Ass, Grass, or Cash: No One Rides for Free
©2012 Raminar Dixon
This work of fiction is intended for mature audiences only. All characters represented within are eighteen years of age or older and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This work is property of Raminar Dixon, please do not reproduce illegally.
“Lord, it is hot today,” I complained to the stifling, summer Texas air.
I kicked the tires on my broken-down rust bucket of a car and wiped the dripping sweat off my brow. Thick black smoke rolled out of the engine, streaming straight upwards and into the heavens. The little Nissan had made it a grand total of seventy miles outside my Podunk hometown of Danvers, a mere fourteen-hundred miles short of my destination.
“Where in the hell am I?” I wondered, and pulled out the faded old map that I had grabbed at the gas station before heading out.
I followed the route I had draw out, following the thin line of the six fifty-four out of Danvers and into the desert. From the looks of things, I was deep in the middle of nowhere.
“Shit.”
I folded the map up hastily and took another look under the open hood of the car. The smoke had started to wane, but the toxic-smelling odor from whatever was burning wasn’t going anywhere. Upon closer inspection, I could see that the entire top part of the motor was encased in a layer of black crud. The Nissan had officially seen its last road trip.
I pulled out the cell phone my friend had given me as a going away present and dialed the operator. Color me surprised when, of course, there was no signal. What did I expect? The tallest things around here were the cactus.
“Looks like I’m hoofing it,” I thought, and grabbed my backpack out of the rear seat. “Goodbye, car. Have fun in the desert.”
I didn’t mind too much leaving the thing to sit there, rusting away for eternity. With almost two hundred thousand miles, it was just a matter of time before it gave up the ghost. Besides, it had only cost me one hundred dollars and a handjob behind the mechanic’s shop.
Four miles and almost an hour later, I plodded along in the pounding heat. Finally, I had enough and shedded the light plaid shirt I had on and my pair of cut-off shorts. Putting on the bikini before I left was one of the smartest things I ever did. At least I wasn’t wandering down the road in my panties. Even then, sweat still covered my entire body and I was drinking the last few drops of my bottled water before I knew it. I was sure hopin’ somebody would come driving up and pick my ass up. Folks died in the desert all the time out here.
It seemed that my prayers had been answered when I spotted a bright orange flash coming down the road from the direction I had come. The growing sound of a strong engine thudded across the sand, so I stopped, held out a thumb, and tried to look desperate.
When the vehicle got close enough, I could see that it was a customized old-model Chevrolet pickup truck. The thing had a rich orange paintjob and chrome rims, but best of all, it had plenty of room in the back.
I approached carefully. A girl can never be too cautious, you know.
The tinted window rolled down and there were two devastatingly handsome boys sitting inside. One of them had on a well worn cowboy hat and the other had hair almost as long as mine. Neither looked a day over twenty-one. Both of them had the same bright blue eyes and the one sitting in the passenger seat tipped his hat politely before speaking.
“Howdy. That your car back there?” he asked.
“Yea. Broke down on me a ways back. Ya’ll boys think you can give me a lift?”