Chapter 5: Truck Cab

By 6:55 on Monday I had decided that I could not wait until Thursday.

I said so to the side of his face, at the water fountain, while both dogs drank.

"Truck," I said.

Beau's ears went red, and he said, "Yes, ma'am," and walked Tank to the far corner of the gravel lot without looking back once.

I followed with Waffles on a short lead and a smile I couldn't hold down.

His truck was a green Ford with a cracked taillight, parked under the crepe myrtle where the lot ran out.

He opened the back door of the cab.

Both dogs climbed onto the rear bench seat and turned around twice and went to sleep against each other.

I got in the front.

The seat was a single long bench, cracked vinyl, warm from the sun, with a bike pump rolling around the floor.

He climbed in beside me and shut the door, and the cab went quiet except for the dogs snoring.

Forty feet away, at the gate, the bench ladies were standing in a bunch with their tote bags, deep in the pound cake.

I could see the backs of their heads through the windshield, and if one of them turned, she could see ours.

"We can't," Beau said.

"I know."

"Anyone could walk over," he said.

"I know."

"Tara," he said.

"Be quiet," I said, "and give me your hand."

He gave it to me.

I put it on my thigh, high up, over my leggings, and held it there.

He looked at his hand and at me.

Then he moved it, slowly, up between my legs.

The heel of his palm pressed against me through the thin stretchy fabric, and I bit the inside of my cheek.

"Quiet," I whispered.

"That's not me."

His fingers curled.

He found the seam, and the heat under it, and rubbed once, slow, with two fingers flat.

My thighs fell open on the vinyl.

I reached over and put my hand on the front of his shorts.

He was already hard.

I could feel the shape of him straining against the fabric, and when I traced it with my fingertips, his whole body jerked.

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