Harrison Walter McLoughlin, or Mac to his friends, had been driving trucks for thirty-five years. There wasn't a state he hadn't been to or a company he hadn't driven for. And he knew he would do it until he died.
As a young man, he enjoyed money and independence. He spent weeks on the road, seeing all sorts of things, before returning to his parent's home in Wyoming. He'd spend a few days helping his folks before heading off for another few weeks. By his twenty-fifth birthday, he'd bought his own house. A modest place, with two bedrooms and two bathrooms, on a nice piece of land on the outskirts of a town called Cody. It wasn't too far from Yellowstone National Park.
His home was more of his vacation home. Only stopping in for a week or two before leaving again. Mac preferred to keep himself busy.
Mac always tried to see his parents and the few friends he had, but Mac found little time for much else.
His mother, a small Irish woman, was always demanding grandchildren. She wanted something to bring joy to her life, but Mac didn't see himself ever delivering such a thing. He wasn't home often enough to have a relationship, let alone raise a child.
That wasn't to say Mac was lonely when it came to women. In his prime, Mac knew he was a good-looking man. Plenty of pretty ladies flirted with him and took him home. He even got to know a few ladies who were regulars at bars he visited along his common routes. They'd spot him and spend an hour talking and flirting before he'd leave with them, spend the night fucking, before he'd head off in the morning.
More than one person had told him he'd one day tire of his lifestyle. But he was fifty-five and didn't have a thing to complain about. Except maybe the ache in his lower back, and sometimes his left knee got stiff.
Most things hadn't changed throughout the years. The main difference was the number of ladies flocking to his side. He was the one who would have to make an effort to talk to them. Many of them were happy to flirt and giggle, but there was normally only one in every ten girls he spoke with willing to let an old man fuck 'em.
Mac didn't see much of his family after his parents died; his younger brother, James, was married with three children and living in Salt Lake City. He would talk to him every few weeks but hadn't seen the kids in a few years. James was one of the few people that had never bothered Mac about changing. He had accepted that Mac was who he was. And for that, Mac was grateful.
Mac's last load had taken him to New Orleans, a city he had always enjoyed visiting. He had driven down from Wisconsin, delivering a shipment of housing goods. Housing goods tended to be things like fridges, dishwashers, microwaves, ovens, etc. The crates had been loaded up, and he'd made it to New Orleans a day early, giving him a day to relax in the city.
Mac had spent most of his afternoon nursing a beer as he sat at a bar, listening to the jazz band playing and chatting to the bartender when James rang. They went through their usual pleasantries before James asked if he wanted to come and stay for a few days, see the kids, and let them catch up. Mac had no reason to say no, so he agreed.
Mac had to do his next load first, a shipment of food goods to a factory in Topeka, Kansas, but then he could head straight for Salt Lake City.
Mac loaded his truck and ensured he had everything before leaving New Orleans behind. He had already plotted his route and would make his first stop in Redfield, just off route 65. There was a gas station just off the highway where he could top up his fuel and a spot where truckers could park for the night.
He pulled off the highway at 7:20. The sun was disappearing beyond the horizon, and Mac was ready for a good meal. He moved into the gas station and watched the pimple-faced attendant come out. Mac wound down his window and nodded at the young man.
He said, "Fill her up, and where can I get a decent burger around here?"
The attendant nodded. "No worries, mister. You can try the diner a few buildings down. I've never had a bad meal.' He waved his hand further towards the centre of town.
Mac nodded his thanks.
He waited while the boy filled his tank before he moved the truck over to the rest area. Mac dug out his wallet before climbing down. It wasn't too far to walk; he could see the glow of the neon sign from where he stood.
The diner the attendant had mentioned was called The Old Quack. Your classic American diner. It wasn't overly busy as Mac walked inside, but there was a soft buzz in the air as the few diners seemed to enjoy their meals. Mac glanced around and was hollered at by the waitress, that was pouring someone a drink.
She said, 'Take a seat, mister. I'll be right over.'
Mac chose the booth in the corner. He sat with his back to the wall, giving him a nice view of the diner.
It was nothing special. Driving all over the country, Mac found that once you'd seen one diner, you'd seen them all. Some owners tended to try something flashy here and there, some liked to have a decade theme, or some tried to have a more modern vibe -- whatever the hell that was supposed to be -- but underneath, they were the same. They sold the same soda brands, dished out the same burgers and fries, and all seemed to play the same songs from their jukebox.
Taking the menu from the edge of the booth, Mac skimmed over what the place offered. It didn't take him to decide; you could never go wrong with a good cheeseburger.
The waitress that had hollered hello at Mac slid up beside him.
"My name's Amber; I'll be your waitress. What can I get you, mister?"
She was pretty, he noticed as he glanced up at her. Too pretty to be working as a waitress. She had what looked to be soft brown hair tied back in a braid. Blue eyes and a small mouth.
"I'll take the cheeseburger. And a coke," said Mac.
Amber nodded her head and jotted down the order.
"Small or large for your drink?" she asked.
"Large."
"No problem, mister."
Mac closed the menu, slipped it back into its place, and said, "Name's Mac."
Amber's smile widened. "Let me know if I can get you anything else, Mac."
She turned to walk away, her hips swaying.
Mac watched her stroll, and he admired her curves. While horrid in its design, the ugly yellow uniform showed off Amber's shape well. It hugged her ass, showing its curve, and displayed enough of her breasts for Mac to know they were a decent size. Nothing obscene, but a modest handful, at least.
Amber stopped behind the counter and passed over Mac's order. He watched as she said something to the cook before her head turned towards another couple.
A young man with a young lady sat on the other side of the diner. His arm was slung over her shoulders, his eyes on his phone, while his lady friend snuggled into his chest. She kissed his neck and cheek, running her hands all over him.
Amber's smile disappeared as she watched them, her face twisted with disgust as the lady giggled.
Leaning back in his booth, Mac wondered what was happening. It was possible that Amber simply didn't like PDA, most people didn't, but from the look on her face, Mac was leaning more towards something a little more personal.
Amber placed Mac's drink on the table a minute or so later. Her smile was back in place.
"Your coke," she said.
Mac nodded. "Thanks, Sugar."
Amber let out a small snort. She placed her hand on the back of the booth beside Mac's head and asked, "Who are you calling sugar?"
Mac smirked up at her. "I meant no offence."
Her smile didn't waver.
"I wouldn't say I am offended."
Mac asked, "Was there something else you would prefer?"
Amber licked her lips and tilted her head. "You could use my name?"
Mac scrunched up his nose. That was boring.
"That's no fun."
Amber let out a soft chuckle. "What are my other options?"
Mac tapped his chin, pretending to think about it.
He offered, "Love? Honey? Sweet Cheeks? Darlin'? Doll face?"
Amber shook her head. "You don't have anything better?"
Mac chuckled. "I guess not, Sugar."
Amber sighed. "Well, if I have to choose, I think Darlin' is the most tolerable."
