Long Hard Truckers
Mailing List Sneak Peek
It’s raining like hell as we climb back into the cab of the big rig. Big fuckin’ sheets of it coming down like southern Armageddon — that type of hot rain that doesn’t even cool you down and just makes things all muggy and sweaty.
Man, fuck Georgia.
Big neon lights from the truck stop flood over Walker and me through the windshield, the rain looking like fireflies or bombs or something. The Fuel Dump might be, well, a fucking dump, but it's got the best coffee and pie for miles around. The coffee we’re going to need in order to keep on hauling through the night back to Kentucky. The pie? Well the pie is just a little extra.
Walker readjusts the wheel from where I had it on the last leg up from Tallahassee.
“You ready to—”
I spot her at the same time as him. Through the rain, through the neon glow, through it all, there she is. Fuck, any red-blooded man in fifty miles has the scent of her. I spot her, and my whole world just sorta stops moving.
Blonde, slender, small, with soft, pouty lips. She’s standing under the eaves of the pawn shop — this little side business that Frank Moony, who owns the Fuel Dump, keeps on the side. It’s closed this time of night, but there she is, shivering underneath the porch overhang.
…She’s like bait thrown into the shark tank at this place.
She’s dressed to impress, but around here? Shit, she’s not going to impress dressed like that. She’s going to attract fucking predators.
Rough men. Men who’ve been on the road too long. Men who see a sweet little thing like that and know that tasty little slice of cherry pie she’s got between those pretty thighs is a might sweeter than anything you’ll get with a side of whipped cream inside the diner. Men who take one look and get to thinking all sorts of wicked, dirty, filthy thoughts.
…Men like us.
I groan at the sight of her, my thick cock growing in my dirty jeans.
“Fuck,” Walker growls, his hand dropping to cup the bulge in his own pants.
Yeah, we’ve been on the road far too long.
She’s soaked to the bone, and my eyes drop to the clingy white tank top she’s wearing. My cock lurches. Soft, pink nipples push through the soaking wet cotton, her areolas clearly on display as the dripping wet garment clings to her skin like wet paper. And with those tiny, frayed-edge Daisy Duke jean shorts and those cowgirl boots?
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
I could pull my cock out right here. Fuck, I want her on me. I want the taste of that sweet little cunt in those little flirty cutoffs riding my chin while I sink my tongue deep inside of her. I want her juices on my lips when I bend her over, rip her panties off, grab that tight little ass in both hands and bury every inch of my cock deep in her little pussy.
“The fuck is she doing here?”
Walker’s right. She’s not just out of place here. She’s in danger here. We both might be staring at her like men who’ve just seen water for the first time after months in the desert, but Walker and I have restraint, even with something that looks as tempting as her. Years in the Marines will do that. Me and my best friend? We’ll stare all right. We’ll fucking want her. We’ll want to tear those clothes off, spread her thighs and both get a taste of that honeyed little cunt.
But, like I said. Restraint. That and Walker and I aren’t evil men. Even if what we’re hauling might make us evil men. No, it ain’t construction materials, like what the truck manifest says. It’s what underneath all that — namely, surplus military guns from the black market, and whole shitload of weed.
…That’s the territory that comes with working for Lawson Banner.
Law’s the local crime lord of sorts back where we’re from — Sugar County, up in Kentucky. Working for him is hazardous enough, especially since some of our best friends from growing up are the Bronsons. And the Bronsons and the Banners have a sort of family feud thing going back generations. But then, money is money, and Law Banner pays fucking great for hauling his shit up and down the east coast — the Keys up through Appalachia. We’ve got a few rules of course — Walker and I won’t haul anything harder than weed, and no girls. Pretty sure Law ain’t into that these days, but it’s our hard line. We’re not hauling destitute, drug-addicted girls around to get pimped out, and we’re not bringing poison like meth or Oxy up into Sugar County. No fucking way.
Walker growls next to me, pulling me from my thoughts.
“She’s got trouble.”
Fuck. Sure enough, the wolves have descended on the little lamb. She’s hugging herself, wet, soaked, vulnerable. Sexy as fuck, but vulnerable. And three big, good ol’ boy looking motherfuckers have decided to waltz on over to her. One of them says something, and she shakes her head. They laugh, moving closer, even as she backs away against the side of the closed pawn shop.
I glance at Walker; he glances at me.
Yeah, we’re about to get involved all right, and we both know it. Part of it might be heroics, maybe. Maybe some holdout feelings from our Marine days, and seeing the injustice of a little thing like her getting harassed by these guys is bringing all that hero shit back to the surface.
But, there’s something more than that, and we both know it. Something more primal. It’s not just that we want to protect her.
It’s that we want her.
We saw her first. Those long, tanned legs disappearing under the frayed edge of those little Daisy Dukes? That soaked white tank top clinging to those perky little tits and those mouthwatering nipples? The ass that won’t quit, and those lips that are just begging for a thick cock to spread them wide?
I know it’s caveman as hell, but I don’t give a shit. We’re just animals, after all. And seeing her? Well, now don’t that just bring out the fucking beast in both of us.
We saw her first, and its time to go claim what's ours.
Because Walker and me? We share everything.
…She’ll be no exception.