Chapter 21

Terry Booker checked both mirrors, easing his rig carefully into position until the trailer lined up with Bay 3. The truck jolted gently as the trailer kissed the bumper stop. Home—for at least the next hour.

The side door of the warehouse creaked open, and a man with a clipboard stepped out.

“What’cha got?” the man called as Terry climbed down from the cab, his boots crunching against the cracked concrete.

Terry reached back inside for his paperwork, flipping to the right sheet before handing it over.

“Yup, been expecting you,” the man said after a glance. He tucked the board under one arm and offered a hand. “Name’s Joe Baker.”

“Terry Booker. Good to meet you.” Terry’s drawl thickened as they shook, the kind of firm handshake that spoke of miles on the road and long days behind the wheel.

Joe scrawled his signature, handed back the paperwork, and jerked his chin toward the building. “I suspect you need the john, am I right?”

Terry gave him a weary nod and followed the directions.

Inside, he took care of business, washed his hands, and lingered at the sink. The mirror showed him a face carved by the road—dark skin gleaming with a tired sheen of oil and sweat, lines deepened by long hours behind the wheel. Days without a proper shower had left his skin glowing with grit as much as with endurance. He sighed. He looked tired. He felt tired.

His stomach grumbled, reminding him of another need. He rubbed at his belly and made his way back to the truck. The cab was his home away from home, but even it felt weary tonight. He pulled the cooler from its slot, unwrapped a sandwich he could barely remember making, and took a bite. The bread was passable, the meat and cheese still fine, but it left him unsatisfied. Cold food could fill the hole, but not feed the man.

He finished anyway, then stretched out on his bunk, thumbing through the WE’s feed to distract himself. The news scrolled by, but his attention drifted instead to his favorite actress—Carla Hoyte, a half-Spanish, half-American beauty whose career had soared since the WE turned on. She posted excitedly about her new blockbuster, her feed dotted with endless Rule 8 videos. He wondered, half-joking, if she ever wore clothes outside of set. One video in particular caught him—Carla nude as always, doing aerobics and stretching, her body gleaming with sweat and grace. It barely ran a minute, but it had millions of views. Terry figured half of those might’ve been him.

Exhaustion tugged at him. He thought about jerking off, but even that felt like too much effort. His eyes closed.

A bang on the cab door jolted him awake. “Hey Terry, you’re loaded up,” Joe’s voice called.

Terry swung open the door, blinking blearily. “What was that, Joe? Must’ve dozed off.”

“You’re loaded. Here’s your manifest.” Joe handed him the papers. Terry skimmed them, crust still in his eyes, but the words lit a smile—bound for home, Alabama.

“Hey, before I roll—any place around here I can get rest and a decent meal? Not greasy spoon stuff.”

Joe grinned. “If you’re hungry, I know a place. As long as you’re not shy about Rule 8.”

“I’m fine with it. Not like anyone cares anymore.”

Joe chuckled. “Then try Club Velvet. Two blocks over, turn right. Five bucks gets you a spot in the back lot. They’ve got showers, good food, and the best entertainment in town.”

“Entertainment?” Terry asked.

“Strippers. Some of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. But the food’s no joke either. Big burgers, fresh buns, good meat. Worth the stop.”

Terry hesitated, breath heavy. He loved women, but it had been years since he’d been with one. Not just the long drives—at home too, it was only him and Socks, his cat. The neighbor kid kept the bowl filled while he was gone. But intimacy? Not since Turn-On Day.

“How’s the food really?”

Joe spread his hands apart. “Burgers like this big. Fresh. Savory. You won’t regret it.”

Terry shook his hand, climbed back in the cab, and set off. East St. Louis slid by, the thought of a strip club meal making him frown, but his body craved more than gas-station sandwiches. Still, he’d need a shower before he faced any kind of “fairer sex.”

Club Velvet sat exactly where Joe promised. The back lot was smooth, freshly paved, well-lit—already a surprise. A sign greeted drivers:

WELCOME DRIVERS! Safe parking, hot showers, hearty meals, and world-class entertainment. Ask inside about the Trucker’s Special.

He grabbed his bathroom kit, locked up, and stepped inside. The air met him with bleach and spice—clean floors, home-cooked scents. The woman at the counter wore a tied Club Velvet T-shirt that bared her stomach. It made him smile, even in his weariness.

“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Club Velvet. What can I do for you?”

“I heard you’ve got showers and dinner.”

“Yes, sir. Park, shower, meal, and club entry—it’s all included.”

Her friendliness matched the polish of the place. Terry paid, was shown to the showers, and found them clean, spacious, with plush towels. Better than most motels, he thought.

He stripped off and stepped under the steaming water. It beat down hot and strong, scouring away days of road dust. Other voices echoed—men and women alike—showering without fuss, another sign of how the world had changed. He scrubbed, breathed deep, and let the heat sink into his bones. For the first time in days, he felt human again.

Clean and light, he pulled on loose shorts and an oversized T-shirt, packed away his kit, and stopped at the sink. Toothbrush, razor, pick through his hair. A woman brushed her teeth at the next basin, nodded at him, and moved on. For a moment, it felt almost normal, like a shared motel bathroom on the road.

When she asked if he worked here, he chuckled. “No ma’am, just a driver. Shower and food.”

“Same here. Thought about hiring one of the guys working here. Stress relief, you know?”

Terry smiled faintly. “Not me, ma’am. Good luck.”

He stepped out, body refreshed but mind heavy, and looked toward his truck. His bunk called to him louder than the dancers. Sleep claimed him before hunger could.

The sudden HISS of airbrakes and the rumble of diesel engines wakes Terry up. He looks around, realizing where he is as he rubs the crust from the corners of his eyes. The sun was not quite up, but the sky was showing signs of brightening.

Terry put his feet on the floor of his cab and rubbed his face. He had gotten a full night sleep, felt great, better than he had in a while and then looked out his front window. The club’s lights were on, people were walking in the back door of the club, trucks were pulling out and pulling in. The place seemed alive.