by S. Lawrence Parrish
Copyright 2011 S. Lawrence Parrish
(This story contains scenes of explicit sex and violence.)
Nineteen-year-old Philip Boyle stood at the roadside, a hopeful, pleading thumb jutting from one fist. A hundred yards up the road, another car had crested the rise on the far side of a bridge spanning a narrow river.
A moment later, the car crossed the bridge, headlights gleaming, tires humming. Philip smoothed his windblown crop of orange hair and stretched freckled cheeks with his best "I'm not a psycho maniac, I'm a nice guy" grin. Only the driver—a man wearing a baseball cap—sat in the approaching vehicle. This would be the kind soul who finally offered Philip a ride. It had to be. Philip had been marooned on this stretch of secondary highway for over seven hours, so it darn well better be!
But the car rolled on past, the cap-wearing driver not even making eye contact with Philip.
"Dammit. . . shit!" Philip raged, mouthing words tasting sour to his usually sweet tongue. He was supposed to be well into the Rocky Mountains by now. Heck, through the mountains and almost to the Pacific Coast!
But here he was, still in the Alberta Foothills, been here since noon. Philip had waited only ten minutes at dawn this morning on the highway just south of Regina before being picked up by a trucker who had introduced himself as Lyle Warton.