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As Rya fell asleep, I wondered what they looked like. I wondered if they knew anything about their mama. I wondered if they … would like meeting me—
What the fuck is that smell?
???
Rya was still asleep when we pulled over for gas. She hadn’t moved in hours. If I hadn’t heard her adorable snores, I’d have been worried she’d stopped breathing.
Not wanting to wake her, I rolled down the window to talk to Diesel.
He approached only to stumble backward. Waving his hand in front of his face, he gagged, “Good god, what is that stench?”
My head hung out the window. “Her boots. She took them off.”
Hands on his knees, he was laughing so hard. “You been breathing that shit in all this time?”
Sticking my neck out farther in an attempt to inhale fresh air, I nodded. “My lungs may never be the same.”
“Damn, son!” He stumbled away from the truck, laughing hysterically. “Now that’s love!”
Diesel stood up straight with wide eyes staring into the cab of the truck.
Fuuuck.
Cautiously, I turned to where hot beams were pinging against the side of my face.
Rya was sitting up, glaring, her wild hair even bigger, making her appear … scary. “H-Hi, baby. S-Sleep good?”
Bikers were now falling over each other in hysterics, laughter, bouncing off the front of her truck.
I coughed, trying to clear fear from my throat. “Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?”
Bahahahaha … went the fucking bikers.
Frowning in displeasure, she informed me, “I would like a Coke Slurpee. Now.”
I yelled out the window, “Coke Slurpee! Now!”
Leather boots hit the concrete.
Waltzing past my open window to pump gas, Diesel decided to chime in, “Good afternoon, Stink-N-Boots.”
My jaw dropped open.
Rya grabbed her ball cap from the dash, smacked me with it, then slipped it on, taming that hair of hers. “Babe!” I begged, “There’s no controlling a biker!”
Just then, seven of them came barging through the gas station’s store doors, each with a Slurpee in his hands.
Rolling down her window, she smirked as she took two of the gifts. “Thank you!” One went in a cup holder, the other she started slurping through its straw. Staring straight ahead through the windshield, she put her stinking, socked feet on the dash.
Sipping the leftover drinks, men started backing away, holding their noses.
“Hold this.” She handed me her treat then started ripping off her socks, yelling out the window, “I bet they don’t smell no bette’ than them damn leather biker boots.”
Aimed socks flew out the window.
Deadly bikers ran. Laughing, of course.
FIFTEEN
