She threw the last couple of boxes into the back of her truck, tied everything down with some old ropes she had, and looked at the termite-infested house one last time before she drove away. The place was falling apart, but it had been home to her for years before he left her, and even then she couldn't pull herself away from it. Too many memories of her parents still walked the halls of that house for her to sacrifice it just because of the misgivings of her ex. Within minutes she had reached the edge of town and glanced in her rear-view mirror just long enough to see the "Welcome to Osman" sign behind her.
"Goodbye ol' town..."
And with that last parting thought she began to head south toward route 90 and an unknown future.
*****
Nooo...don't do this to me now!
The temperature gauge in her truck started to rise and she could hear the coolant beginning to boil in her engine. "Just a few miles more girl!" she urged the old Chevy. Her dad had owned the vehicle since 1965 and had always taken good care of it; regardless, every old dog gets worn down and time had finally gotten the best of her. The white pick-up chugged its way down the road, motor steaming and oil churning, until it could go no longer and she was forced to pull over as it coasted to a stop.
"Damn..."
She got out of the truck, slammed the door shut, and went out to lift the hood up to allow the engine to cool. Not thinking things through well, she burned the tips of her fingers as she tried to release the hatch underneath the hood.
"Son of a...!!!" After a few moments of flailing her hand and fingers in the air and squealing a bit, she finally calmed down enough to try it again, this time using her white camisole to shield her skin from the scorching metal. The thin material was scant protection from the heat but it worked just well enough to let her release the hatch and send it flying open. She waved the steam away from her face as it billowed out of the front of the truck...backing up a few steps, she finally threw herself down on the ground, sitting down and leaning back against her arms, trying to come up with some idea of what to do next. No home. No transportation. No money to speak of.
She thought about trying to flag someone down for help, but this was southwest Texas and she knew better than to assume anyone but herself would be driving those roads. The only motorists she saw were a bunch of bikers passing her on their choppers, loud as thunder. One happened to notice her on the side of the road and gave a yell in her direction but she couldn't make out whether it was a taunt or a cheap pick-up line over the roar of the machines. She also knew that border-country was an unforgiving environment in the summer and she wouldn't last long in the sun. Becoming more desperate, she remembered passing a sign a few miles back saying Dryden – 5. She couldn't be too far from the town at this point, and although she wasn't terribly comfortable leaving her truck and all she owned on the side of a dusty road, she hadn't seen anyone but the bikers in almost two hours. Figuring it was safe, she started walking.
About two miles and an hour later she found the thriving metropolis of Dryden , where it was likely that the population of broken vehicles outnumbered the human population by about fifty to one. Old rusted cars on blocks and bent frames littered the landscape. In the center of it all was the bar, and judging by all the bikes out in front – the same ones that passed her on the way in – it was pretty much a guarantee that there were people there. The biker haven was less than inviting, but all she needed was some water for her and a tow truck for her car. She would stay no longer than she needed to.
She walked up the wooden steps and through the screen door; all focus was instantly on her. The place had half a dozen men, all clothed in some combination of jeans, leather, tattoos, and liquor, sitting around the place. Two men were sitting at the bar and took particular notice of the woman – one's jaw dropped as if he hadn't seen a picture of beauty like that in years: long blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail, ratted from the dirt and sweat of moving, white tank top with car grease and dirt stains on the front, and short cut-off jeans. The other man, however...he skipped the beauty and went straight to thoughts of what to do to it.
"What can I get'cha, stranger?" piped the barkeep.
"Just water, please...and a phone."
He began pouring the water. "Payphone's down the hall on your right."
Great. A payphone. And she had no change! She was so tired and frustrated from the days events that she completely forgot her purse in the truck. She got up anyway to see if there was at least a phone book where she could find a towing company. As she walked back nearly every eye turned to eye the ass that those shorts kept wrapped up...athletic, young, firm. The men were no strangers to women, but biker women were often used and abused, whereas she was fresh blood to them.
She found the name and address of a shop in Mofeta, ripped out the page, and walked out into the main room.
"Where's Mofeta?"
"About 6 miles up the road," the barkeep replied as he took her glass.
"Thanks." She began to walk out, but as she was passing the men at the bar, the one with the ideas grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her into his lap, quickly throwing his other arm around her chest, holding her tightly, and grabbing her right breast. She screamed and struggled to break free as he started whispering in her ear the detestable thoughts of a mind gone sour.
"You're a pretty little thing, aren't you, honey! Yeah, walking in here with that ass all wrapped up and teasin' like that? I saw you down the road...I know you ain't goin' nowhere now! Yeah, that's right...I know what you need, honey. I'll take you up the road, but you and me are gonna have a litt...."
A man stepped out of a door down the hall, slamming it behind him and begin striding towards the struggle. "Shark, if you don't let her go, I'm gonna touch your bike like you're touchin' her."
"You stay out of this! This is my bitch now...she ain't none of your business!"
The man grabbed one of the wooden barstools, broke it against the floor, picked up a long stick from the remains, and ran out the door. "Dagger! Don't you..." The sound of glass crashing filled the air. "Dammit, I let her go. Now stop it you son of a bitch...you're gonna deal with me, now!" And deal he did. With one punch the man floored the grabby-handed filth; he stared at his work and walked back to the woman. The barkeep kept cleaning glasses. The rest of the men looked away. "You okay?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"Let's go outside...this room isn't welcoming." So they did. He asked what the hell she was doing there...she told him of her plight.
"I know the guy you looked up. I can take you to Mofeta...it's only a few miles up the road and I live in town anyway." She was shocked that anyone actually lived all this way in the middle of nowhere, forgetting that she was leaving a similar location herself. She had nothing to offer the man, especially considering he saved her from certain rape, but she wasn't about to walk six more miles in the summer sun and heat, and she was becoming more uncomfortable about leaving her truck alone with every passing minute. She finally accepted.
She followed the stranger to his bike – a hulking, roaring beast compared to her frame, but just fine for his size. She had never ridden on a motorcycle before and was a little nervous about the experience but she would have to get over it quickly. He threw his leg over the bike, sat down, and directed her to get on behind him. She hesitated a little bit and he saw the twinge of fear in her eye..."Just put your feet on the pegs there and hold on tight around my waist. You'll be fine." So she did. As soon as he started up the bike, though, the sound startled her and instead of gripping his waist, her arms wrapped themselves tightly around his muscular chest, pushing her breasts and stomach into his back., and he finally drove off.
A couple minutes into the ride she began to ease her grip. She didn't realize she was choking him just slightly from her embrace, but her tension eased as the ride went on. Shortly they arrived in Mofeta – not quite the heap of old cars that Dryden was, but not much better, either – and pulled up to John's Auto. The two hopped off the bike and went inside.
"Dagger! Who's the set o'legs?"
