Sweet Hitchhiker

"Don't stop," I whisper, but the trucker doesn't listen. His eighteen-wheeler rolls along the deserted two-lane road. She hasn't appeared yet.

At least he's not into country music like most of the others. Although, I must admit having taken something of a fancy to Brooks & Dunn of late. Well, Brooks anyway. Or is it Dunn? Whichever is the taller and doesn't wear a hat.

Ah, now this is more my style. Creedence! Is it "Born on the Bayou" or "Bad Moon"...? Either would fit the bill, but it happens to be "Sweet Hitchhiker." And just as she comes into view. A coincidence? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.

"Don't stop," I whisper, "or you'll be sorry." But it makes no difference. I know he will because they always do. The overly-short mini and low-cut sweater are bound to draw attention and that blonde hair glows like a halo in the bright headlights. Moth to a flame.

He screeches to a halt on the shoulder of the road, right where the sign warns "No Stopping." Silly boy!

I climb into the cab.

"Where you going, honey?" he asks. I slide across the seat and run my finger around the inside of his ear. "As far as you want to take me, sugar," I say.

Grinning, he stretches over and snakes his hand underneath the hem of my skirt, urgently squeezing my thigh.

"Don't stop," I whisper, reaching for the sharpened ice-pick tucked into my high-heeled leather boots.

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