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To feel my fingers running over it. Tracing part of him that tells me more than words ever could about who he really is. Comparing how big he is to how small and smooth I am next to his rugged, tough guy exterior.
The mental image of pouring milk onto sandpaper springs to mind, I don’t know why. But the effect it has, like him, makes me flush a deeper and harder shade of red someplace else to the point I start to fidget in my seat.
Needing more than just to be held myself now, my mind’s racing to places that only minutes ago I was afraid of. But if a man like P.T. wasreallyinterested in me and inthatway? If he really wanted to show me more than just his scars?
Hell yeah…I think.
I mean, I’m assuming he’s that big everywhere, which might be an issue. Not that I’d know.
Eighteen and a legal adult, but the closest to a real man I’ve ever been is pouring them coffee and slicing the regular kind of pie before sliding it across the counter. And none of them have ever made me think the things that P.T. does.
“You live around here?” He asks me abruptly, bursting the bubble of whatever kidnap fantasy I’ve started blowing in my mind. Deflating my idea of an older, ruggedly handsome and tough as fuck man like himself getting with a girl like me.
Showing me with both hands just how a trucker like him really trucks.
“…Uh. Yeah…” I answer with some hesitation, trying to conceal the shiver that runs over me. “My Aunt’s place…About five miles from the truck stop.” I tell him, jerking my thumb mid-air in the direction we’re moving away from. Drawing a low rumble of irritation from him.
My heart sinking to the point I feel like crying all over again.
“Your Aunt…” He says to himself and I can see why he probably regrets getting involved already. Leaving the scene of a double shooting, snatching a girl who’ll be missed at home not to mention her job when the Floyd returns or the next trucker pulls in for a cup of stay awake.
Whatever P.T. is, does or is moving to or away from. None of it involved me until tonight but his face shows more than the ‘told you so’ look of a man who’s looking when all he really wants to do is touch.
“Oh, she’s dead!” I blurt out with way too much enthusiasm. Sorry, Aunt May.
“I mean- She passed about a year back. Old age in her sleep… Left me the old farmhouse and a mortgage the size of Texas…” I chuckle nervously. Desperate for him to know that I won’t really be missed and as long as I’m with him, everything will be just fine.
But it’s not making me sound any more appealing to him I can tell. Both of us fully aware that two bodies minus one waitress back at the Fuckstop equals trouble for us both whether we like it or not.
“I can’t stop-” He says in a low tone. As if he’s reminding himself. Every trucker’s mantra… ‘Gotta keep on moving.’
“I’ll drop you someplace before the border.” He adds with another low growl.
The wall of silence that follows sees my lower lip quiver and my chest ache. And not only because I have no way of getting home from as far north as the border either. It’s because I know, once he finally does reward me with another of his sideways glances, that he’s thinking his own version of the same kind of things I am.
Desperate girl. Lonely trucker. Nothing but darkness and a long road ahead… The taste of how close we both came to ending up like those men like metal in my mouth.
And just like me, even if we did somehow magically hit it off after a roadhouse bloodbath. He’s got his own reasons for denying himself the one thing he knows will only make things a lot harder on both of us.
But would it?
After the night I’ve had so far, I’m willing to take that chance if he is.
5
P.T.
Five miles! Jesus. I’ve lost ten times that already in drive time by stopping to replace a globe let alone saving her ass. A fine ass it is too. My hands still warm with the memory of it. My mouth dry and my throat scratching almost as bad as the other itch the thought gives me. Gripping that bare ass with both hands as I eat her out right where she’s sitting. Not stopping until she's ruined the upholstery to my own satisfaction, drenching it with hers.
If you turn around you can drop her home and still make it in time…
Thing is. I don’t wanna drop her home. And every time I look over at her, she’s the one thing to take my mind off my schedule, this last run.
Who am I really kidding though? ‘Last run’ for my employer probably means just that. With me ending up like our suited friends back there.
Debts cleared and the cargo delivered. ‘Thanks for playing, P.T. but we’re gonna have to let you go…’ terminating more than just debts and my employment, no doubt.
She’s wounded when I tell her I’ll drop her someplace before the border, but it’s all I can think to say to myself as well as her. To buy me some time so I can try to figure out just what it is about this girl that's got me so bent outta shape. Like the shape at the front of my wet denims I kinda wish she could see.
