Loren stepped out of the truck stop bathroom and looked into the dusky shadows of the parking lot for the rigs park in the back. Shit. No shiny blue truck with the yellow logo of his company anywhere. He walked to the side of the building where the truckwash and diesel fueling station were, far away from the tourists' RVs.
One big yellow and orange truck was refueling, but it was still kind of early for the truckers who'd done their maximum eleven hours of driving to pull in for a rest. The only reason Loren and his trainer had stopped was because they'd run out of fuel. Roy, his trainer, tended to have a heavy hand on the gears.
Apparently Roy hadn't realized Loren wasn't still asleep in the berth, and had driven off. Loren sighed. He and Roy hadn't gotten along well, but they'd gritted their teeth through most of the required hours before Loren got his own truck from the company. Loren tried to give the grizzled, rude bastard the benefit of the doubt that the drive off hadn't been deliberate. Then again, could be Roy had finally figured out Loren was gay after he'd turned down another lot lizard the night before. Roy had certainly taken advantage of the whore's dubious charms in her RV. Right now, Loren hoped the sonovabitch's dick fell off from whatever diseases she'd carried.
Sighing, Loren pulled out his card with the 800 number to the company's trainee liaison and headed into the coffee shop. He knew he was in for a bad night at minimum. Roy wouldn't notice Loren was gone until he'd finished his eleven hours of drive time, and then he'd have to turn around and come back for his lost trainee.
A huge tricked out Harley sat covered in road dust in one of the parking places out front. If it wasn't a 1969 Shovelhead lovingly restored to all its glory and placed beneath chromed fat bob tanks and a custom frame, Loren would eat the damn thing's tires--without sauce. Loren put his hands behind his back to fight the urge to caress the wide, comfortable seat and permitted himself to drool for a few minutes. He had some serious fantasies about big, bad, leather-clad bikers, and all unfulfilled. Shitpissfuck. Now he had a boner, and he wasn't sure if it was for the bike or the owner. Loren cursed himself and went inside, hoping another lot lizard wouldn't pounce on him as a potential client.
He waited until he had his coffee in hand before trying to find an isolated booth to make his call. After all, sometimes the company liaison left you on hold for half an hour, and never mind that a poor trainee had to listen to the minutes tick off his cell phone for that long.
The biker himself, clearly a rider who knew what he was doing, held the corner booth. His jacket had "Prairie Dawgs" stitched where the breast pocket would be. Weird name for a biker gang, but what Loren knew about bikers would fit in a teacup. The denim was filthy and worn in places that indicated he'd ridden long enough to have laid his bike down a time or two. Long chestnut hair in a braid fell over one shoulder. He was hunched over his coffee, so Loren couldn't see his face.
Loren breathed a huff of frustration at the lack of privacy and slumped into the next booth over, facing the biker. By God, if he had to linger over the phone, Loren intended to have a few fantasies to pass the time. He punched the speed dial. Pretty damn bad when you had your trainee liaison on speed dial. He didn't want a reputation as a wuss, but Roy had driven him nuts with personal questions and lesbian porn on the DVD in the back.
Then the biker looked up. His eyes were huge and brown, rimmed with lashes that would make any drag queen proud, and ... holy shit ... those peepers were kewpie doll sweet. No biker was supposed to be sweet!