of the bus, followed by a sense of hesitation, a gathering of pressure, before the skies above opened up and dumped a deluge of huge, pounding drops onto them. The world beyond the glass wavered and glistened behind the sheets of falling rain.

Thunder rumbled somewhere, followed by a spear of distant lightning. Clovis settled deeper into his seat and the bus slowed, as visibility plunged beneath the deluge.

“Crap,” grumbled the punk a few seats back. “Stupid weather.”

Clovis’s gaze lifted to the window, found hers. She was staring across the bus at Clovis, her gaze speculative. For just a beat their gazes caught, held, and Clovis’s body tightened with awareness. Then she looked away and he was left staring at her pretty profile, though he sensed she wasn’t unaware of being watched.

Something about the woman tugged at Clovis. On the surface she was a woman who allowed herself to be mistreated...dominated...but something in the set of her delicate jaw told Clovis she was no pushover.

If that was true why was she with the punk? Why did she let him talk to her like she had no value? Clovis crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly tired. He’d never understand women. Though he was determined to keep trying. Because figuring them out was more than an educational exercise. It was tons of delicious fun.