Free NIGHT CRUISING by Billie Sue Mosiman Page B

panties...
    Hell and damnation.
    That wasn't all that
much fun either. Made her start panting like a bitch in heat so
anybody would know what she was thinking if they walked by her.
    Raging fucking
hormones.
    And they said only guys
got horny. Boy, were they wrong! If she didn't get this stuff out of
her brain, she'd wind up trying to throw herself all over poor
Cruise, and what would that look like, huh?
    He probably didn't even
like her. She was too young. Looked thirteen, fourteen, he said.
Probably too skinny. No boobs. Hardly any hips. She was just a
hitchhiker he was taking along to keep him awake while he drove
nights. He wouldn't touch her if she begged for it.
    The sun dipped through
low-lying clouds. The colors over the land smeared unevenly and
darkened.
    Molly watched the car
door on the Chrysler for Cruise.
    Wake up .
    The cowboy of the long
legs sauntered out the cafe door chewing a toothpick. He never even
glanced her way. Molly watched his tight little butt as he circled
the building to the back lot where his rig was parked. She sighed to
see him go. He'd had thick black curly hair and dark eyes. She would
have to dream of him tonight. It was as close as she was going to get
to heaven this century.

    #

    Mark Killany thought
he'd lost Molly's trail for good. He had overslept in Beaumont,
cradling the phone receiver on his chest after the wake-up call.
Cursing himself upon waking, he hurried from the Holiday Inn to his
car, his shirt trailing out the back of his pants. He had needed to
shave again, but there hadn't been time. He ran a hand over his
grizzled chin now, frowning at how he was slowly losing all control
over events in his life. He wasn't exercising, he wasn't shaving
enough, his clothes needed an iron run over them.
    He crossed the Old and
Lost Rivers and thought how apt the name was to his state of mind. If
his mind wasn't old and lost, he didn't know what was.
    He stopped along the
way between Beaumont and Houston, showing Molly's picture. No one had
seen her.
    He kept losing time
exiting the freeway, parking, walking around to question service
station employees. He had known he was handicapped from the outset,
that she'd be ahead of him and gaining ground west each time he chose
to stop. But he'd optimistically thought he could find a clearer
trail.
    Trail! He had a wisp. A
promise. Not a trail.
    Now it was late
afternoon, the sun setting in a blaze at his back. He was somewhere
between San Antonio and El Paso on Interstate l0, out in the center
of the tumbleweed desert, and he hadn't once found a person who had
seen his daughter.
    A vibration in the rear
of his car that he'd noticed earlier, but didn't want to stop to
check, now turned to a walloping sound. A flat. Of all the damned
luck...
    He pulled over into the
emergency lane and stopped just as the tire went so flat he could
hear the car running on the metal rim. Big eighteen-wheelers whooshed
past, their wind hot and full of stink. The displaced air from them
rocked his car on its wheels.
    Mark carefully exited
the car, eyes squinted against the ball of fire to the west. He
circled to the rear right tire and stooped to inspect it. Shredded.
Metal strands showing through the flaps. When was the last time he'd
bought tires? he wondered. Sloppy. Not at all like him.
    He must hurry.
    He popped the trunk,
took out the spare and the tools required to change the tire. He
sweated during the time-consuming ordeal, threw the ripped tire into
the trunk, and wiped his hands on a red rag he kept there.
    Now it was nearly dark.
Telephone poles marched down his side of the freeway leading straight
through the desert. On the other side of the rusted barbed-wire fence
he could see nothing but sand and mesquite trees and cacti. He
supposed the wire fence was meant to confine cattle, but where were
they? West Texas made him feel exposed and insignificant. The sooner
he got out of here, the better.
    God, he was tired. He
was used to hard work, but not to the