A Quick Pit Stop (Hard Men #1)
Chapter 1
DOMINIC
“Three fifty.”
The tollbooth lady leans on her elbow, head tilted, watching me like I’m a particularly sad bird that’s fallen out of its nest. Her name tag says Gloria. She’s got kind eyes.
“Yeah, one sec,” I say, my throat scratchy. I dig through the cupholder, fingers closing around a handful of coins, and slap them into her outstretched palm.
Gloria purses her lips, counting the change out onto her little tray with practiced flicks of her thumb. “One of these is a button, handsome.”
She’s right. A dented silver button sitting between two quarters. “Huh.”
“Having a day, hon?”
“More like a month,” I say, and lean across the console to dig through the passenger side. There’s got to be more change somewhere. I check the door pocket. Receipts, a napkin from a drive-through, a lone, sticky peppermint.
I didn’t even know they still had these. Manned tollbooths. I’ve been driving for three hours on autopilot and somehow landed on the one stretch of highway that hasn’t gone electronic yet.
“Where you headed, sugar?” Gloria asks, tapping electric blue fingernails on the counter. There’s a little fan behind her whirring at full speed.
“West,” I say, arm-deep in the glove box.
“West is big.”
Yeah, it is. That’s kind of the point. There’s no real plan behind this. Just the rumble of the engine and miles of asphalt. This morning, I packed a bag, filled the tank, and drove until the city was a smear in my rearview. Then I kept driving.
“Here we go.” I pull a crumpled five from the back of the glove box. “Sorry about that.”
Gloria scoops it up and gives me my change. “No worries. We all have our days.” The little red light above me turns green, and the gate arm lifts with a rattle. “You take care of yourself out there, handsome. Hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, putting the car in drive.
As I pull away, I glance in the side mirror. Gloria’s already leaning on her elbow, smiling at the next car in line.
I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. I just knew I couldn’t stay. Couldn’t keep walking into that apartment, sleeping in that bed. The same bed where I found Megan getting nailed by some guy from her yoga class. Three years down the drain because that asshole could do a better downward dog.
It makes you feel less of a man, you know?
Standing there in the doorway, holding a bottle of the fancy kombucha she liked, hearing her say a name that isn’t yours in a breathy little sigh.
Like, is my fucking dick not big enough?
Is my paycheck not fat enough? I thought we were building something. Turns out I was just a placeholder.
Maybe that’s what this trip is about. Trying to feel like a man again. I mean, I’m twenty-eight. I’m still in my prime. I should be out there, getting my hands dirty. Having fun. Living a little. Not getting cucked in my own home. Not moping around like a neutered puppy.
So I’m headed west. A road trip to find my balls.
Speaking of balls, mine ache. I’ve been cooped up in this car all day. My shoulders are tight, my neck is stiff, and I need to take a piss.
A rest stop sign comes up, and I pull in.
The lot is mostly empty, just a few semis baking in the afternoon heat.
I park, stretch, and head for the men’s room.
These places can be nasty, but it’s not as bad as I was expecting.
No puddles on the floor, no weird smells.
Just a row of urinals and some stalls. I step up, unzip, and let out a sigh of relief.
Goddamn.
That large coffee from this morning is making a proper exit. Sounds like a damn waterfall. I’m mid-stream, eyes forward, zoning out at the tile wall, when I hear footsteps behind me.
Someone steps up to the urinal right next to mine.
Now, I’m a firm believer in the urinal code. You leave a buffer zone. A gap. You don’t just sidle up next to a guy when there are four other empty urinals to choose from. You just don’t. It’s uncivilized.
I ignore him. I’m almost done anyway. Just a few more seconds and I can get back on the road.
“Long drive?” a deep voice asks.
Is this guy for real? First, he ignores the urinal code, and now he’s making small talk while I’m holding my dick? I don’t look over. Just grunt. Something that says, ‘I’m busy here. Leave me alone.’
“Yeah, same,” he continues, like I’ve given him an actual response. “Just trying to clear my head. Sometimes the road’s the only place for that.”
He’s got a point. But still. This is officially the weirdest piss I’ve ever taken.
I glance over. Big guy. Not quite my six-four, but close. Wider through the shoulders, too. Messy blond hair, a few days’ worth of scruff. White T-shirt stretched tight across his chest, worn jeans. Mid-twenties, maybe.
“Are you looking at my dick, dude?” He’s smirking.
“What? No!” I snap my head forward, face going hot. “What is wrong with you?”
“Relax.” He chuckles. “I’m messing with you.”
“Yeah, well, don’t,” I mutter, zipping up with more force than necessary. I walk to the sink without looking at him. My hands are trembling a little as I wash them. No idea why. The guy shakes off, zips up, and steps to the sink right next to mine. Of course he does.
“You ever heard of personal space?” I ask, catching his eye in the mirror.
“Sure.” He pumps some soap into his hands. “Doesn’t mean we can’t be friendly.” He smiles, and for a second, I forget what I was going to say. His eyes are a really light shade of blue, almost silver, crinkling at the corners. I’ve never seen eyes like that on a guy before.
I shake my head and grab a paper towel. “No offense, man, but I’m not really in a friendly mood.”
“None taken.” He rinses his hands. “Maybe I can help with that.”
“Excuse me?”
He turns and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. His biceps strain against his sleeves. “You look tense, man. I’ve got a cure for that.”
“Look, I don’t know what your deal is, but I’m just trying to take a piss and get back on the road.” I toss the paper towel in the bin.
“It’s a simple offer,” he says, those blue eyes boring into me. “You open those jeans up again, I’ll get on my knees, and I’ll suck you off. Right here.”