Crazy Tales from the Truck

"Honey, how long will you be gone this time?"

I lay on the bed, catching my breath for a moment before getting up to help my husband, Dylan Gallagher, pack.

Dylan was a long-haul trucker. He spent more time on the road than he did at home. Each trip took at least a week, sometimes half a month, before I saw him again.

When we first got married, I thought it was a great job—good money and the chance to see the country.

But over the years, the reality of being a trucker's wife started to sink in.

With Dylan gone so often, I was constantly left alone.

I was a woman with needs. When I was younger, it didn't bother me as much, but as I got older, those desires only grew stronger.

Now that I was in my 30s—prime years for a woman—seeing Dylan only a few times a month was becoming unbearable.

Watching my friends go home to their partners every night, I couldn't help but feel envious.

To make matters worse, Dylan's constant driving and long hours of sitting without exercise had worn him out. He was only in his 30s, but his stamina was already failing.

On the rare occasions he was home, he couldn't satisfy me.

I was in my best years. I shouldn't feel like I was living the life of a widow.

The intimacy we just shared was dull, but I faked my satisfaction just to protect his ego.

"The route is a bit longer this time," Dylan replied. "It'll be at least two weeks round-trip."

Two weeks. Not only was the quality lacking, but now the frequency was dropping too.

"Why don't you come with me this time?" he asked.

"What?"

He wanted me to go on the road with him? I looked at him, surprised.

In the past, I'd begged him to let me tag along so I could see new places, but he always refused. He used to say the company assigned him a partner, and having me there would be inconvenient. What changed?

"Well, I've seen some of the other guys bringing their wives along. It's nice to have a hot meal during the day and someone to hold at night. It sounds a lot better than being alone."

So, that was his angle. It seemed I wasn't the only one tired of our long-distance arrangement.

I was about to agree when a thought struck me.

"If I go, what about Raul?"

Raul Anderson was Dylan's partner. On long hauls, they took turns driving.

"Forget about him. He'll be driving, and we'll be in the back doing our thing. If that's not exciting enough for you, I'll tell him to pull over so he can join in…"

"What are you talking about?" I hissed, covering his mouth.

Truckers—especially the long-haul guys—had a habit of talking dirty to pass the time, but I couldn't believe he was saying such things about me. I was mortified.

Yet, despite the shame, the image Dylan planted in my mind began to take root.

Two strong men, one in front, one behind…

I pressed my hands against my burning cheeks, forcing the thoughts away, and hurried to finish packing.

"You little minx. You actually like the idea, don't you?"

The next day, I trailed behind Dylan with my luggage. Once we got in the truck, I noticed Raul was already there.

Dylan had brought him over for dinner once before, so we weren't strangers.

He was several years younger than Dylan and far more muscular. Standing at least 6'1", he seemed to fill the entire driver's seat.

Raul greeted me warmly. "Hey, Maia. Thanks for joining us on this run. Sorry to put you to work."

I smiled politely. "It's just some cooking. It's no trouble at all."

"Well, I'm looking forward to getting a taste of you on this trip."

"Oh, it's no big deal, really," I replied.

But as the words left my mouth, something about his sentence felt off.

Dylan slapped Raul on the shoulder with a loud thud. "You brat! I'm letting you share her cooking, not her. Don't even dream about it. Tonight, you can just keep your eyes on the road and listen to us having a good time."