Intemperance Epilogue Volume I
Copyright© 2026 by Al Steiner
Chapter 6: Whatever Comes Our Way
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 6: Whatever Comes Our Way - Intemperance isn’t over yet—we still have lots of loose ends to tie up. Volume I picks up after Book X as Jake, Laura, Celia, Caydee, and the rest of the Kingsley orbit discover that life goes on, whether you’re ready or not. Expect music, love, grief, family, crows, weed, questionable decisions, and all the usual Kingsley antics along with the antics of the surrounding Kingsley orbit.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Polygamy/Polyamory
Henderson, Nevada
April 1, 2005
The engines died one by one.
First Tater’s Road King at the point—low rumble collapsing into silence. Then the four beside him. Then Reap’s Road Glide, the deep touring growl fading as the trailer settled into stillness behind it. Then the rest of the SLO column in pairs. Finally Jake, Laura, Owen, and the others bringing up the rear.
The parking lot of Valley Springs Funeral Home filled with the ticking of hot metal cooling in the Nevada sun.
Across from them, the Las Vegas chapter stood in a loose line near their bikes. Cuts on. Helmets dangling from handlebars. Old ladies clustered just behind. No one postured. No one revved. They had been waiting.
Tater swung his leg off his Road King and set his boots on the pavement. He took his time removing his gloves, tucking them into his back pocket. He scanned the line once, found the man he was looking for, and walked forward.
One of the LV bikers stepped out from his own group at the same time.
He was leaner than Tater, shaved head catching the light, close-trimmed goatee sharp against sun-browned skin. His cut hung clean and flat across his shoulders—bottom rocker reading LAS VEGAS CHAPTER, another rocker reading PRESIDENT. The center patch identical to Tater’s. Same club. Different ground.
They stopped a foot apart. For a half-second they just looked at each other. The two men knew each other by reputation and actually did business together—Tater and the SLO chapter laundered a good portion of the LV chapter’s illicit income—but had never actually met face to face before.
“Tater,” Tater said.
“Stem Cell,” the LV leader replied. “You can call me Stem.”
Tater extended his hand. Stem took it. Firm grip. No squeezing contest. Just pressure and eye contact. Then they stepped in and collided shoulders in a tight bro-hug—one slap on the back each. No lingering.
“Appreciate you showin’.”
“Word gets around,” Stem replied. “Matt was like a fuckin’ deity to us.”
Tater nodded once. “Us too.”
Neither man asked how the other got his name. That was not how this worked. Nicknames were earned, and if you didn’t know the story yet, you hadn’t earned the right to hear it.
“We’re glad you’re leading,” Stem said, voice low but carrying. “This is your ride.”
Tater didn’t bristle at that. He also didn’t preen. He just inclined his head. “We’ll keep it tight.”
Stem glanced once at Reap’s trailer, at the plexiglass canopy catching the morning light. His eyes came back to Tater.
“That’s some classy shit right there, brother,” he said.
Behind them, the Vegas Riders shifted subtly, reorganizing themselves without being told. Whatever formation they had been standing in dissolved and reformed in alignment with the SLO chapter. It was small. It was instinctive. It mattered.
Jake knew enough about the Vegas chapter to know they weren’t amateurs. Off-strip prostitution. Marijuana distribution. No meth. No gun running. They kept their footprint narrow and their profit clean. The real money didn’t move on Harleys to get from Vegas to Tater’s laundromat/weed warehouse. Stem’s boys moved it in BMWs and Mercedes sedans driven by short-haired men in tailored suits who knew how to smile and be polite to any cop that might pull them over. Trusted runners who looked like junior investment bankers instead of patched bikers.
Smart business. Smart men.
Tater turned slightly and gestured.
“This is Jake Kingsley.”
Stem stepped forward. Jake met him halfway. Handshake first—solid, respectful. Then the bro-hug. Stem’s grip was strong but not performative.
“Good to meet you, Jake,” Stem said. “Love your music. Been listening to you since I was in college.”
“Appreciate that,” Jake replied, resisting the urge to ask what Stem had studied in college. “This is Laura,” he said, nodding toward her. “And Celia. My old ladies.”
Stem shook Laura’s hand, then Celia’s. He gave them both the same level of eye contact he’d given Jake. No diminishment. No weirdness.
“Sorry we’re meetin’ under these circumstances,” Stem said simply.
Laura nodded. Celia held his gaze a second longer, then gave a small, grateful incline of her head.
Then the rest of the Las Vegas chapter closed in. Jake shook hands and heard the names roll past in a low, gravelly wave—Grease Trap, Road Rash, Skidmark, Jizzler, Crankcase, Tire Iron, Piggy—and many more. With each man was an old lady: Stem Cell’s woman went by Oil Slick, Road Rash’s by Bandage, Skidmark’s by Tire Tracks, Jizzler’s by Cumdump (said with a grin that dared anyone to comment), Crankcase’s by Slut Mama, Tire Iron’s by Socket Queen—and many more, names that rolled off tongues in low chuckles and carried the same rough affection as the men’s patches.
The introductions kept coming in that same gravel wave, but Jake’s brain refused to hold onto them. He knew he would remember Stem and maybe Oil Slick, but no one else. Laura, though—he could see her cataloging every one, filing them away like student rosters from her teaching days. By the time the convoy made its first pee stop she would be greeting them all by name, no hesitation, no slip-ups, the way she always did when she felt that people mattered a little.
When the circle finally widened again, he saw her. Kim stood a little apart from the Riders, near the walkway that led to the funeral home entrance.
She was dressed like she belonged there.
She was stoic, the way only Kim could be—back straight, jaw set—but the small, genuine smile that broke through when she saw them was real.
No one said they were sorry. They had all said it the night Matt died, in the trailer, on the phone, in the quiet hours before dawn. Words like that only needed saying once.
Laura reached her first, wrapping her up in a long, tight hug. Celia stepped in right after, arms going around both of them, holding on extra. Then Celia pulled back just enough to press a soft kiss to Kim’s forehead, the kind of gesture that didn’t need explanation between women who had shared so much history.
Kim let out a slow breath and nodded once, accepting it all.
Reap stepped up beside them. “I need to get inside and start working the paperwork,” he said quietly. “We’ve got a lot of signatures before we can load him up.”
Reap went inside alone.
The glass doors of Valley Springs whispered shut behind him, sealing him into refrigerated air and beige carpet and the quiet, coded dialect of his own profession.
Everyone else stayed in the sun.
Helmets rested on seats or hung from handlebars. Sunglasses came off. Gloves were tucked into back pockets. A few cigarettes appeared without discussion—Vegas boys mostly, though Asshat bummed one and lit up with a cupped hand against the light desert wind.
Smoke drifted low and sideways across chrome.
The old ladies clustered naturally around Celia. They did not mob her. They orbited.
Oil Slick stood closest, arms folded loosely, studying her with open admiration. Socket Queen hovered just behind. Cumdump leaned in with an expression that mixed awe and the faintest trace of disbelief.
Most of them had worshipped her openly since 1992. A few from even earlier—back in the La Diferencia days, when she was still the Venezuelan pop queen. Before KVA. Before she went solo. Before the runaway fame and success that had made her a household name.
They spoke to her the way bikers speak to something sacred—casual on the surface, reverent underneath.
“You changed my sister’s life with Playing Those Games.”
“My old man used to play Fuego y Sangre every Sunday.”
“I saw you in ‘96 at the Forum. Drove eight hours.”
Celia listened. Smiled. Touched arms when appropriate. She did not deflect the praise. She did not shrink from it. She absorbed it with that steady grace that had made her mythic in certain circles for twenty years now.
Across the lot, Jake had his own gravitational field.
The Vegas Riders closed in around him in a loose semicircle, respectful distance but tight enough that their voices didn’t have to carry. Cuts brushed against one another as men shifted their weight.
Intemperance was a biker staple. Had been for years. Road music. Bar music. Long-haul freeway music listened to through headphones on long runs. Music that made sense at eighty miles an hour with wind in your teeth.
“Been listening to you since ‘82,” Deadbolt said.
“TSF last week,” Grease Trap added. “I was there.”
That one hung for a second. Half of them had been. They had watched Matt die onstage.
Jake nodded once. He didn’t look away. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
No one expressed sadness. No one said tragedy. No one said horrible.
To a man, they agreed with him.
“That’s exactly how Matt would’ve wanted to go,” Crankcase said.
“Onstage,” Tire Iron added. “In front of a hundred and twenty thousand people.”
“Dropped on the last fuckin’ song,” Skidmark added. “Descent Into Nothing.”
Jake felt Laura step up beside him. She didn’t say anything. She just placed herself there—close enough that her arm brushed his. The good wife energy, steady and visible. She listened while he spoke. She let him be the frontman in this moment, even as the other wife was across the lot holding court with the old ladies.
No one asked him for anything. Not a signature. Not a backstage pass. Not a favor. They were honored to ride with him. That was enough.
Forty-five minutes passed in that strange suspended way time moves in parking lots outside funeral homes. Cigarettes burned down to filters and were crushed beneath boots. The desert sun climbed a fraction higher. Conversations ebbed and shifted and quieted.
Then the glass doors opened again.
Reap stepped out first. He had removed his sunglasses. His expression was neutral, professional.
“They’ll be bringing him out now,” he said.
Without instruction, without visible signal, the Riders formed up on both sides of Reap’s trailer in near-military precision. SLO on one side, Vegas on the other. Old ladies stepped back automatically, creating a clear corridor from the funeral home doors to the trailer’s rear loading gate.
The funeral home doors opened again. Two men in dark suits emerged, rolling a bier between them. The coffin rested on top. It was made of mahogany and had cost the estate eight thousand dollars. But all that could be seen of it currently was the very bottom.
The top and sides were now covered by the California state flag. The bear lay centered and bold against the white field, red stripe straight and clean at the base. The fabric had been smoothed carefully. No wrinkles. No corners folded.
The wheels of the bier hummed softly over concrete.
As the coffin crossed the threshold into sunlight, every biker in the lot lifted a hand.
Devil’s horns. Not theatrical. Not wild. Just index and pinkie fingers raised in silent salute.
Jake lifted his hand with them. So did Owen.
The coffin rolled between the lines of leather and denim and sunburned faces. No one spoke. No one moved out of position. The only sound was the faint rattle of the bier’s casters and the dry wind pushing at the edges of the flag.
At the trailer, Reap stepped forward.
“On three,” he said quietly.
Four Riders moved in—two Vegas, two SLO. Hands slid under the coffin’s rails. The lift was smooth, practiced, controlled. The weight transferred cleanly from rolling table to flooring platform.
The funeral home employees stepped back immediately once it was seated, retreating without comment, without expression. Their job was complete.
Reap climbed up onto the trailer’s rear lip.
He checked the balance first. Then he reached beneath the platform and brought up the concealed tie-down straps, feeding them over the coffin in measured lines that did not disturb the flag’s placement. He tightened each ratchet carefully, firm but not aggressive. The casket did not shift.
He stepped back once, eyes scanning for movement.
Satisfied, he swung the rear door closed.
The plexiglass panels caught the light again as the seal latched. No wind would touch the flag now.
Reap stepped down and turned to Tater.
“We’re ready to roll,” he said.
They rolled out in order.
Tater first, steady and unhurried, four SLO Riders in tight pairs behind him. Reap came next, the black Road Glide towing the plexiglass trailer like something ceremonial and deliberate. The California flag was visible through the panels, unmoving in its sealed chamber.
Behind Reap, the rest of the SLO chapter formed up two by two. Then Jake and Laura side by side, Celia and Nerdly riding bitch respectively.
Laura didn’t have an old lady on the back of her bike. She had what appeared to be Gort from The Day the Earth Stood Still riding behind her. Nerdly sat ramrod straight, armored and rigid, hands gripping Laura’s waist exactly as instructed. As established in the pre-run rules, he did not put his hands below her hip bones, he did not touch her tits, and he did not fuck her.
Behind Jake and Laura rode Stem Cell and Oil Slick. They rode next to Owen and Tif. Behind them came the rest of the Las Vegas Riders in pairs, old ladies on the back of every bike.
Bringing up the rear, the black Lincoln Navigator followed with its empty three-rail trailer rattling lightly behind. Sharon drove. Kim sat in the front passenger seat, hands folded in her lap, staring forward.
The formation was loose and often broken at first. Surface streets did what surface streets always did—stoplights split them, a delivery truck forced a brief stagger, a minivan knifed into a right turn and temporarily peeled three Vegas bikes off the line. No one rushed. No one revved. They just reassembled whenever space allowed.
Once they hit I-15 South, everything changed.
The freeway opened up. The line tightened. Center lane when there was one, right lane when there wasn’t. Seventy miles per hour, not a mile over. They passed only when they had to, and not often.
Drivers eyed them as they went by—curious, wary, sometimes a little afraid. Two full chapters of patched bikers riding in disciplined formation, old ladies on the back of nearly every bike, and that plexiglass trailer tracking dead straight in the middle of it all like a rolling reliquary.
Jake felt a little exposed riding in short sleeves with a helmet that offered about as much protection as a Mindy Snow condom, but at least he wasn’t roasting. He had a one-liter insulated bottle of ice water mounted behind his batwing fairing. Every so often he’d pull it free, take a quick drink, then pass it back to Celia for the same.
The wind tugged at his sleeves and showed the ink on his upper arms. One side was the hand gripping the guitar neck, cuffed to it, chain links rendered in crisp black line—he remembered designing and getting that one, sober and deliberate. The other side was the relief map of the South Island of New Zealand. That one he had no memory of designing or commissioning or receiving.
He remembered the waterfront bar—one of his haunts in those days. He had gotten blackout drunk (like usual during the South Island Blur). He remembered waking up bandaged and vaguely impressed that, in whatever state he’d been in, he’d still found the best tattoo artist on the South Island before committing to permanent geography.
By the end of the first hour, Jake’s ass was sore from sitting on the vibrating bike too long. A few times he rose on the foot pegs to restore gluteus maximus circulation, then settled back down.
Next to him, Laura did the same from time to time.
Nerdly did not. He remained perfectly still and upright behind her, hands fixed at waist level like they’d been bolted there.
A few units of the Nevada Highway Patrol formed up behind them about twenty minutes outside of Henderson. No lights. No sirens. Just blue-and-silver silhouettes easing into the flow like sharks deciding whether something was worth investigating. They stayed back at first, pacing the formation from a measured distance.
Then one cruiser slid into the left lane and began to pass slowly. The officer inside turned his head and looked—not quick glances, but long assessments. He scanned patches. Counted bikes. Clocked the old ladies riding bitch. Noted the spacing, the discipline, the complete absence of weaving or showboating. Seventy miles per hour. Not a mile over. Every rider wearing a helmet. Every bike properly tagged and registered.
The cruiser continued forward past Jake and Celia without any sign of recognition. They then reached Reap. The officer’s gaze lingered on the trailer. He slowed just enough to study the plexiglass canopy, the diamond plate platform, the California state flag. The outline of a coffin was unmistakable.
That was the moment the posture inside the cruiser shifted. The look changed from suspicion to understanding. Not a biker gang transporting meth or hookers. A funeral.
The cruiser signaled once without drama and eased back into the right lane ahead of them. After another half mile, the unit accelerated and disappeared into the heat shimmer. The other NHP cars peeled off soon after. The convoy rolled on, untouched.
Forty-eight minutes after leaving the funeral home, they crossed into California. The Mojave opened wide in bleached tans and muted greens, scrub brush scattered across a landscape that seemed perpetually sunburned. The air grew warmer—not oppressive, but insistent. Jake felt sweat bead along his ribs and lower back, yet the wind wicked it away before it could soak through cotton. His shirt never quite went damp.
Celia’s gloved hands rested on his hips. She didn’t need to hold on; the backrest behind her would have kept her secure even if she’d let go entirely. She held on anyway. Every so often, when the road ran straight and the throttle steady, Jake would lift his left hand from the grip and reach back to give her an affectionate pat on the lower part of her thigh where it wrapped around him. Not sexual—just contact, reassurance. She would answer occasionally by sliding one hand up his arm, fingers brushing the ink there, or resting briefly against his chest before returning to her hold.
They couldn’t talk over the wind. That was fine. He could tell she was enjoying the ride despite the circumstances, despite the flag riding twenty yards ahead. She would never admit it outright—too much decorum for that—but he was married to her. He knew her ways: the subtle lean into curves, the slight tightening of her knees when crosswinds hit, the quiet pleasure of shared balance and forward motion.
They rolled into Barstow one hundred and two minutes after crossing the border. It was the first sizable town—fast-food signage, fuel stations, tractor-trailers lined up like metal cattle in holding pens. It was time to cater to the choppers, which carried the smallest fuel loads. No one was interested in pushing range limits in the middle of an empty, unforgiving desert.
Tater signaled early, and the formation shifted smoothly across lanes before taking the exit together. They rolled into a broad travel plaza, engines cutting in disciplined sequence beneath the canopy. Heat shimmered up from the asphalt as they jockeyed around, looking for open pumps.
Fuel stop. Potty break. Then they would roll again.
Laura eased in beside Jake so they could share the same pump. The formation loosened into practical clusters under the canopy as engines clicked and cooled in the dry desert heat.
She killed the Softail and swung off carefully, legs a little stiff. Her helmet came off and hung from the handlebar. Nerdly dismounted with the same rigid precision he’d maintained for the last hundred miles, removing his helmet and setting it neatly on the seat.
Celia stepped down behind Jake and stretched once. “I’m going to raid the mini-mart,” she said. “Beef sticks. Maybe a Twix. Anybody need anything?”
“Pepsi,” Laura said, unscrewing her gas cap.
“Iced green tea,” Jake added. “A Dr. Pepper if they don’t have that.”
“Diet?”
“I’m not a fuckin’ barbarian here,” he told her.
“Forgive me,” she said with a very marital eye roll. “What about you, Nerdly?”
Nerdly adjusted the cuff of his jacket. “If they happen to carry prune juice, I would appreciate a bottle.”
Celia blinked at him. “I seriously doubt they sell prune juice in a Barstow travel plaza mini-mart, but I’ll look.”
“Thank you,” Nerdly said sincerely. “My bowel movements have been creeping forward the last few days. I usually go at 7:13 a.m., and now it’s averaging 8:23. That kind of drift concerns me.”
Everyone just looked at him.
Celia nodded once. “Right,” she said, and headed toward the sliding doors.
Tif breezed past on her way inside, braid swinging. “This is totally radical,” she declared. “Motorcycling is badass.” Then she jogged a step to catch up with Celia.
Laura shifted her weight and made a face. She turned to Jake. “My cooter is completely numb.”
Bushwhacker had wandered over from the next pump, overhearing without apology. She leaned casually against a tank and smirked. “That’s how it goes when you’re a bitch on a motor.”
Laura looked at her. “Do you ever get used to it?”
Bushwhacker considered that for half a second. “Not really.”
Laura grumbled, “Wonderful.”
Jake rolled his hips once, trying to wake up muscles that had gone on strike. “My ass feels like I was a bad boy.”
Bushwhacker’s smile widened. “Were you?”
“All my life,” Jake said, fishing out his wallet. “So why am I being punished now?”
Jake slid his credit card into the pump and selected 91 octane. Premium only. He squeezed the handle and listened to the fuel rush into the tank, the numbers climbing with mechanical indifference. It shut off at 2.87 gallons. He topped it cleanly and handed the nozzle across to Laura. She unscrewed her cap and filled the Softail—2.93 gallons before the click.
They thumbed their starters and idled away from the pump, engines rumbling softly, then putted over to the larger parking area at the edge of the plaza where the rest were congregating. Reap and Tater were already there, bikes angled neatly. A few others rolled in one by one after fueling, engines cutting in staggered sequence.
Sharon was parked nearby, the Navigator squared perfectly in a slot with the empty trailer backed in clean and straight.
Jake looked at it and felt a small stab of envy. What had she said when he’d asked her if she could back a trailer?
Of course. What sub-moronic imbecile doesn’t know how to back a trailer?
Life was cruel sometimes.
Among the bikers, helmets came off. Gloves were tucked away. One by one, riders and old ladies made bathroom runs toward the building. A few lit cigarettes once their business was taken care of, smoke curling upward into the dry desert air. Most reapplied sunscreen to keep from being cooked like lobsters by the desert sun.
Celia and Tif emerged from the mini-mart carrying an impressive haul of snacks and drinks. Celia had beef sticks tucked under one arm, a Twix in her hand, and several bottles wedged against her ribs.
She also had prune juice.
Laura stared at it. “You actually found one? How long’s that been sitting in there? Were those prunes maybe older than me?”
Celia grinned. “It’s fresh. They have a whole shelf of it in the drink aisle next to the Red Bulls.”
“No way.”
“Way,” Celia said. “The clerk told me lots of truckers stop here to fuel up before heading over the mountains or crossing the desert in the other direction. Apparently they’re notorious for constipation. Any place that caters to them keeps prune juice in the juice aisle and Ex-Lax in the medication aisle. Imodium too, in case they’re having the opposite problem.”
Jake nodded. “That makes a certain sort of sense.” He liked when things made sense. It made him feel there was order to the universe. A little bit anyway.
Nerdly accepted the bottle with visible relief. “Excellent,” he said, as if someone had just handed him a rare vintage of cabernet.
Celia passed him a large orange Gatorade as well. “This is for you too. You have to be hotter than El Diablo in that getup.”
“I am perspiring rather freely,” he admitted. “Fortunately my aerobic conditioning is up to the task after all the rehearsals we did.”
Jake clapped him once on the shoulder and headed toward the restrooms.
Inside, the air was aggressively conditioned and smelled potently of industrial cleaner. He stepped up to a urinal and found Porno occupying the one beside him.
They unzipped in silence. Began the business at hand.
After a moment, Porno said, “You know ... in Folsom they don’t have urinals. Just a fuckin’ trough.”
Jake glanced sideways. “Efficient, but kind of disgusting.”
“No privacy either when you gotta take a shit,” Porno continued. “None. Just a row of stalls that don’t even have fuckin’ half doors and everybody is seeing your business.”
Jake finished and shook once. “We’ve known each other a while now, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you go to prison for?”
Porno zipped up. “Assault with a deadly weapon. Shot some guy in the fuckin’ kneecap ‘cause he fucked me on a deal.”
Jake turned toward the sink. “Not insider trading?”
Porno barked a laugh at that. “No. Not insider trading. Not even fuckin’ stock fraud. They never caught me at that shit.”
They washed their hands without further commentary and headed back out into the heat, engines and chrome waiting under the Mojave sun.
Owen wandered over with a bottle of Coke in one hand and a Hundred Grand bar in the other, already half unwrapped. Tif walked beside him, chewing on a beef stick like she needed it to sing.
“How we holding up?” Jake asked.
Tif didn’t hesitate. “My va-jay-jay is numb,” she said bluntly. “Is that going to go away?”
Laura looked at her with a look of shared misery. “Bushwhacker says it’ll be back in action by the time we go to bed tonight.”
Tif nodded, satisfied with that prognosis.
Owen took a long pull from his Coke. “My neck’s a little sore from having the wind push my head around. And I think I swallowed a bug earlier.”
Jake shrugged. “Better than inhaling one.”
“Inhaling one would’ve been bad,” Owen agreed solemnly.
In all, they spent nearly thirty minutes there—every tank topped off, every bladder emptied, everyone given a chance to stretch legs and unkink spines. A few more cigarettes burned down to filters. Water bottles were refilled. Sunscreen slathered on. The desert heat pressed in and then relented beneath the canopy shade.
Finally Tater told them it was time to roll again.
Helmets went back on. Gloves pulled tight. Straps clicked beneath chins. Engines fired one by one, the rumble stacking into a layered mechanical chorus.
They rolled out of the travel plaza in controlled sequence and fed back onto the freeway, merging cleanly and reforming the column without drama. Seventy miles per hour. Not a mile over.
The desert gave way gradually as they began the long climb toward Cajon Pass in the San Bernardino Mountains. The Mojave fell behind them in pale sprawl, replaced by rising grades and scrub-covered slopes. The temperature dropped just enough to feel welcome against sun-warmed skin, but it stayed comfortable for short sleeves.
Until it didn’t.
A thunder cell drifted over the pass with very little warning. The light dimmed. The air shifted. Then rain came hard and sudden, fat drops slapping against cotton and denim. A scattering of small hail followed—sharp, stinging pellets that bounced off helmets and bare forearms.
Jake felt each one like a snap of a rubber band.
Three minutes. That was all it lasted. Then they burst back into bright California sunlight as if someone had flipped a switch. Steam rose faintly from asphalt and leather. Shirts clung for a moment and then dried in the moving air.
They descended into the Inland Empire, traffic gradually thickening as they approached civilization. Fontana rose ahead—warehouses, distribution centers, wide boulevards and signage.
They pulled into another travel plaza to top off the tanks again and make another bathroom run. This stop was brisk, businesslike. No stretching seminars. No bowel discussions. Just fuel, piss, quick hydration.
Twenty minutes later they were mounted again, engines rumbling in unison, rolling back onto the freeway and pressing west.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.