Read Online NIGHT CRUISING by Billie Sue Mosiman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Billie Sue Mosiman
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lodged between her legs, back
arched.
She wished fervently to
be rid of these kinds of fantasies that plagued her, that brought
along with them guilt and sometimes shame at a runaway subconscious.
Yet about once a month or so they returned like bold demons sharing
her bed, driving her crazy with unfulfilled longing.
She'd die if Cruise
knew she'd dreamed of him that way. She peeked a look at his body.
Let her gaze travel from heavy black lashes lying on his cheeks, down
to his lips hiding beneath mustache and beard, over his muscular
chest stretching at the material of his shirt, down to the belt in
his slacks, the bulge in his crotch. Lingered there before traveling
on down his legs to his feet.
A trembling thrill
rolled down her. Again she sucked in a breath and held it.
Crazy. She had to get
out of the car before she did something incredibly stupid like
reaching for him. She could already feel his big hands on her. She
began to burn again, to squirm uncomfortably in the seat. She grabbed
the door handle and jerked open the door, scrambled out into the
fresh air. She shut the door quietly, just until it clicked, leaning
down to stare through the window at Cruise's sleeping face to be sure
he hadn't wakened. She smoothed her hair as well as she could. She
composed herself, trying to quiet the hidden hunger. She would go
into the truck stop and wash in the ladies' room. She'd drink some
coffee and get over this mad rush of maniacal lust.
What was wrong with
her? Is this what it was to be an adult, to feel this uncontrollable,
aching fire take you even as you slept innocent and pure?
She noticed most of the
day was gone. The sun was falling down the sky, sinking fast to the
flat horizon. It was a shock to think she'd slept most of the
daylight hours away. Getting just like Cruise. But what could she
expect with him telling her stories all through the night, keeping
her captive with his melodic voice. She suspected that's what he
wanted-to rearrange her sleeping rhythms. Well, he was the boss on
this particular joyride.
She looked up at the
sign perched on the edge of the roof of the restaurant and read the
name. The White Elephant Cafe. A fat dirty white elephant sat back on
his haunches and trumpeted at the sky. Hah. Out here in the middle of
God knew where, that's all they could think to call it, she guessed.
It was a low-slung job in mud-red brick. The trim was painted brown
and white. It could be torn down and no one would lose money.
She went through a
glass door and found herself in a small store. Refrigerated cases of
beer and soft drinks, milk, cheeses, luncheon meats. Aisles of
trucker stuff. CB mikes and connections, logbooks, envelopes, every
over-the-counter medicine ever put on the market.
A dull, wrung-out rag
of a woman manned the cash register. She filed her nails, not
bothering to look up as Molly entered.
To the left was a
hallway with rest rooms. Molly headed for the ladies and held open
the door for a big woman dressed in tight jeans and a blue workman's
jacket. She must be a trucker, Molly assumed. Looked the part anyway.
Didn't look like anybody's momma.
After relieving
herself, washing her face, hands, neck, and upper arms with soap and
water, she tried to get a brush through her red frowsy hair. Giving
up trying to get it to lie down and behave, she scooped water into
her hands and smoothed it over her head. The natural curl coiled into
even tighter ringlets that fell around her pale face like corkscrewed
ribbons. She patted them into place with a brown paper towel.
Satisfied she was presentable, she left the rest room to find the
cafe.
It was at the end of
the hallway past four video games lined on one wall. A trucker in
greasy jeans played Tetris, the Russian game of falling shapes one
had to fit together into lines. Molly noted in passing he wasn't too
damn good at it either. She could beat him with one hand tied and her
eyes blindfolded.
She wandered into the
jumbo room of the cafe. She
arched.
She wished fervently to
be rid of these kinds of fantasies that plagued her, that brought
along with them guilt and sometimes shame at a runaway subconscious.
Yet about once a month or so they returned like bold demons sharing
her bed, driving her crazy with unfulfilled longing.
She'd die if Cruise
knew she'd dreamed of him that way. She peeked a look at his body.
Let her gaze travel from heavy black lashes lying on his cheeks, down
to his lips hiding beneath mustache and beard, over his muscular
chest stretching at the material of his shirt, down to the belt in
his slacks, the bulge in his crotch. Lingered there before traveling
on down his legs to his feet.
A trembling thrill
rolled down her. Again she sucked in a breath and held it.
Crazy. She had to get
out of the car before she did something incredibly stupid like
reaching for him. She could already feel his big hands on her. She
began to burn again, to squirm uncomfortably in the seat. She grabbed
the door handle and jerked open the door, scrambled out into the
fresh air. She shut the door quietly, just until it clicked, leaning
down to stare through the window at Cruise's sleeping face to be sure
he hadn't wakened. She smoothed her hair as well as she could. She
composed herself, trying to quiet the hidden hunger. She would go
into the truck stop and wash in the ladies' room. She'd drink some
coffee and get over this mad rush of maniacal lust.
What was wrong with
her? Is this what it was to be an adult, to feel this uncontrollable,
aching fire take you even as you slept innocent and pure?
She noticed most of the
day was gone. The sun was falling down the sky, sinking fast to the
flat horizon. It was a shock to think she'd slept most of the
daylight hours away. Getting just like Cruise. But what could she
expect with him telling her stories all through the night, keeping
her captive with his melodic voice. She suspected that's what he
wanted-to rearrange her sleeping rhythms. Well, he was the boss on
this particular joyride.
She looked up at the
sign perched on the edge of the roof of the restaurant and read the
name. The White Elephant Cafe. A fat dirty white elephant sat back on
his haunches and trumpeted at the sky. Hah. Out here in the middle of
God knew where, that's all they could think to call it, she guessed.
It was a low-slung job in mud-red brick. The trim was painted brown
and white. It could be torn down and no one would lose money.
She went through a
glass door and found herself in a small store. Refrigerated cases of
beer and soft drinks, milk, cheeses, luncheon meats. Aisles of
trucker stuff. CB mikes and connections, logbooks, envelopes, every
over-the-counter medicine ever put on the market.
A dull, wrung-out rag
of a woman manned the cash register. She filed her nails, not
bothering to look up as Molly entered.
To the left was a
hallway with rest rooms. Molly headed for the ladies and held open
the door for a big woman dressed in tight jeans and a blue workman's
jacket. She must be a trucker, Molly assumed. Looked the part anyway.
Didn't look like anybody's momma.
After relieving
herself, washing her face, hands, neck, and upper arms with soap and
water, she tried to get a brush through her red frowsy hair. Giving
up trying to get it to lie down and behave, she scooped water into
her hands and smoothed it over her head. The natural curl coiled into
even tighter ringlets that fell around her pale face like corkscrewed
ribbons. She patted them into place with a brown paper towel.
Satisfied she was presentable, she left the rest room to find the
cafe.
It was at the end of
the hallway past four video games lined on one wall. A trucker in
greasy jeans played Tetris, the Russian game of falling shapes one
had to fit together into lines. Molly noted in passing he wasn't too
damn good at it either. She could beat him with one hand tied and her
eyes blindfolded.
She wandered into the
jumbo room of the cafe. She
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