8: Bad Boy At Heart

The couple is jarred from their intimate moment by the sudden, aggressive honking coming up quickly behind them. An adrenaline-inducing screech of tires draws their attention from each other to the stuttering vehicle rolling quickly past them.

Looking out the driver's window, they get a good look at a rusted, white pick-up truck with weathered, red racing stripes. Halting recklessly in front of them at an angle, the beat-up metal on wheels cuts off both lanes– blocking their path.

Eyes wander over a truck bed filled with junk until the muffled shouts of two middle-aged, corn fed men shouting obscenities reach them through Clyde's tinted windows. The lack of teeth in their mouths as they scream and shake their fists startle Harper, her non-confrontational eyes having never witnessed such a sketchy event develop right in front of her.

Staring at flush, sweaty faces and short haircuts, they don't let up their hatred that feels like it's seeping through the nearly one-way glass protecting them.

Tugging gently at Clyde's short sleeve, "Just go around them," she tries to remain level-headed.

"We're not parked in a good spot so we -should- move," she pushes, glancing from Clyde's stern eyebrow to the disgruntled countrymen.

The longer she stares at them, the more she notices; an unholy terror crawls up her spine at the sight of a rifle mounted in the window behind their heads.

Clyde smirks, his sultry, southern accent making her quiver, "Now, why would I be so rude when they've -clearly- got somethin' to say?"

Harper trembles, covering her ring-studded hand and trying not to look so frightened. Knowing her husband well enough to know that he does whatever he wants, she watches Clyde swing open his door.

In a final attempt to keep the peace, she snatches the bottom hem of his shirt, "Do you -have- to get out the car?"

Sticking out her bottom lip, "Clyde, please," hazel eyes plead for him to stay inside where it's safe, "Don't go."

Reaching a strong hand behind him while twisting at the hips to cup her hand, "Sweetheart, don't you know by now -they're- the ones that should be scared?"

Swallowing hard, puzzled by such menacing words, a different emotion stirs within her from his confidence. Letting him go, she stares at his back as he gets out and shuts the door.

Unbuckling her seatbelt to scoot to the middle seat, she grows frightened for his safety. Then again, part of her holds concern for the country bumpkins.

At a loss on what to do, she can't help but wonder: what kind of monster is he -really-?

Watching the gameplay in real-time, hazel eyes move between loud, obnoxious yokels pointing and swearing from their seats through to a slowly approaching Clyde.

Concerned and excited by his bravery, Harper stares at her husband through eyes that have never seen this side of him. Clutching the dashboard to stay on the edge of her seat, she can't tear her eyes from his cool strut around the black hood of his truck.

Worn, whiskey cowboy boots tap across hot asphalt, and the slight dampness down his muscular spine traps soft cotton to his curves when he crosses his arms a few feet from the vexed locals.

Her eyebrows bunch when the men's faces shift instantly from fury to fog amidst mid-sentenced, foul-languaged slurs.

Reaching across the driver's seat to lower the window for better sound, she keeps her eyes on them through the windshield.

The country man in the driver's seat leans in closer to his denim, overall-clad-no-shirt-wearing passenger to get a better look at Clyde. Seemingly in slow motion from her place in the truck, the men glance from Clyde to each other then exhibit a powerful remorse.

In the thickest Texan accent she's heard since she's been in the Lone Star State, "We don' want no trouble boy, that just ain't a safe spot to…break down."

The half-naked pair look from one another again before the passenger leans against the windowless door frame, "Need any help?"

Asking herself, "Are you fuckin' kidding me?" Harper's jaw nearly drops, leaving her to wonder -who- exactly did she marry?

"Naw, we're good," Clyde nods with a satisfied grin, "Thanks, brother."

The seated pair twice his age bobble-head while chuckling awkwardly without another word. As if they were catching a ride on a bat out of hell, they peel off without a moment's notice.

Exhaling a confident, "Heh," Clyde shakes his head like a criminal that got away scott free.

Spitting off to the side, he turns to face his truck and makes eye contact with Harper before sending her a cocky wink. Shuddering uncomfortably, she scoots back into her seat. Buckling her seatbelt when he opens the door and hops inside, Clyde raises the window up in silence.

Shifting the truck into drive, he continues the journey to his hometown while Harper fidgets quietly. Thinking over the fact that total strangers looked even more afraid of him than how she feels when they're alone at home, she can't shake the feeling that the man she trusts to sleep beside her is still a stranger.

How did he manage to strike fear in grown, armed men with only a few words and a glance? Does he have a reputation or powerful family that she has no clue about?

Deep in her thoughts, she anxiously chews back her nails until one bleeds. Wincing from going too deep, she looks at the blood filling the side of her nail to her cuticle before groaning.

Sucking the wounded digit, she stares at the side of his stone jaw until he glances at her from the corner of his eye.

"What the fuck was -that-?" she rubs soggy fingertips across the thick fabric covering her thighs.

Clicking his jaw and tightening his grip on the black, leather steering wheel, "-That- was a man handling business." Glancing simply at her with a tiny smirk, he quickly returns his sight to the open road surrounded by trees.

Accepting she won't get anymore out of him, she breathes deep and tells herself to just let go and let live.