BONE

by Rocklyn Ryder

  I need to suck up my pride and go find that guy again, find out what he means by "there's no gas." There's zip for cell signal out here, I carried my phone all over the place earlier hoping to get at least enough signal to make a call. Nothing.

  According to the map, the nearest thing passing for a town is 72 miles south of here. My tank is bone dry, but the advantage to a small bike is that it gets amazing gas mileage. One gallon and I can get off this guy's porch and find a real town with a real gas station.

  From the way he was talking to me, I'm betting getting me off his property and out of his hair is a plan he's going to be all too eager to sign up for.

  Too bad. He's hot. Even if he isn't friendly.

  I pace uncertainly, taking a few steps from my bike toward the back of the store where the guy disappeared and then returning to my bike, not sure if I should unpack the tail bag and find a spot around here to make camp, since it sounds like I might be here for awhile if I'm understanding what the dude meant by the pump being dry.

  Dammit, I don't want to be stuck here. This is definitely worse case scenario-- far worse than just needing gas in the middle of nowhere after the station closes for the night.

  I notice lights on inside the store.

  "What do you think, Ninja?" I ask the black puddle of fur that keeps following me, "Do I set up the tent and wait it out, or do I suck it up and try to play nice with your dad so maybe he'll help me out?"

  Ninja looks up at me and wags her tail.

  I'm not sure what that means.

  "I can see you're going to be a lot of help," I tell her.

  Looking back toward the store, I feel myself frown as I watch him inside. He's dressed now, simple jeans and t-shirt, and his hair is combed.

  He's still hot as hell. He really is tall, over 6 foot easy. The t-shirt isn't too tight but it hugs the bulge of his biceps and clings to his chest just enough to remind me of the sculpted torso he had on full display out here earlier.

  Being stuck at a gas station with no gas could have been a lot more fun if he had a personality half as sexy as his bod.

  Oh well.

  He wouldn't be the first guy I've met who was nice to look at but was a total jackass.

  He also wouldn't be the first guy I've run into on this trip that thinks a girl shouldn't be riding a motorcycle across the western US without a man along for "protection."

  I can't count how many lectures I've gotten over the last 3 weeks from men who felt it was necessary to let me know how dangerous it was for a female to travel alone. Or camp alone. Or stay in a hotel alone. Hell! One guy even gave me his pocket knife.

  This is my last leg of the trip. I'm supposed to be home tomorrow and back to work next week.

  So far, the worst guy I've met on this trip has been the gorgeous asshole that I'm watching turn on that coffee pot inside the store right now, and I sure as hell can't really say he's dangerous.

  He comes to the door and his face darkens into a deep scowl as our eyes meet as he unlocks the door from inside.

  Something twists inside me. Not the sweet sensation of meaningless lust, something else. There's that feeling from when I heard his voice before, like I recognize him from somewhere. A sense of familiarity.

  Despite all the ideas I've come up with to get me back on the road, I'm overcome with what seems like an incredibly bad idea: I know that as soon as I march through those unlocked doors and make quick work of that pot of coffee, I'm going to set my tent back up and wait for the gas truck.

  That man might be dangerous after all.

  Stryker

  After the world's shortest shower and throwing on some clothes, I make my way down the interior stairway that leads into the store's back room.

  I wish I knew what it was about that chick that had my mind spinning in circles.

  Probably her tits. I remember the way her nipples strained at the weave of her thermal shirt as she sat on the ground in the cool morning air.

  Or her ass. The image of the perfect handful of her heart-shaped butt invades my thoughts as I work my way through the routine of opening the store.

  Ninja likes her.

  I stop what I'm doing and cast a glance out to the parking lot. The girl is still out there, hovering between the tail bag that's cinched down on the rack on the back of her bike and the edge of the porch that runs the length of the store.

  She seems to be deciding whether or not to unpack her bag again.

  I can't help but smile as I watch her look down at Ninja's adoring gaze. She's talking to the damn dog. Like she's asking Ninja for advice.

  The girl glances toward the store and I make sure to get busy again. I don't need her thinking I'm watching her. She doesn't seem like the kind of chick that would be flattered by knowing how fucking hard my dick's been since I got a good look at her earlier.

  I remind myself that Ninja likes everyone. The fact that the little shithead seems to have fallen for the girl doesn't mean jack shit to me.

  The only reason I can't stop looking at her is because it's been too damn long since I got laid.

  That's the story I'm telling myself and I'm sticking to it.

  I flip the switch on the coffee maker, the heating element kicks to life and the dark liquid begins to fill the pot.

  That's about it. Time to unlock the door and get today started.

  Not that I'm likely to do much business without gas available.

  I twist the key in the lock from my side of the door and my eyes can't help but look up at her. She's looking straight at me. For a second we stare at each other and I see something cross her features that does something to me.

  Not sure what the fuck to make of that. It's only for a second and maybe I'm reading into shit because she's cute as hell and part of me really wants her naked in my bed, but just for that second or so I swear she's looking at me like she wants the same thing.

  Then that hard look is back on her face as she heads toward the store.

  Obviously I was hallucinating. I head for my chair behind the counter, deciding to just stay out of her way.

  "So, the station is out of gas?" She asks as she holds the door open for Ninja to follow her inside.

  I nod without opening my mouth. We might have gotten off on a bad foot and maybe there's not a chance in hell of me getting my hands wrapped around those full breasts that are bobbing under her shirt as she makes a beeline for the coffee maker, but I'm stuck with her. No point in making things worse.

  "How the fuck does a gas station run out of gas?" She demands as she leans that sweet ass up against the counter by the coffee maker while she grips the Styrofoam cup of hot liquid in her hands like her life depends on it.

  "How the fuck does a motorcycle run out of gas?" Shit. So much for not making things worse.

  She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow in a look that's all "fuck you" but she doesn't say it.

  "Fucking Oregon," she mutters into her coffee with a shake of her head that sends her long blonde braid sliding off her shoulder. "That's how a motorcycle runs out of gas-- Oregon."

  That's some funny shit. I've heard a lot of excuses from motorists for why they're not prepared for their trips in various ways, but I've never heard anyone actually blame the state for making them run out of gas.

  "Oh, please explain," I say with a dry chuckle, "I gotta hear this."

  I lean back in my chair and prop my feet up on the lid of the trash can behind the cashier's counter where I'm sitting.

  "Your stupid rules that don't let people pump their own gas," she tells me with an impatience that suggests it ought to be obvious, "every other state in the country has self serve pumps."

  "New Jersey," I point out to her, "You can't pump gas in New Jersey either."

  She glares at me, "Good to know, thanks," she says, "I'll know to stay the fuck out of New Jersey too then."

  "Yeah well, I still don't get how mandatory full service means you didn't gas up at the last station." I drop my feet to the floo
r and turn to look out the window at her bike.

  It's small, maybe a Yamaha, I can't be sure. It's got all the stickers peeled off and it's been painted a flat, desert sand color with some tribal patterns on the fender that are actually pretty badass...for a chick bike.

  "You got a what? 2 gallon tank on that thing? You got maybe a hundred fifty mile range including reserve?"

  She's glaring at me again. Or maybe still, I don't really know since I looked away from her there for a minute.

  "160 if I'm lucky, 130 average," she says.

  She takes a sip of her coffee and when she does, she closes her eyes and smiles, taking a deep breath. In that moment she's not being a sarcastic bitch and, I swear, if I didn't think she was beautiful before, there's no mistaking it now.

  I envy the coffee. I wonder what it's like to be adored by this woman like that? Maybe I'll ask Ninja what she's like when she doesn't hate you later.

  "I didn't realize eastern Oregon was so utterly devoid of civilization," she tells me, "I knew I couldn't pump my own gas, I didn't know that was going to mean I couldn't get gas. If I'd realized there was nothing but one pump stations that close at 6 pm, I'd have planned my timing better."

  "Well you're lucky I'm even here," I point out, "Fell's Valley isn't even a town, you could have ended up pushing your bike another 72 miles."

  She's giving me that same glare, the one that drops her head to one side with her eyebrow up and her lips pursed together so they look pouty and soft.

  My dick jumps back to life, making me glad I'm behind the counter. Man, I'd love to have those lips wrapped around my cock.

  "Fat lotta good you being here is doing me." Her voice goes into full sarcasm mode but I can't blame her for that one.

  She's spot on this time so I laugh. "Well at least you're 72 miles closer to a fresh pot of coffee," I point out with a gesture toward the cup that she just refilled.

  She smiles into her cup in silent agreement.

  At least I've got one thing she wants.

  Jordan

  I'm almost enjoying talking to him. He's still cocky and talking to me like I'm a child, which is not the way to get into my pants, but it turns out he's got a sense of humor and healthy appreciation for sarcasm-- which is.

  He also has coffee. Which is one of the staples of my existence so if worse comes to absolute worst, I'd bang him just for the caffeine.

  A number of filthy thoughts scramble through my mind in the moment of silence that passes between us. I clear my throat and make a hasty spin to refill my cup. I don't blush easily, but I can feel my cheeks heating under the casual gaze he's got fixed on me.

  I don't need him thinking he's got an advantage.

  Then again...It's not like I'm talking about dating him. Nothing wrong with having a little fun with a good looking dude before riding off into the sunset, right?

  "So how long is it going to take?" I lean back against the counter with my newly refilled coffee cup and quirk an eyebrow over the rim as I take a sip.

  His feet drop to the ground and he slides the wheeled chair he's sitting on across the tiny space behind his counter. He acts like I caught him off guard and I wonder where his mind wandered off to in the 30 seconds it took for me to get more coffee.

  "How long will what take?" He asks.

  "Gas." I nod my head at the pump beyond the window, "How long till you're back in business?"

  He turns and looks outside like he forgot what I'm talking about. "Oh, yeah. I don't know," he says as he turns back to me.

  And just like that, I'm not feeling so interested again.

  Damn this man.

  "What do you mean, you don't know?"

  He shrugs, "I mean my regular delivery isn't scheduled for another couple weeks. I have an order in, but so does every other station on this highway-- we got hit hard by the traffic for the music festival up north a few days ago. A lot of the smaller stations are dry. The tanker will get here when it gets here. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a few days from now."

  "A few days?" I try not to spit coffee all over the place as I choke on my surprise.

  I was thinking like later today, tomorrow morning, tops.

  "At least," he says, "could be two weeks when the regular delivery is scheduled."

  "I need to get back on the road," I tell my coffee, "I can't wait two weeks."

  "Well, if you have someone you can call, I'll let you use the phone," he gestures toward the old school, corded, landline phone on the counter next to the cash register.

  It takes me a minute to figure out why I would bother calling anyone. I mean, I could call work and let them know I might not be back next week. I could call my neighbor and tell her to check up on my apartment. Then I realize he's talking about having someone come pick me up.

  "Maybe your husband could come get you?" He asks rather pointedly. It doesn't sound like he's fishing for info, it sounds condescending, like I need a man to come rescue me.

  There's that misogynist attitude I met earlier this morning.

  "I don't have a husband," I tell him, trying to make it clear that that's on purpose.

  "Boyfriend then." He says it like it's a foregone conclusion.

  "Nope." This guy is not making points.

  "Dad."

  The bastard isn't even looking at me anymore, he's turned his back toward me and is looking through paperwork, rattling off the typical list of usual male suspects that a woman calls when she needs to be bailed out.

  This woman doesn't need to be bailed out. This woman just spent 3 weeks touring 7 western states on a motorcycle that weighs less that 300 pounds. This woman stopped relying on men to help her out 2 years ago when her last boyfriend--

  "You know what? Never mind." I spit out, "I'm not a fucking princess, I don't need to be rescued, thank you."

  He turns and looks back at me. "Suit yourself," he tells me with a shrug, "but if you're planning on camping out in the meantime, set your tent up over on the grass, would ya?"

  I guess we're back to square one. I take all my dirty thoughts back. The guy's an asshole. I don't care how good looking he is.

  As I push my ass off the edge of the counter I've been leaning on, aimed for the door, I hear him clear his throat.

  "That's gonna be a buck fifty," he says with a grin that is every bit as sexy as it is obnoxious. He nods toward the Styrofoam cup in my hand.

  "Start a tab," I tell him tersely, "It's not like I'm going anywhere."

  I don't wait for his answer, I just push the door open and head toward my bike.

  Ninja's right on my heels, walking with quick, stiff-legged strides that makes it look like she's every bit as over that man as I am.

  "Looks like I'm moving in," I tell her as I push the bike off the concrete to a grassy spot on the side of the property.

  The little ink spot wags her tail and follows me enthusiastically.

  At least the dog is friendly.

  Stryker

  I spend all day watching her from my station behind the counter.

  She has an impressive little camp setup. Little dome tent, little backpackers stove, little folding chair, little tarp stretched out over the front of her tent that keeps the sun off her while she sits in the chair all day reading a book.

  There for a minute I thought things were going OK between us. Like we were actually getting along. Maybe we could even end up being friends or-- since she doesn't have a husband or a boyfriend, maybe more than friends.

  Of course, as soon as I brought up the subject, she went all man-hater on me again. And what's with that "I'm not a princess" shit she threw at me?

  Just because I dared suggest that maybe she was worth a guy's attention? Like maybe there might be a man out there who can tolerate her attitude and might actually be into her? That's an insult?

  Shaking my head, and pulling my eyes off her for a minute, I try to concentrate on entering these receipts into the ledger. Might as well get some of the paperwork for this place done while business
is slow.

  Problem is, I can't stop watching her.

  As the afternoon warmed up, she pulled off the black pants and thermal shirt and replaced them with a tank top and a pair of shorts. She wasn't modest about changing either, standing beside her tent without much concern for who might see.

  I mean, I'm the only person around, and it's not like she showed anything off that was indecent-- much to my disappointment-- she did one of those girl things where she managed to put on the new shirt without taking off the old one. Always freaks me out the way chicks can do that.

  Still kinda hot though, watching her out there changing like that, even if I didn't catch a glimpse at those braless tits.

  I did get a peek at the little black panties she's wearing though. Not that they're anything fancy, not even a fucking thong. Just plain, black panties. Still gave me a good look at her legs though. The contrast of her pale skin against the black material, the shape of her thighs as they flare up to meet her ass, the toned calf muscles.

  Definitely too long since I got laid. I should not be getting distracted by a look at a little leg.

  It's just so damn easy to imagine those legs wrapped around my neck, or my waist, or straddling my hips.

  Damn! I gotta stop looking at her. She made it pretty clear that she's perfectly capable of handling herself before she stomped out of here this morning. She's got her little camp all set up and she can stay there for the next two weeks for all I care.

  Ninja's been out there with her all damn day too. Stretched out on the grass without a care in the world like they're old friends.

  As the sun starts sinking behind the store, I notice my guest has put her thermal and her sweats back on.

  As darkness starts to creep over the store and across the parking lot, I look up and watch her crawl inside her tent. I can see her slip another layer on over her thermal shirt and then inch her way into a puffy sleeping bag.

  She doesn't zip up the door of the tent, though. I watcher her pet Ninja as my dog decides not to join her inside the tent. Instead, Ninj curls up just outside the open nylon flap and I see the chick reach her arm out and drape it across Ninja's body.