Chapter 1

I was driving a semi load of 'Starving Artists' paintings from the Port of Los Angeles to the East Coast for a series of sales to be held up and down the Central and southern Atlantic region. My first delivery would be to Greensboro, North Carolina, then three more cities in North Carolina. Then I'd pick up a load of frozen barbecue in Charlotte, and haul it up to San Francisco, then returning to LA with a load of gay boys or some such. I'm jes' kidding about the gay boys.

If you don't know what they are, 'Starving Artists' sales are those extravaganzas held in closed Sears stores, or whatever, where you walk through a bunch of folding tables set up with piles of paintings on them, and tons of cheap sculptures set up in battalions across the back and front of the 'store.' If you look hard enough, you can see the old sign work that Sears didn't bother to take down, hanging from the ceiling, like "Super Craftsman Coal Burning Stove Sale". If you really search diligently through the goods on the tables, you can find and buy "Sofa Sized Paintings" for $19, "NO PAINTINGS PRICED HIGHER" There's two cash registers set up at the front, also on folding tables, and manned by bored looking local teenaged girls.

What the paintings and sculptures are, of course, are factory produced 'artworks' from China, produced on an assembly line like a car. Can you imagine being the "artist" who gets to paint the weathered wooden fence in a landscape ... a hundred times a day, with some idiot foreman yelling at you when you don't paint it in fast enough, or because you didn't make it look exactly like the specification for the fence? Geez, talk about mind deadening

Anyway, I was making the west to east cross country run for about the five-thousandth time (ironic, huh? LOL) from LA, and I was looking forward to a nice, quiet run. I headed out of LA on I-40 and was hoping for clear weather and no traffic.

My name is Linda Cross. I'm 38, and I've been driving for Arcturus Trucking for the last ten years, ever since I got out of the Air Force. I want to be up front with you - I'm a lesbian, and you'd probably guess it pretty quick if you met me. I'm not one of those 'lipstick' gals, but I won't crack anybody's mirror, either. I'm 5'6 tall, 150 pounds, short cut blonde hair, blue eyes, and my complexion is a little weathered, but not quite shoe leather level yet. Too much sun from Arizona days flagging in A-10s in the military, followed by years of staring at rising and setting suns through a dirty truck windshield. Yeah, I've got some crows-feet, and a permanent trucker's tan too.

I don't smoke, though I used to. A scare with breast cancer five years ago kind of took the 'wild' wind out of my sails. So I don't drink either, really, though when I'm off from driving I'll occasionally have a beer. But no boilermakers, like some of those diesel dykes.

When it comes to women ... well, I haven't had much luck. Oh sure, a couple a one night stands, and I even had a gf for a couple of months when I started at Arcturus. The guys know I'm a lez, and kid me, that's fine, but they just tried to be too nice when my gf kicked me out. She said she wanted somebody more 'upscale.' She had me pegged right, I'll never be upscale, white collar, whatever, I'm just a working woman. Fuck her. Anyway, the guys stopped kidding me, stopped including me in things. It hurt me. So I said something.

"Hey, you motherfuckers, what's with all the creeping around and shutting up when I come in the room?" I said to the guys in the Arcturus break room one day.

Pete Gillespie piped up. He's an ugly mick from New York, but sweeter than maple syrup. "Linda, we heard about Tracy and you. Uh, you know, breaking up. We didn't want to say anything, you know."

"Aw, shit, Pete," I said. "It ain't gonna hurt me none if you tell me I was a knothead for chasing that little bit o' tail. What hurts me, is if you lugs stop talking to me jus' cuz that dumb-ass cunt kicks me out of her bed" I grinned at him and the other guys. Truth to tell, I WAS hurting, but them not talking to me wasn't going to make ME feel any better.

"Well, then, Linda, you come on over here and tell us which of this year's Sports Illustrated swimsuits you'd like to peel off one a these models," drawled Edgar Sessions, grinning at me.

I grinned right back. "That's more like it, you old coot," I shot back. "And I'll bet I'd get one of those girls into my bed a hell of a lot faster than YOU ever could" Well, that broke the room up, and from that point on, the guys really DID treat me like one of the boys, which was all I ever wanted.

That was nine years ago, and in that time all I had for solace was some of those 'meet and greets' with blowsy old dykes from the Ace of Spades, a girl bar near my neighborhood, and reading stories from this very Internet collection of lesbian stories. You probably don't know it, but some of these writers here can sure get a girl to imagining life isn't as hard as it really is, and that there's a beautiful woman (whether on the inside or out) waiting to bring a girl a lifetime o' happiness.

So anyway, to get to my story at long last, I pulled into a truck stop in Kingman, Arizona cuz the set of wheels on the rear left side of the trailer were making a funny noise. I pulled the tractor-trailer combo into a space alongside a Freightliner hauling auto parts, and got out to check. I own the tractor, that's the part that pulls the trailer, for all you little bitty car drivers. And by the way, yes, I DO see what y'all are doin' in there. You guys pullin' your pud - I'm just laughin' at you. You young ladies wearing tiny little shorts, or lettin' your skirt ride up to your crotch ... ohh, I'm not laughin' at YOU, no ma'am You're the stuff that dreams are made of, heh.

But as I was sayin' - I own the tractor, it's a nice sleeper - a nice 2007 Kenworth T600 Aerocab, and I haul either an Arcturus trailer, or more often, the customer's trailer. It being a sleeper, I've got the sleeping compartment nicely fixed up, with little flower vases (don't laugh) and framed photographs of my two dogs, Bruiser and Polly, and my cat Sneezer. Of course, they don't come along when I drive, though some truckers bring a pet. I just don't think it's fair to the animals. I leave 'em with my neighbor, an old widder woman named Janice, Janice Smith. She has a mole the size of a Duncan yo-yo on the side of her nose, but she don't pay it no mind.

I was outside looking at the rear axle when I heard two people arguing nearby. Actually, it was one person yelling and one person whimpering.

"Goddamn it, you ugly bitch I TOLD you to take your FUCKING pill Shit, I KNOW it's not mine anyway, don't you try to stick ME with bein' responsible. You go see the fucking guy whose dick that thing came from - don't you come 'round me anymore"

I heard what sounded like a loud 'crack' sound, followed by the slamming of an SUV door, and then peeling out. I peeked around the end of the trailer to see a black Isuzu Ascender with Arizona plates zooming directly away from my vicinity, and a bedraggled looking brown-haired teenage girl looking forlornly at it as it rapidly got smaller. I could hear her crying. She had a hand-shaped white mark on her cheek, rapidly turning red as the shocked blood from his slap rushed back in.

I've seen enough of these domestic scenes, and five'll get you ten, ninety nine percent of the time the car comes back and the woman crawls in. So I went back to checking over my rig.

I found some small debris that had got caught in between the sets of tires, and pulled it out, making sure it hadn't abraded the rubber. I didn't need one of those tires blowing out while I was doing seventy. Wouldn't likely hurt me none, but it might hurt somebody else bad. I heard about a motorcyclist passing a cotton bale truck in Nogales once, who got decapitated by a bad recap tire coming off the bale truck. I heard the bike went on straight up the road for a half a mile, while that cyclist just sat on it like nothin' happened, except his head was wedged under the guard rail back where the tire blew. Whooh

Since I had had to stop anyway, I decided to take a pee break, and then get myself some coffee. I've never taken to those little bitty energy drinks. Syed Azmir, one of our drivers, swears by 'em. I dunno, different strokes, I guess. I think he's a Muslim, but he's a nice man.

The little gal at the counter of the McDonald's was just as sweet as could be, and I sort of got a vibe that maybe she'd be interested in taking a ride, if you know what I mean. She was a young thing, couldn't a been more than nineteen, with long, blonde hair, and beautiful breasts. Not real big ones, I like 'em small (as if I could pick and choose, huh?), but she smiled like smiles were free or something, and her fingers lingered in my palm when she gave me my change, and she didn't look down or sideways the way most people do when they're talking to a stranger. She just looked me straight in the eye, her smile going back and forth from her mouth to her sweet blue eyes. Too many people never learn to smile with their eyes, but she could. Damn, could she.

Honestly, I could feel myself getting wet. I even got a little thrill run through me. Out of the blue, I said, "They got y'all working hard here?" I know it doesn't sound like much, but I get tongue-tied with beautiful girls.

"Yeah, the manager runs a little short on giving out hours, so when we do get called in, we're pretty much running around like mad all shift." She smiled again, then said, "That's a pretty vest you're wearing." I usually wear a flowered vest I picked up in Okinawa over my flannel shirts. Kind of fems me up a little.

"Um, thanks," I said. I couldn't think what to say next as the girl, 'Beth', her name badge said, looked expectantly at me. I guess I shoulda just asked for her phone number, but I've had a girl's sweet smile once or twice turn into the look you give three day old road kill after I thought the road was clear and DID ask, and so I'm a little gun shy. Besides, the fat trucker behind me, who smelled like a pig farm, cleared his throat like I was the only thing keeping him from his six pack of Big Macs.

So I slunk away from the counter with my coffee, and headed for the door. I glanced back to see the girl looking my way as she took the fat guy's greasy dollar bills, and I think I saw a glint of disappointment in her eyes. I coulda kicked myself, but there was no way I was going back to that counter. I pictured myself doing just that thing though, then swinging over the low stainless steel counter, taking her in my arms, and kissing the hell out of those sweet lips, and hearing her sigh with happiness.

I remember some stories from senior year of high school, about some guy named Walter Mitty, and how he'd do that kind of stuff in his head. That's me, Linda Mitty, always imaginin' a happy ending. I sighed and walked back to the truck. I walked around the rig, like I always do before I start her up. I read somewhere that pilots do that, it made sense for me to do it too. Even if it only saved the life of one stray kitten in all the years I do it, it'd be worth it, right? I think so.

I guess it was good I did it this time, because the brown haired girl from before was sitting on the ground behind the rig, indian fashion, still crying.

"Hey, what's up?" I said. She looked up at me, her eyes all red, her cheeks tear-stained. "Man, you look a mess," I breathed. I guess too loud, but she did calm down some.

"Hey, c'mon," I said. "What's the matter? Your man hasn't come back yet?" I hoped she saw me as friendly. I wanted her to get up so I didn't accidentally back into her when I let up the clutch.

She spoke. "No, he's gone, he's not coming back. I guess I was just feeling sorry for myself."

"Um, want some coffee?" I asked, sort of awkwardly, I guess. She looked at my cup and smiled.

"You went over to the McDonald's specifically to get me a coffee? You are darned considerate, lady." I don't remember the last time I was called 'lady.'

"I'll bet I got the order perfectly right," I joked. "Tell me how you like it."

"Two of those amaretto flavored creamer things, and three sugars," she said, really smiling this time. "Did you get it that way?"

"Yup," I said, grinning myself. I reached it out and she took it. She took a swig, and did a perfect spit take.

"This is black, no sugar" she protested.

"That's right," I said. "And when you finish that, then you can have your amaretto creamers and sugar." She laughed, a light, melodic laugh. I hadn't heard one of those in a while.

"Thanks," she said.

"For the coffee?" I said. "Think nothing-"

"No, for making me laugh," she interjected. "And for making me forget about Mike The Ass Hole." The way she said it made it sound like that was the name he signed to legal documents. She touched her cheek on the left side of her face gingerly, where Mike The Ass Hole had tagged her. Big man.

"He your husband, or boyfriend?" I asked. I was starting to like this girl. Just being friendly, of course.

"Neither. I was just staying with him, dealing cards at the Riverside Casino in Laughlin, and paying my rent in sex. He used to be a friend, but he changed. I think he was messing with crystal. I'm better rid of him. I'm going home to my folks in Fayetteville, North Carolina. Oh, and my name's Virginia, Virginia Staples," she said, and extended her hand to shake. I took it, and we shook. She had a nice, firm grip.

"Hey, Virginia, I'm Linda," I said. "So, how are you getting there from here?" I asked.

"I hadn't thought of that," she said. "Mike and I lived in Bullhead City, and came to Kingman to look at the locomotives and stuff on Route 66." I looked at her, I guess my look must have given away my thoughts. "Yeah, I thought it was stupid, too," she said.

We were both silent for a while, I guess maybe thinking the same thing from different directions. She was in a fix, that was for sure.

"Well, I don't usually take riders," I said, "But I think you're gonna have trouble catching anything more than Valley Fever from out of Kingman. I could drop you off in Flagstaff, you could maybe catch a train or bus from there..."

"I'd be grateful," she said.

"Okay, then," I said. I took a closer look at her. I guessed she was about nineteen or twenty, but she'd seen some recent hard times. Still, she looked like a championship dog that's been bounced around and pulled out of the city pound. You never know what they'll end up looking like if you just treat them right. Although my record at picking up chicks is pretty poor, it doesn't mean I don't appreciate 'em. I could look at the empty passenger seat for the next 2100 miles, or I could look at a dusty, pretty girl for the next 150. It was an easy call.

The two and a half hour trip seemed to pass like nothing. It turned out that Virginia's family back

in North Carolina were ex-military, and we swapped stories about Okinawa. She'd been there as a little girl with her father being a Marine colonel, and I'd been stationed there as an airman. Of course, we'd seen the island from pretty different points of view, heh.

Before I knew it, we were approaching Flagstaff. I pulled off at a truck stop just before the city, and asked her what she wanted to do. She was kind of quiet, then she gritted her teeth, looked at me, and said, "You can let me off here, I'll decide what to do after a bit. I really appreciate all you've done." She extended her hand to shake.

I looked at her. "You don't have any money, do you?" I said. She didn't say anything. "So, you were gonna do what you had to do to get home, huh?" She still didn't say anything. I knew I was right, and we both knew what it meant. She was going to end up trying to turn a couple of tricks there in the truck stop for money to make it back East. More likely, she'd get arrested or beat up, or worse.

"Look, I don't have enough cash to lend you for the bus, all I carry is a company credit card, but if you want, I can take you along to Albuquerque, maybe we'll think of something." I shrugged, it was all I could do for her.

She looked undecided, then said, "I always pay my bills. Maybe I could have my folks wire you some money?"

"You don't need to pay, honey," I said quietly. "The seat is free, and I reckon I can afford to spring for a burger or sump'n." I grinned. "I've already got a cup o' coffee invested." She laughed, and looked relieved at having her unpleasant decision put off a while. I put the truck back into gear, and we moved out back onto I-40 without a fuss, other than some red-haired, white faced clown in a Camry cutting me off on the on-ramp.

"Goddamn motherfucker" I yelled without thinking, giving the ass hole a blast with my air horn. He sailed on, completely unconscious. I sighed.

Virginia giggled. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" she said, smiling. I felt my face turn red.

"Sorry," I said. "I don't usually have an audience."

"S'kay," she said. "That guy WAS an ass hole." I guess we talked about a lot of stuff along the way to New Mexico. Once I get rolling I can carry on a conversation as well as anybody, it's just getting the ignition coil to start things that's my problem.

About an hour along towards Albuquerque I noticed something interesting, and said, "See that yellow Mercedes?" Virginia peered over the hood.

"The convertible that just passed us?" she asked.

"Uh huh," I said. "When I pass on their left, check out what they're doing." Virginia looked curious.

"Um, okay," she said. On a downhill grade, I was able to catch up to the Mercedes ragtop. The top was down, it being a typically sunny Arizona day. Now, normally, if a Mercedes wanted to go faster than me, I'd look like a little squashed dog turd in its rear view mirror in about five seconds. But from what I'd seen when they first passed me, I had a hunch the driver wouldn't have her mind on speed right now.

"Holy shit" Virginia squealed. "The girl in the passenger seat is fucking the driver with a big ass dildo" I thought Virginia was gonna fall out, she was leaning out so far.

That's exactly what I'd seen. Two very cute, college age girls, obviously rich bitches, the passenger, a black haired cutie with her right hand under her own short tennis skirt, her panties down around her ankles, frigging her pussy for all she was worth. Her left hand holding a long dildo, maybe eight inches or so, and fucking it in and out the driver's hole. She was a hot looking blonde with ginormous tits.

It was one of those scenes you see every now and then as a trucker, and that you try to freeze in your memory like a photograph. Virginia squealed and laughed, then the Mercedes zoomed away from us like a distant memory.

"They both looked up at the same time and saw me, I guess us keeping even with them gave it away," Virginia said, stifling a laugh. "But the best was, the blonde looked pissed and started to pull away, her pedal to the metal, and the black haired girl took that dildo out of her pussy, looked back at us, smiled and started sucking on it like it was a dick"

"Whoah," I said.

"Did you ever do that?" Virginia asked.

"Do what?" I asked.

"You know ... used a dildo on another girl."

"Honey, you've GOT to figure I'm a lesbian," I said.

"Yeah, I did," she said. There was a silence for a little while. "So, did you?"

I laughed, and shook my head. "Naah, never really had a relationship that long," I said.

"What's it like?" she asked.

"What?"

"Bein' a lesbian," she said.

"Honey, are you coming on to me?" I asked. I wouldn't have minded if she was.

"No," she replied, maybe a little too fast. "I was just making conversation."

"Well, I'll answer you anyway," I said. "It's probably a lot like it is for you. Usually getting fucked in the most unpleasant ways, and not getting the good kind of fucking nearly as often as I'd like."

That seemed to satisfy her. We listened to the Sirius for another hour, then she spoke up again.

"So how long you been driving?" Virginia asked, settling in her seat.

"Trucks?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said.

I gave a short laugh. "I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari, Tehachapi to Tonopah. Does that tell you anything?" Virginia looked at me blankly.

"From Linda Ronstadt," I said. Still nothing. "'Willing'?" Still nothing.

"You never heard of Linda Ronstadt, or one of her biggest hits?" I sighed. I could feel old age creeping up, no, galloping up, on me. "Here, I've got a Ronstadt folder on the MP3 player, listen