by BJ Blakely
Clouds of sadness seep into the horizon as I speak these words.
But I can’t hide from the truth any longer. As long as Logan was the sweet, quirky waiter from Betty’s Biscuits, there was no real danger of falling in love.
A joke here, a flirty smile there; it was too silly to be real, too schoolboy crush-like and flirtatious.
He was my waiter. I was the happy customer who left him big tips and thought he was adorable.
But face-fucking changes everything.
I can’t go back to pretending it’s a happy-go-lucky joke when I’ve sucked and worshipped his cock.
I can’t pretend I won’t catch feelings, because I’m past the stage of catching feelings and feelings have long since been caught.
At this point, I have two options.
Either I give in to the desire and do everything in my power to make it work — which involves getting hurt — or run.
Having gone through this with Michael — he worked at a diner, we’d hooked up without seeing each other’s faces, he cheated on me because of my long hours on the road — I know what happens if I choose love. I get my heart crushed.
To protect my heart, I have to run.
So that’s my decision, and I have to stick with it, no matter how much my soul is begging me to go back.
I refuse to subject myself to a fresh round of heartbreak.
Logan will hurt me, even if he doesn’t know it yet.
At least I was honest with him, and he knew I was leaving.
That was the arrangement, so nobody could get hurt in the end.
And that’s that.
13
Logan
July
He’s gone.
I’m punching in for my early bird shift at Betty’s as the realization flashes in my mind.
Jax is gone. He’s not coming back.
He said he’d return eventually, but that’s bunk.
It’s been a month.
He came, we kissed, he left. And that’s that.
Fucking asshole.
Luckily, Forest drove to work with me, so he senses my bad mood the moment we walk in.
He pours a fresh glass of diet cola into a mason jar and hands me the drink.
I recognize his gesture as a last-ditch effort to make me feel better before my shift, and for the first time, I’m not going to bitch or moan.
I’m fucking thankful he realizes something’s wrong.
I’m guessing he saw me wipe my eyes in the car this morning. That’s the most probable explanation for his random act of kindness.
I thank him for the drink and sit down. “I guess you want to know why I’m in a shitty mood,” I grumble, smiling at Mary Beth who has no idea what’s going on.
Forest nods. “You’re my friend. I can sense when you’re down in the dumps, ya know.”
I sigh. Forest is totally correct.
For a split second, I almost feel guilty I haven’t confided in Forest about Jax.
Forest knows what I told him over the phone last month, right before Jax walked out of my life forever.
But he doesn’t know the extent of my feelings.
He thinks we went on a date, and that’s all — which is all it was supposed to be.
One date, one drink, that’s that.
Leave it to me to think that isn’t that and want more.
I take a sip of diet cola, and the bubbly chemical cocktail of God-knows-what instantly refreshes me. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
Forest groans. “Stop being an asshole. You’re in a shitty mood, but you have to speak up if you want me to help.”
“Maybe I don’t want your help,” I counter softly, staring at my toes.
I want his help, but I’m not going to admit it out loud. At least not yet.
If I want the tears to stay in my eyes where they belong, I’ve got to play hard to get.
Damn my conscientious roommate. I’ll be damned if Forest makes me cry before my shift.
“You wanted my help a second ago,” Forest volleys, oblivious to my inner plight. Clearly, he doesn’t realize I’m on the verge of crying.
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
Forest groans and wipes his hands on his apron. “For Pete’s sake. Either confide in me or cut me loose. I have things to do before our shift starts, ya know. I’ve got to refill the ketchups, sanitize the tables, turn on the Betty’s sign, and—”
“Fine.” I groan and make a shooing motion with my hand. It’s the same gesture Jax used at Tilly’s last month. I’ve adopted it as my own, subconsciously. Maybe Jax will see it if he comes back, and he’ll have no choice but to admit his love. “I’ll spill the beans. But I can’t say I’m happy to do so. The last thing I need is you gloating over my misery.”
Forest can’t help but laugh. “I’m not gloating over your misery, asshole. I’m trying to help.”
I shoot Forest a look of resignation. “Fine. Here goes nothing.” I take a deep breath. “I’m in love with a former customer of ours, and I think I upset him somehow. I have no idea what I did. Now, he’s left me forever.”
Forest bites his lip. “Yikes. This can’t be good.”
“It’s not,” I shout, before taking a deep breath and lowering my voice. “It’s not good,” I repeat, at a much lower volume. “I’m a little heartbroken, but it’s kinda my fault. We were never together. I caught feelings, and he didn’t. Actually, he specifically forbade me from catching feelings, and I didn’t listen. It’s that simple.”
Forest sighs and stares gloomily at his feet. “Damn, dude. Maybe a quick stop at the Truck n’ Munch would help.”
I groan and shake my head. “A quick stop at the Truck n’ Munch is the last thing I need in my life. Fuck Jax. Fuck the mystery man. I’m swearing off men forever.”
Forest doesn’t buy my bullshit. “You need dick in your life and you know it.” He takes a sip of cola and waits for me to speak.
I sound angsty as fuck, but I don’t care.
“Not unless it’s Jax’s.”
14
Jax
I take the Mountain Slush and bag of pretzel sticks and head to the register.
The attendant, some high schooler with cropped hair and a face full of freckles, scans my items and shoots me a sympathetic glance.
“Is this all?” he asks, his face furrowing as if it’s his first day on the job.
For all I know, it is his first day on the job.
I nod, pay for the snacks, and head back to my rig, leaving the attendant to beat himself up over something he did or didn’t do, of which I’m unaware.
One month after I’ve left Bear Springs, and everything still sucks.
Thank fuck I bought the Mountain Slush. I slide into the rig, and tear off the cap.
I take long chugs of the fucking Olympian nectar, praying it calms me.
At the very least, I hope it takes my mind off Logan, the cutest young man I’ve ever met, with a thick cock and blowjob skills that rival any Helix Studios star.
The Mountain Slush does the trick. In no time, it elevates my mood.
I kick into gear and step on the gas. Today, I’m headed to Nevada. A manufacturing company needs a specific set of parts delivered to their facility in Western Utah by Sunday afternoon.
I have to pick the parts up in Nevada and take them there.
They specified they needed the most “qualified trucker for the job,” as it was a delicate shipment of glass-related tools.
Though I’ve been fucking up lately — at least while Logan was still in my life — Jonah trusted me enough to get the tools there without injury.
I’ll be damned if I let him down.
But fuck. I’d be lying if the long road ahead didn't scare the hell out of me.
All those country miles. All that empty desert full of nothing but sequoias and brush.
Too much goddamn time to think about Logan.
I cringe as I pull out of the SuperStation and turn ont
o the main interstate.
Even four weeks later, that man is still on my mind.
I shake my head. “You know that’s not true. It’s not that he’s on your mind, asshole. He’s the only thing in it. Fuck this load. You should’ve stayed in Bear Springs with him.”
That’s what I should’ve done.
Instead, I left the poor guy in the middle of the night, and high-tailed it out of there faster than the fucking speed of light, leaving him confused as a spaceman who’s entered a damn black hole and doesn’t know how to get out.
Three hours later, I pull into a truck stop. Somedays, the Mountain Slush goes straight to the head; other days it goes straight to the bladder.
Today is an “other” day.
I park the rig and head to the bathroom.
Throwing open the stainless steel doors of the truck stop, I pass familiar drinking fountains and vending machines until at last I reach the bathroom.
I’m about to enter, but something stops me.
It’s the truck stop.
It seems familiar as hell.
I wrack my brain, struggling to remember if I’ve been here before.
But I don’t remember pulling over to a rest stop in this state in my life. I could be remembering wrong — I do spend a shitload of hours on the road — but I think it’s something else.
I don’t realize what it is until I enter the last stall in the row, and let my first stream of piss out.
Only then do I see the glory hole.
It’s a hookup truck stop.
Truckers sense these things.
When you’ve been on the road long enough, you discern what truck stops are for shittin’ or suckin’ dick.
No doubt this is a suckin’ stop.
At least, that’s what the man in the stall next to me seems to think, who wastes little time tapping on the stall and grunting, “Lookin’ to suck?”
I came to piss. The last thing I want is to suck cock, unless it’s the mystery man’s — i.e. Logan’s — i.e. the man I’m hopelessly in love with I abandoned in Bear Springs.
Yet as annoyed as I am, I’m hesitant to turn the stranger down.
Truckers are a sensitive bunch. If I hurt his feelings, he might react violently, and I’m definitely not in the mood for a confrontation.
But I’m certainly not sucking his dick, and I resent the fact that he sounds like he fuckin’ expects me to suck it whether I want to or not.
I shake my head. “Nah.”
The stranger doesn’t seem to hear me. “Suck me off. I’ll give you twenty dollars.”
Something flares in my gut. I glance upwards, expecting to see the stranger’s face, so that I can smack it.
But he’s not peering over the stall. The stranger’s too short.
Logan isn’t. Logan’s tall enough to watch me suck any day. At least in the smaller stalls at the Truck n’ Munch.
I’m getting irritated with this mouthy stranger. “Not lookin’ to suck. Stop.”
I expect the stranger to apologize. But he doesn’t. He huffs and unzips himself, and I get the feeling he’s planning to ram his cock through without my consent.
“Fifty,” the man says at last. “I’ll give you fifty dollars to suck me off. Cash.”
My head is spinning. I want to turn him down politely, but this dude is pissing me off.
I hate confrontation — obviously, seeing as I ran away from Logan at Tilly’s — but this guy is leaving me with no choice.
Rage flares and simmers in my gut.
If this fucker pushes me again, I’ll have no choice but to beat his ass.
Suddenly, the stall door shakes.
BANG BANG BANG.
“Come on, asshole. Fifty dollars to suck me off.”
That’s it. Seething with rage, I whip myself away from the toilet and hurl myself into the stall next door.
The man freezes, but I’m past the point of showing mercy.
“You stupid fuck,” I growl. Rage attacks me from every direction. I heave towards him and thrust him against the tile walls.
“When someone says stop, you fucking stop. You hear me?”
“Fuck,” the man cries. He’s trembling. His body shakes. Clearly, no one’s ever stood up to him before. “I’m sorry. I didn't realize straight men came to this stop.”
Oh Christ. In addition to being a low-level sexual predator, he’s a dumbass too. “I’m not straight, dipshit. I said no. My sexuality doesn’t matter. When someone says no, you stop.”
Fear flickers in the stranger’s blue eyes, and his mouth twitches.
He’s going to respond, but I don’t want to hear it.
This shriveling, pathetic man hasn’t hurt me, but I don’t want to stick around and imagine the men he’s fucked with.
A goddamn child could’ve been in my stall.
It’s disgusting, wrong.
“If you’re that desperate for head, find someone you don’t have to bully into sucking it.”
Fucking asshole.
Totally pissed from the confrontation, I exit the truck stop and head towards my rig.
* * *
Sunlight rolls over the prairie hills as I brush off last night’s sleep and set the rig into motion.
I’m exhausted, worn out, and frankly sick of sleeping.
If all you get is the shakes and a night of bad dreams, I call bunk.
Preferable is to stick with my extra-large Mountain Slush and drive forever.
Drive away from the thoughts of Logan.
Leave the thoughts of pushy men in truck stops in the dust.
Thank fuck I’m meeting up with Lucas today.
He’s taking a load of medical devices to a shipping facility in the Pacific Northwest.
Our routes crisscross in this state, and last night before pulling into our motels, we decided to grab lunch.
We’re taking lunch early today, and when it's time to eat, I exit the interstate and pull into Chick-n-crunch.
Lucas is sitting at an outdoor picnic table with two crispy chicken sandwiches, two orange malts, and a delicious pile of crinkle-cut specialty fries with Chick-n-crunch sauce.
It’s the orange kind, my favorite.
Lucas knows how to win my heart.
He’s also vaping. This, I’m not a fan of, but Lucas has been trying to quit for months, and it’s hard as fuck once you start.
He’s vaping passionfruit cartridges, and even though they're toxic as hell, I know he's trying to quit so I decide not to give him shit for vaping and focus on the problems weighing down my heart.
“How’s it hangin’,” I grumble by way of greeting as I lock my rig and head to the picnic table, where Lucas is waiting with a shit-eating grin.
“How’s it hangin’?” He snorts in disgust and blows a cloud of passionfruit into my face. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
I’m not taking the bait. “It’s the same as saying hi,” I shoot back, quick as fucking lightning.
I’m not in the mood to argue, not after the shitty morning I’ve had.
“And on a day like today, there’s nothing wrong with hi, as far as I’m concerned,” I add.
Lucas snorts and pops a fry into his mouth. “Hi is an excellent greeting, you’re not wrong. But not when you’re meeting your best friend you haven’t seen in nine months. Then, hi sucks. So does how’s it hangin’.”
I grab a fry, dip it into the orange sauce and pop it in my mouth.
Instantly, my shitty mood starts to lift, and the clouds part.
“Okay, okay,” I admit at last, swallowing the fry. “So I’m not an amazing greeter when it comes to my friends. Sue me.”
I’ll make it up to him. All I need to do is charm his pants off and he’ll forgive me at once.
"Thank you for the food,” I say with a big fake smile. “It looks good as hell. Really.”
This is a much better greeting, and Lucas recognizes this at once.
“Well, it’s better than how’s it hangin’,”
Lucas admits reluctantly. “So you’re welcome. I grabbed classic chicken sandwiches — the ones with the pickles — malts, and fries. If anything isn’t to your liking, feel free to order something else. I’ll eat whatever you don’t want.”
I snort and shake my head. “No, it looks amazing. Really. Thank you.”
I speak these last words earnestly, shedding every trace of irony that characterized my earlier speech.
Lucas nods. “Try dipping the fries into the malt. It’s so fucking good.”
I make a gagging noise. “That sounds disgusting, but thanks for the suggestion. Like the three-inch cock I nearly encountered in a Nevada glory hole yesterday, I’ll pass.”
Lucas is still chewing as I speak these words, so they take a second to register.
When they do, Lucas swallows his fry and snorts. “Another anonymous hookup? Damn, Jax. You get around.”
He takes another hit and blows a second cloud of passionfruit vapor in my face.
I’m in the middle of a sip of the malt, and I nearly choke as I hear my best friend speak.
“No, asshole,” I say, swallowing the malt. “I said I passed on the glory hole offer yesterday. The guy was pushy, needy, and disgusting. He offered to pay me fifty dollars, but I still turned him down.”
Lucas lets out a wolf whistle. “Damn. It’s not like you to turn down fifty dollars.”
“It is when you have to suck some asshole’s baby cock,” I counter with a shrug.
Lucas snorts and leans back on the picnic table bench, but he nearly collapses. He quickly sits up straight. “There’s nothing wrong with baby cocks. Not everyone likes massive dongs.”
I snort and shake my head. “Well, I do. The bigger the better.”
Lucas shakes his head. “Don’t be such a snob. Little dicks need lovin’ too.”
“Yeah,” I volley, unwrapping the chicken sandwich.
I inhale deeply and let out an involuntary hunger moan, praying it tastes as good as it smells. “Well, I hope you tell Jasper. He can’t be bigger than 2 inches, and he’s always looking for new men to suck him off.”
This is too much for Lucas to take. His cheeks flush pink, and he bursts into laughter.
