Ricky hauled food for a living. Oranges and melons from Florida. Peaches from South Carolina and apples from Washington.
Today he had fresh strawberries from Watkinsville, California in his refrigerated trailer. This was a prime load that would would pay him over six thousand dollars. Strawberries only shipped during a limited season and competition for the business was fierce. This was his first load with a new broker and he hoped to make a good impression, in hopes of perhaps getting another load of the berries after he delivered these.
But there was a reason these loads paid so well. The temperature of the fruit had to be strictly maintained to avoid freezer burn or the product becoming over ripe.. And to say it was time sensitive would be an understatement. Ricky had just over forty-eight hours to be at the Farmers Market in Forest Park, Georgia, near Atlanta.
It was certainly doable, if not routine for a certain breed of drivers. Ricky knew he was abusing his body running this hard. At thirty-two years old, Ricky had the rugged good looks of a man who made his living outdoors. At just under six feet tall, his size thirty-four jeans were slightly loose on his hips and he wore a perpetual tan due to his affinity for travelling the southern half of the country.
But the thousand mile days, sleepless nights and too much caffeine and nicotine was taking it’s toll. Gray was creeping in at the temples, mostly disguised by his naturally blonde hair, and lines were forming from the corners of his eyes that befitted one fifteen years his senior. He knew he could not turn back the clock and he vowed to slow down soon.
The sun was visible in the east as Ricky cleared the Arizona Port of Entry. It was always a relief to be out of California and their infernal fifty-five speed limit. He had the big Peterbilt wrapped up to seventy-five when he shifted in to the final gear. Let it roll on out to about ninety. Traffic was light in the desert and he would soon create or be a part of a makeshift convoy.
As he approached the long, steep grade on the west side of Flagstaff, a familiar voice crackled over the CB radio.
“Hey, Mustang! What’s going on, hero?” said his longtime friend, Glider, from down in Savannah, Georgia.
“Same old stuff, buddy. Gotta have my butt in the big A by 0600 Monday morning.”
“I hear ya brother. Listen here, about halfway up the mountain, you’re gonna see a broke down Honda Accord with a very upset, but very beautiful driver standing in front of it. Figured you might wanna uphold your image. You know, Shining Knight of the Highway, Southern Gentleman, that sort of thing.”
“I hear ya buddy, but I know you’re a stud too. Just hammer down back to the state line. Maybe catch ya back around the house one of these days.”
As his friend rolled out of radio range, Ricky got a glimpse of the disabled car up around the curve, hood raised, and smoke rising from the engine compartment.
Getting closer, it became clear his buddy was indeed correct in his assessment of the automobile’s unfortunate driver.
The combination of the heavy load and steep mountain grade already had his speed down below forty miles per hour, and it didn’t take much to stop. The biggest worry would be to get rolling again.
The young lady felt a twinge of apprehension when she saw the Georgia tag on the back of the trailer. This was her first trip away from home and her grouchy old uncle, who was vehemently opposed to the trip anyway, warned her against socializing with any bad elements, especially what he called hillbillies from the southeast.
Her fear all but dissolved when the lanky, blonde driver appeared from around the side of the trailer. A sleeveless Atlanta Falcons T-shirt hung outside his faded jeans. USMC SEMPER FI was tattooed on one arm and a flying guitar on the other. His face reminded her of a younger version of her grandmother’s movie idol, Robert Redford. His tanned skin crinkled around his soft blue eyes and there was the slightest bit of gray in the two day stubble on his chin. Ricky stopped a polite distance from her, aware that she may be feeling vulnerable stranded out in the desert.
“Howdy, ma’am. Looks like you have some trouble here. Name’s Ricky, by the way.”
“Yes, sir. Thank-you for stopping. My name is Esmeralda.” she answered as she extended her hand. “But my friends call me Joey. Short for Josephine, which is my middle name, plus I’ve always been kind of a tom boy.” Joey knew she was offering too much information, even as she did so, attributing it to nervousness.
Tom boy? I don’t see it, Ricky thought as he tried not to stare into the emerald green eyes that so suited her name. And her hair. He was mesmerized by her striking mane. Thick and dark with faint, natural red highlights that put the icing on the cake. He had an unsummoned image of burying his face in it. Then he noticed her body.Though not dressed provocatively, her athletic, yet feminine, build was evident. A thin sheen of sweat had formed above her upper lip, accented by the sun, now fully over the mountain.
She was explaining how she bought the piece of junk car from her cousin, Manuel, and how he wouldn’t answer his phone and she was going to Miami and Ricky barely heard a word she said.
Ricky agreed with her decision to just abandon he damned thing. Especially after he checked the oil, only to discover there no longer was any.
“I hate to impose, but do you suppose I could ride with you?” Joey asked shyly.
Part one of a continuing series