Dixie

It was late afternoon by the time we got on the road. The fall sky went dark early as we headed out of the city and into the endlessly flat landscape that was everything east of the Rockies. When the sun went all the way down Church stopped at a truck stop a few hundred miles from the Kansas border and ordered me to put on a pair of leather riding chaps that zipped up the outside of my legs and buckled around my waist. It wasn’t that cold, but there was definitely a nip in the air as the wind rushed past us on the highway. I didn’t think I needed the leathers but there was something about the look in his eyes as he ordered me to go put the stiff garment on that made me swallow any argument I was going to give him. The blue in his eyes burned and there was heat in his eyes that wasn’t from the air slapping across his stern face. I never considered myself a leather kind of girl but apparently Church had different ideas about that.

I took the leathers from him as he turned to top off the tank. The truck stop was busy enough that it took me a few minutes to maneuver my way across the parking lot and around to the side of the building where the sign indicated that the restrooms were. I found myself quickening my pace as a couple of truckers leaning against the side of the building tracked me under the bills of their stained hats. I didn’t like the way they looked at me and I really didn’t like the way they looked over at Church.

I could have pulled the chaps on while standing in the parking lot but all that vibration and rumble underneath my backside meant Church was going to have to get used to stopping every few hours so I could use the restroom, just like I was going to have to get used to the questioning and not altogether friendly looks that were being fired his way. If he was one of those guys that was determined to make the best time from point A to point B with as few stops in between as possible, he was in for a rude awakening. And I may have stretched the truth a little bit about how recently I had had my rear end planted on the back of a motorcycle.

In high school I’d dated a wannabe rebel without a cause that rode a busted up Victory that he swore would be worth a fortune when he fixed it up. It hardly ever ran and when it did it crawled rather than roared, but other than that I tended to avoid anything that drove on two wheels instead of four. I’d let Brite take me home after work a few times when my car was in the shop and I’d ridden with Rome a time or two when he wanted me to go with him for stuff related to the bar. My dad’s accident hadn’t exactly put me off of motorcycles, but I was very cautious and careful about getting on one, and my willingness to do so was directly related to who was driving the machine. I had never done a long road trip on the back of a bike before and so far I was a fan, but that might have been directly related to the fact that I got to spend hours upon hours clutching Church like my life depended on it, because it kind of did.

I’d wanted to have my hands on the man in a totally inappropriate way since the first time I laid eyes on him, so there was no way in hell I was going to squander the opportunity to touch all the places that I was supposed to be touching as I curled into him and held on for dear life. He felt just as hard, just as hot, just as heavenly as I always figured he would, and I was really starting to resent the soft cotton of the long-sleeved T-shirt he had on for keeping all that golden skin from my fingertips. I wanted to scratch my initials into his abs and rub my palms all over the carved ridges that flexed and bunched under my hands every time he changed lanes or looked over his shoulder to check on me. I already knew Church was built like a mythical deity, but having the fact confirmed for hours upon hours as muscle moved against me was making me twitchy and damp in places that weren’t exactly comfortable against rough denim.

The truck stop bathroom wasn’t the worst I’d ever seen but it was far from the best. It was obvious women’s comfort was low on the priority list as I took in the cracked mirror and hanging door on one of the two stalls. I gingerly picked my way across the stained laminate floor, careful not to step in any of the unidentified puddles of liquid marring my path, and slipped into the stall with the working door.

I handled my business while reading the endless amount of graffiti carved on the wall—apparently there were a lot of women available for a good time if called—and used my foot to flush because there was no way I was touching anything more in this bathroom than I had to. I found a relatively clean spot in front of the mirror to wiggle into the leathers and wasn’t surprised at all when I went to wash my hands that there was no soap and barely a trickle of water leaking out of the faucet. Thankful I never went anywhere without a stash of hand sanitizer, I gave myself one last once-over, decided that I might be able to pull off a little bit of badass biker babe after all, and made my way to the door.

I gave it a tug and groaned when my fingers touched something sticky. I shook my head when nothing happened thinking that I needed to push instead of pull to escape the nastiness. I frowned when changing tactics didn’t release me from Satan’s bathroom either. I pulled harder and then resorted to using my shoulder and shoving with my entire body weight in the opposite direction but still the door remained shut. I gave a shudder and wiped my hands on my leg.

“I wonder if it’s stuck.” There wasn’t a response because I was the only soul brave enough to enter this hellhole and my voice echoed off the broken tiles that surrounded me. I heaved a sigh and tried again to pry the door open, this time putting a foot on the wall and pulling back with my entire weight. There wasn’t even a creak or a groan to indicate I was making any kind of headway.