Heather’s Temptation
The Devil’s Road — CHAPTER 03: AN ITCH TO BE SCRATCHED
Welcome to Issue #9 of The Devil’s Road, a serial novel following the exploits of Samantha Hart, a Sequoyah County Sheriff, full of vengeance and fury using her badge to hunt down her sister's killer as she uncovers a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. If you missed it, you can read last week’s Chapter 3/Issue1: An Itch to be Scratched - On Assignment.
If you are new to the series, I recommend you check out Chapter 1 which you can read or listen to for free here:
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And now, please enjoy Chapter 3 Issue 2 of … The Devil’s Road.
In 2004 an Oklahoma Bureau of Investigations analyst discovered a crime pattern along the Interstate 40 corridor between Oklahoma and Mississippi. Subsequently, The Federal Bureau of Investigations (F.B.I.) started the Highway Serial Killings Initiative. They discovered over 500 bodies of women along the interstate highway system with more than 200 potential suspects, a trail of bloodshed that coats the heartland. The Devil’s Road is a serialized novel based on this horrific discovery.
Heather’s daddy always said there’s no such thing as good luck. Luck, he believed, was forged through perseverance, hard work, determination, and a damn good grift. He even had a name for his: “The Mississippi Man,” after his favorite Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn song. Just like Conway convinces Loretta to swim across the wide, muddy Mississippi River, despite the gators lurking beneath the surface, Heather’s daddy could sweet-talk most women into almost anything, even after branding them with the burning end of his Camel Wide cigarettes.
Heather finishes applying her makeup in the bathroom mirror, pursing her lips to spread the bright red lipstick evenly—the same shade her momma always wore for daddy. She grabs her t-shirt off the sprinkler head jutting out from the wall. Nobody ever asks why there’s a sprinkler in the shower, but then again, most people are too busy with the piece of ass they’ve brought along to notice the small lens pointed toward the stalls. Heather flips off the hidden camera and pulls her Green Day shirt back over her bra.
The mirrors are foggy, but the reflection they give back is still the cold, hard truth. Heather would’ve preferred a lie. She straps on her fanny pack, gives it a quick squeeze to ensure her “asshole deterrent” is secure, and strides out of the bathroom and through the store.
Darlene looks up from behind the counter. “Don’t know why you won’t let me get you on tape. We could make some good cheddar with those little puppies you’ve got under that shirt,” she says. Heather flashes her bra and blows Darlene a kiss as she steps outside.
In the parking lot, a dozen tractor-trailers sit in the dusty gravel, lined up near the Interstate 40 turnoff. Heather scans her options. The art of selection is a delicate dance between intuition and pure animal instinct, but sometimes, it’s just plain simple.
A “J.B. HUNT” rig idling in the pack catches her eye—an easy target. Most of their drivers are family men, worn down from the road, usually too tired to put up a fight. The Adderall comedown can turn them into zombies for twelve hours—plenty of time to pilfer any treasures hidden between the seats.
Heather climbs up on the driver’s side rail and knocks on the window. No response. She presses her face to the glass, cupping her hands to peer inside. The cab is empty. She tries the handle, but it’s locked.
“Hey! Can I help you?” a voice calls from behind. Heather spins around, her hand darting to the zipper of her fanny pack. The truck driver raises both hands in surrender.
“Whoa. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.
Heather’s thumb hovers over her pepper spray, aimed at the driver. He’s a small guy—she probably outweighs him. A nervous grin spreads across his face, and she recaps the safety.
“Sorry. You startled me,” Heather says.
The truck driver pulls his keys from his pocket. “Yeah, no shit. What were you doing trying to open my door?”
“Just checking it,” she stalls.
“Checking it? For what?” he asks, brushing past her to unlock his door. He pokes his head inside to make sure everything is as it should be. Satisfied she didn’t get in, he turns back to Heather, who smiles up at him from his seat. A wave of realization hits him.
“No. No, ma’am. No thank you.” The truck driver slams the door, leaving Heather with a strikeout on her first at-bat. She sighs deeply and walks back through the lot to reassess.
The sun blazes overhead now, and even with her shirt tied up and loose cut-offs on, she’s sweating just standing still. She walks past a cab from an independent line, catching sight of the driver’s long fingers waving at her from behind the steering wheel. She waves back but keeps moving. At least she knows she won’t strike out three times.
The only other cab idling is a tanker, and though she knows it’ll reek like a mechanic’s garage inside, independent drivers tend to be a bit rough. She climbs the cab’s side rails and knocks on the glass. The cab shifts, and she hears movement inside. Heather steps down, ready to run if things get weird.
The window cracks open slightly, revealing the brim of a hat just above the tinted glass. “Yeah?” a voice inside grunts.
“Hey there. Thought you might want some company,” Heather offers. The red brim of the hat disappears as the window rolls back up. She waits, unsure if that was a rejection. As sweat beads form on her neck and start to trickle down her back, she decides it’s strike two.
Heather turns to find the independent trucker when the cab of the tanker opens, revealing a large man shifting over to the passenger side.
“Come on in, little darlin’,” the voice invites from inside the cab.
Heather reaches up to pull herself into the cab, but the chemical stench wafting out is overwhelming. She steps back to catch her breath.
“What’s the matter, lassie?” the voice asks.
“Sorry, it’s… I can’t. That smell… I’m just not going to…” Heather trails off, walking back toward the independent cab.
“Hey, we were talkin’. Get the hell back over here, you little bitch,” the voice spits through the opening, but Heather is already out of earshot.
The independent trucker rolls down her window as Heather approaches.
“How about you? You interested?” Heather asks.
“Shit, that ain’t much of a sales pitch,” the trucker says from her perch.
“Yeah, well, it’s fucking hot, and I’ve got rent to pay. So if you’re interested, great. If not, then fuck off.” Heather turns to leave.
“Sweetie,” the trucker calls, leaning out of her window. “I didn’t say I wasn’t interested.”
Heather turns back, looking up into the cab window for the first time. Maybe it was the cowboy hat that threw her off, but now she sees the trucker’s massive bosom barely contained in her work denim. “How much?” the trucker asks, and Heather is certain she’s hit a home run.
In the bathroom, Heather rhythmically runs her tongue over the lady trucker’s neck, finding a spot just below the ear that makes her moan—good news because it means less effort elsewhere. Not that her hands aren’t busy too, searching for the right button to press. The trucker’s moans grow louder, her hips start to jerk, and Heather struggles to keep them both upright against the wall. As the trucker climaxes, they slide toward the sink, and Heather’s hip painfully collides with the porcelain edge. She catches a flash of metal as something falls from the light fixture and clangs against the concrete floor. Finally, the trucker finishes, pushing herself up and off Heather, who was pinned between the sink and the wall.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” the trucker says, tossing a couple of twenties into the sink and zipping her pants before heading out. Heather picks up the cash and stuffs it into her shorts. She turns on the faucet—hot water only—and pumps four large squirts of pink, gooey soap into her hand while waiting for the water to warm. She scalds her skin with the hot water and soap until her hands are a maddeningly red from the torture.
As she’s heading for the door, her foot kicks something on the ground. It’s the metal object they knocked loose earlier. She bends down and picks up a lever. Looking under the sink, it matches the lever where the water line connects to the wall, but it didn’t come from there. Standing on her tiptoes, she reaches up and runs her hand over the light fixture, knocking another piece of metal into the sink. She grabs the nut as it rolls around the basin, just before it slips down the drain.
Heather traces the line of the wall until she reaches the toilet, where she sees the water connector is missing a lever. She slides the lever back onto the post, and it fits perfectly. She reassembles the lever as best she can without tools, turns on the water, and hears it start flowing again.
“No good deed goes unturned,” she says to the room and to any good karma out there searching for a lost soul to save. The water stops abruptly—far too fast for the tank to have filled. She pulls the toilet lid off.
Inside the tank is the duffle bag left by Moses. Heather locks the bathroom door and pulls the wet bag free from the tank. She lets it drip on the floor for a moment before placing it on the toilet lid. Her hands start to shake. She grabs the metal zipper tab between her thumb and forefinger, slowly pulling it along the seam. It’s slippery, and she loses her grip after moving it just a couple of inches, but that’s all she needs to see inside.
It’s been nearly a year since she’s seen crystal meth. The last time this devilish little rock crossed her path, she spent two weeks in the psych ward followed by six weeks in lockup. She feels a familiar tickle in the tips of her fingers and toes. Once an addict, always an addict. Heather is looking at a score with a street value higher than any money she could have ever dreamed of, and she knows exactly what to do with it. Maybe daddy was wrong. Sometimes, you do get lucky.
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