Page 1

1

MASON

I blasted my air horn at the yellow Corvette. It was heading straight toward me, having crossed the double line to pass a vehicle in the opposite lane. It was approaching fast, and I maneuvered my truck to the right, not letting up on the piercing horn and hoping it might force the driver back behind the SUV. I let up on the accelerator and reduced my speed in the hope it would help before a catastrophe struck. I noticed the driver of the SUV in front of the sports car was paying attention to what was happening—they slowed and veered to their right. With only a short distance to spare, the sports car accelerated and shot in front of the SUV, missing my rig by a few feet.

I held my breath, my heart racing, and as soon as the Corvette whizzed by, I let my breath out slowly and released the white-knuckled grip on the rig’s steering wheel. That disaster had been avoided, but not every dangerous moment on the highway ended so fortunately. Reckless drivers were the villains of the highway, and it was because of one asshole like that, I’d lost my parents when I was a teenager. All of us had been lucky today. I slowly brought my truck back up to the proper speed and resumed my trip.

God, the day kept dragging. Driving a route with five stops in succession took its toll, not only on my butt but my head. I’d done trips like it before, but today, it felt arduous. The life of a big rig driver wasn’t glamorous and could be downright mind-numbing—if not butt-numbing. The close call didn’t help my stress level either.

I hadn’t taken any time off between trips for over three months, and I was due. Hours and days passed on the open highway, and every so often, I wondered why I’d chosen that life. It kept me moving, although it kept me in my head too much, reminding me of things I still found difficult to deal with. I’d been thinking long and hard about giving it up, but after twenty years, the familiarity was all I knew—time had slipped by so quickly.

I had been fortunate to purchase my cherry-red Peterbilt sleeper cab a few years ago, and I’d gotten a great deal with low mileage to boot. I had named her Big Red. My previous rig, which I’d driven for ten years, had seen better days, and I was happy to acquire a newer one. The sleeper cab was a must since I was on the road so much, and it had become my second home, making life easier.

I’d lived a nomadic lifestyle for years. Being an independent owner-operator with my own semi was my preferred way of making a living, and it turned out to be quite lucrative. My home was in northern California, Crescent City, to be exact, a condo overlooking the coast where I could breathe and recharge. I didn’t spend much time there, but it was mine, and that meant something. The smell of salt in the air and the familiar cadence of the waves reminded me I was still alive. And yeah, that condo held memories I didn’t want to let go of. I’d experienced many joyful moments there, although they had become fewer after the heartbreaking loss of someone I loved had stolen many away.

I had already made three deliveries and was heading into my tenth hour of driving. Time went by quickly having to hit a destination and unload the freight. I’d already taken the required thirty-minute break after eight hours and could make the next two deliveries before my fourteen-hour trip was over. The last two drop-offs weren’t far apart.

My trip took me through eastern Oregon. I’d started in Spokane around 8:00 a.m. and was heading out of Pendleton to the next two deliveries. Considering how much coffee I'd consumed, I needed to stop. Normally, I drank water on long stretches, a stern recommendation by my doctor. But I’d been pushing to finish these deliveries and keep caffeinated, so my bladder was screaming in protest.

As I rounded a bend, a sign read, Rest stop ten miles. Thankful for the good fortune, I decided to stop at the little oasis and relieve my bladder. I knew my legs and lower back wouldn’t argue either.

About a mile outside the rest area, I noticed a hiker with a large backpack. The pack obscured the wearer's gender, but at least they had the sense to stay well off the highway. As I approached, they turned, hearing my rig rumble up behind them. If they were hitching, they didn’t give any indication by sticking a thumb out.

I reached the rest stop exit, flipped my blinker on, and followed the signs for big rigs. There weren’t many other rigs around, which I was happy to see since I didn’t like crowded rest areas. Truckers liked to chat about routes, the newest trucks and gadgets, and, of course, their frequent sexual conquests. The latter was not my thing, my sex life was private, and I couldn’t care less who they fucked.

Stepping out of the cab, I stretched my back and legs and headed into the men’s room. It was empty as I sidled up to the urinal to take care of business. Once finished and feeling much lighter, I stood at the sink to wash my hands. The one thing about rest-stop bathrooms was they didn’t have standard mirrors, which made sense considering the potential harm broken glass could cause.

A dull, reflective sheet of metal hung over the sink, fogging my image and rendering it somewhat useless. But as I stood there, I could tell I looked haggard. My hair was too long, and my short beard needed trimming.

I prided myself on self-care and tried not to look forty-eight. The older I got, the more it scared me. Regular workouts and eating smart had always been my priority, especially on the road. I kept fit and was proud of my physique—a flat stomach, well-developed shoulders and arms, muscular legs and a tight ass. I got noticed for my appearance, and I liked it. I was lucky to have good genetics, but I only saw foggy imperfections and greying temples, slight bags under my eyes, and sun-weathered skin under my baseball cap.

“Oh, well,” I said out loud. “I’ll never need to worry about being People’s Sexiest Man of the Year .” With a low chuckle, I put my cap on and flicked the bill with a finger.

After proclaiming my frustration, a heavyset traveler walked in hurriedly, looking far worse than I felt, so I finished up quickly and walked back to my rig.

Once in, I started her up, and the A/C began to cool down the interior. It was early September, and in the Pacific Northwest, the temperature could get close to a hundred degrees going into fall, and late evening was when it peaked. I thumbed through my playlist, needing to listen to something upbeat to keep me awake. The soft ’90s rock I’d been listening to wasn’t cutting it. Current pop hits fit the bill nicely, so I chose those.

I looked up from my cell phone and saw the same hiker I’d passed about a mile back, trudging into the rest area—definitely a man and looking rather haggard.