Roadside Assistance

Quiera is a driven accountant at a Fortune 100 company. Kyle, her Scottish husband, is a long-haul trucker whose routes keep him away for weeks at a time. After twenty-eight days apart, the loneliness becomes unbearable, and Quiera makes a reckless late-night decision that sends her racing down the interstate. Their love story—forged against family rejection and the quiet cruelties of an interracial marriage in the South—faces its truest test: the relentless weight of distance.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

twenty eight days, six hundred and seventy two hours, forty thousand, three hundred and twenty minutes since Kyle's hands had been on my body. I knew because I'd counted every single one. The spreadsheet blurred before my eyes. Profit margins for quarter three, revenue projections that demanded my attention. Numbers I could manipulate, control, and predict. Unlike the space beside me in bed each night, where the sheets stayed cold no matter how many blankets I piled on his side. My phone vibrated against the mahogany desk. A text from Kyle. Making good time. Should hit the Virginia-North Carolina border by midnight. Miss you, baby. I read it three times before my thumb hovered over the reply button. Miss you too. Drive safe. I love you. My reply was safe, practical. The kind of thing a good wife said to her long-haul trucker husband. Not the kind of thing a woman said when she woke at three in the morning with her hand between her thighs and his name on her lips, gasping into the darkness of their too empty bedroom. The Fortune 100 company where I worked had no idea their star accountants spent lunch breaks locked in a bathroom stall. The phone pressed to her ear while her husband's rough Scottish brogue talked her through the ache. They didn't know I kept one of his flannels in my desk drawer, that I buried my face in the fabric when the loneliness became a physical weight pressing against my chest. Four weeks of video calls and text messages and promises that the next haul would be shorter, the next route closer to home. Four weeks of going through the motions, work, gym, groceries, sleep, while my body screamed for the man who'd promised to love me for better or worse. Turned out worse meant separate beds and cold nights, and an ache that no amount of self-pleasure could satisfy. I closed my laptop harder than necessary. The fluorescent lights of my corner office felt suffocating. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Richmond stretched out below, all concrete and glass, and people who probably went home to warm beds and warmer bodies. My phone buzzed again. The truck tracking app Kyle had insisted I download after that incident in West Virginia last year. For safety, he'd said, those blue eyes serious in a way that meant he wouldn't budge. So you always know where I am, so you never have to wonder if I'm coming home. The little blue dot pulsed on my screen. Interstate 85 heading south, the flying J truck stop at the Virginia-North Carolina border, his usual overnight spot before the push to Georgia. Five hours away. The idea struck me like lightning. Reckless and electric and absolutely insane. I could be there. I could be there when he pulled in, could see those blue eyes widen in shock, could feel his hands on me instead of imagining them for another 14 days. I grabbed my purse before the rational part of my brain could intervene. My boss would get an email about a family emergency. My Aunt Delia, the one who existed solely for work excuses and uncomfortable questions at family reunions. Traffic would be light this time of evening. I could make it in under five hours if I pushed the speed limit and ignored every voice of reason screaming that this was madness. The elevator ride down felt like descending into beautiful insanity. But I couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop. Twenty-eight days was too damn long. The flying J materialized from the darkness like an oasis of fluorescent light and diesel fumes. I pulled into the sprawling parking lot, my sensible Honda Accord looking absurd among the rows of 18 wheelers. The night air smelled like fried food, burnt coffee, and motor oil, a combination that should have been repulsive, but instead made my heart slam against my ribs. Kyle's rig stood out immediately. Midnight blue Kenworth, chrome gleaming under the harsh lights, the customized paint job he'd saved six months to afford. The same truck where we'd celebrated his new career three years ago, parked behind our house with the engine silent and the sleeper berth curtains drawn tight. The same truck where we'd made promises to one another about distance and time and love that could weather anything. I killed the engine three spaces down, my hands trembling as I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. I'd worn the sundress he loved, yellow cotton that skimmed my thighs, the one he'd destroyed last summer by tearing the buttons in his desperation to get me naked. My dark skin gleamed in the dim light, the Cherokee bone structure I'd inherited from my maternal grandmother sharp in the shadows. The humidity hit me the moment I stepped out, clinging to my skin like a second dress. I'd rehearsed this scenario a dozen times during the drive south. Pop the hood, play the damsel in distress, wait for those big hands and that Scottish brogue to wrap around me like a benediction. My heels clicked against the asphalt as I rounded my car and lifted the hood. The engine components looked foreign in the harsh light. Belts and hoses and metal that all blurred together. I leaned forward, knowing the dress rode up my thighs, knowing exactly what I was doing and not caring one bit about propriety or sense. Kira? His voice hit me like a physical blow. Deep and rough, that Scottish burr threading through the syllables of my name in a way that made it sound like a prayer. Four weeks hadn't dimmed my body's response. Heat flooded through me, pooling low in my belly. I turned slowly, pressing my hand to my chest in mock surprise. Kyle? Oh my god. What are the odds? The words died. Kyle stood five feet away, backlit by the truck stop lights like some kind of ginger-haired Scottish god. Six foot four of broad shoulders and lean muscle, wearing faded jeans and a black t-shirt that stretched across a chest I'd mapped with my hands and mouth a thousand times. Four weeks of road life had sharpened his features, made his jaw more pronounced, his blue eyes hungrier. Copper stubble shadowed his face, and his red hair, longer now, fell across his forehead in waves that caught the light. He looked at me the way a starving man looked at salvation. Your car broke down. His voice was flat, but those eyes blazed. Here. At my overnight stop, what a stunning coincidence. I know, crazy, right? I was heading to visit my sister in Charlotte and Liar. He closed the distance in three strides. One hand slammed the hood shut while the other wrapped around my waist, pulling me against him with enough force to steal my breath. His mouth found mine before I could spin another excuse, and the kiss was anything but gentle. It was claiming. Possessive. Four weeks of hunger compressed into the slide of his tongue against mine, the scrape of stubble against my jaw, the way his fingers dug into my hips hard enough to bruise. I'd miss those bruises. Missed carrying the evidence of his need on my skin. Someone shouted from a passing pickup, something crude and congratulatory, and we broke apart laughing. Guess we'd better take this somewhere more private, Kyle murmured against my lips. Then he lifted me, lifted me like I weighed nothing despite my curves, and carried me toward his truck. The cab door slammed shut behind us, trapping us in darkness and diesel-sented air. His hands were everywhere, spinning me to face him, his fingers tangling in my hair as he kissed me again. Harder this time, more desperate. You tracked me down. Not a question. His hand slid down my spine, his fingers digging into the curve of my ass before yanking me flush against him. I felt every inch of him pressed against my thigh, hard and thick and ready. Drove five hours to ambush me at a truck stop. Twenty-eight days, Kyle. I arched into him, my nails scraping down his chest. Twenty-eight days of phone sex and pictures and my own inadequate fingers. You have any idea what that does to me? His groan vibrated through my chest. Show me. Those blue eyes were nearly black with desire. Show me how bad you needed me. His belt buckle clinked as I reached for it, my trembling fingers brushing against the hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans. He caught my wrists, his grip firm but not punishing, and growled, not here. His voice was lower than I'd ever heard it, rougher than sandpaper, and it sent a bolt of liquid heat straight to my core. In the back. I need space to do this properly. The sleeper berth was cramped, barely enough room for one person, let alone two. But it was dark and private, and absolutely fucking perfect. Kyle backed me toward the narrow mattress, his hands rough but reverent as they slid up my thighs, tracing the curve of my hips, tangling in my hair. When his mouth found the curve of my neck, I gasped, my head falling back to give him access. His teeth grazed the sensitive spot below my ear, the one that made me melt, and I shuddered, my nipples hardening to tight peaks against the thin fabric of my dress. Christ, baby, he muttered, his Scottish burr thickening with every word. You planned this whole fucking ambush. Maybe, I admitted, yanking his shirt over his head. My hands roamed over his broad chest, the defined abs, that devastating V of muscle that disappeared into his jeans. I pressed my mouth to his collarbone, tasting salt and man and everything I'd been craving for weeks. Maybe I couldn't survive one more night without your hands on me. He found the zipper at my back, dragging it down with agonizing slowness, letting the fabric whisper against my skin as it pooled at my feet. The black lace lingerie I'd worn like armor against my own need was now exposed, and his eyes devoured me like I was the last meal on earth. Aye, you definitely planned this, he growled, his voice low and rough. Are you complaining? I teased, tilting my chin up to meet his smoldering gaze. Never. He cupped my face, bringing my mouth back to his in a kiss that was equal parts possession and devotion. I love you. God, I love you so much it hurts. Then stop talking and love me properly, I demanded. His hands were everywhere, rough and insistent, mapping every inch of my body like he couldn't get enough. He flipped me onto my stomach, spreading my thighs wide with a single firm tug. His mouth found the small of my back, kissing and biting as he worked his way down, spreading me open with his hands. Fuck, you're perfect, he growled, his breath hot against my skin. Every fucking inch of you. I whimpered as his tongue found my clit, flicking and circling with relentless precision. His hands gripped my hips as he buried his face between my legs, lapping at my soaked slit like a man starved. Yes. I moaned, arching into his mouth. God, Kyle, yes. He added a finger, then two, curling them inside me as he sucked my clit into his mouth. The pleasure was overwhelming, building higher and higher until I was screaming his name, my body shaking with the force of my release. But he didn't stop. He flipped me onto my back again, spreading my legs wide as he positioned himself between them. His cock was hard and throbbing, and I reached for him, guiding him to my entrance. Fuck me, I begged, my voice trembling with need. Please, Kyle, fuck me. He didn't hesitate, driving into me with a single thrust that had us both crying out. His rhythm was relentless. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting him as deep as possible. That's it, baby. He groaned, his breath hot against my ear. Take me. All of me. I came again, harder than before, my body convulsing around him. He followed seconds later, his release hot and deep inside me. We collapsed together, both of us breathless and shaking. His arms wrapped around me, holding me close. I love you. He whispered, pressing a kiss to my forehead. More than anything. I love you too. I replied, my voice barely audible. Always. We'd made promises three years ago when his family had tried to tear us apart. You'll regret this, his father had said, his face red with rage. Marrying that black girl. It'll ruin you. Kyle had looked his father in the eye and said, The only thing I'd regret is living without her. We'd eloped the next week and hadn't spoken to his parents since. Look at me, he commanded, dragging me back to the present. His hand gripped my hip, his fingers digging into my flesh as he tilted my face toward his. Need to see you. Need to know this is real and not another fucking dream where I wake up alone in this damn truck. I met his eyes, those impossible blue eyes that had first caught my attention across a crowded bar four years ago. This wasn't just about physical need, though God knew that was part of it. This was a connection, confirmation. The rewriting of vows we'd spoken in a courthouse with two strangers as witnesses, because our families couldn't see past the color of our skin to the depth of what we felt. I'm real, I whispered, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against my palm. We're real. Distance doesn't change that. Afterward, we lay tangled together, sweaty and gasping, his heart thundering against my cheek. Kyle's fingers traced lazy patterns on my spine. The same patterns he'd traced on our wedding night, on the night we'd bought our house, on every important night of our marriage. I drifted off to sleep in his arms, knowing that no matter what the world threw at us, we would always come back to this. To one another. You can't keep doing this, he said eventually, waking me from that first drowsy state of dreams. Driving five hours on a work night to ambush me at truck stops. Watch me. He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. You're completely mad. I'm in love. There's a difference. He shifted, rolling us so I lay draped across his chest, his arms wrapped securely around me. In the darkness of the sleeper berth, with the distant hum of highway traffic and the closer sounds of the truck stop settling for the night, we existed in our own universe. One we'd built despite every obstacle thrown in our path. I hate this, he admitted. Being away from you. Missing everything, your laugh, the way you steal the covers, how you sing in the shower even though you're absolutely tone deaf. Hey, it's true, and you know it. He pressed a kiss to my temple. I've been looking at regional roots, shorter hauls, home every weekend at a minimum. My heart clenched. Kyle, your salary I don't give a damn about the money. His arms tightened around me. I care about not counting down the minutes until I can touch my wife again. I care about falling asleep next to you and waking up the same way. I care about being there for dinner and movie nights and all the normal, boring things couples do. Those things aren't boring. No. His voice softened. They're not. I tilted my head to look at him, seeing the exhaustion etched in his features, the lines that hadn't been there when he'd left a month ago. This life was wearing on him too. Different than how it wore on me, but wearing nonetheless. We'd survived his family's rejection, my grandmother's initial disapproval, though she'd come around when she saw how he looked at me. The stares and comments and casual cruelties that came with being an interracial couple in the South. But distance? Distance was harder than all of that combined. How much longer on this route? Two more weeks, then I'm home for four days. Four whole days? His hand slid into my hair, the fingers tangling in the thick curls I'd inherited from my mother. Four days where I don't let you leave the bedroom except for food and necessary bodily functions. Heat flickered through me again, my body already responding to the promise in his voice. That's ambitious. Baby, I've had twenty-eight days to plan exactly what I'm going to do to you when I get you home. His eyes glinted in the darkness. Four days might not be enough. I kissed him slowly, thoroughly, pouring everything I felt into the slide of my lips and tongue. When we finally broke apart, I settled back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. I'll do it again, I said. Track you down at truck stops, pretend I need rescuing, whatever it takes to get my hands on you before those two weeks are up. You're terrible for my reputation. Other drivers are going to think I can't control my woman. Your woman can't control herself when it comes to you. There's a difference. He laughed again, and the sound made something settle in my chest. This stolen moments in truck stop parking lots, making love in sleeper berths, driving ridiculous distances for a few hours together. This was us. Messy and complicated and absolutely worth every sacrifice. You should probably get on the road, he said reluctantly. You've got work tomorrow. Called in sick. His eyebrows shot up. You never call in sick. There's a first time for everything. I propped myself up on my elbow, looking down at him. I figured I'd get a room at that motel down the road. You know, in case my car develops more mechanical issues in the morning. The grin that spread across his face was pure sin. Mechanical issues. Right. Very serious ones. Might need a professional to inspect under the hood multiple times. Well. His hands found my hips, pulling me over him. I do have some mechanical expertise, and I take my roadside assistant's responsibilities very seriously. How seriously? Let me show you. I left the next morning with the sun barely cresting the horizon, my body deliciously sore and my heart full. Kyle had another 1,200 miles to cover before his next stop, and I had spreadsheets and meetings waiting for me back in Richmond. But as I merged onto the highway, I pulled up the tracking app again. Watched the little blue dot that represented my husband, my home, my heart. Two weeks until his route ended. Fourteen days until I could wake up beside him without an alarm clock screaming. That we needed to say goodbye again. I could survive 14 days. I'd survive 28. Hadn't I? My phone buzzed with a text. Already miss you. Next time, wear the red dress. And Q, no underwear. Heat flooded through me as I typed my response. Yes, sir, I'll track you down in a week. Be ready. Always ready for you, baby. Drive safe. The highway stretched ahead, miles of asphalt separating us again. But distance was temporary. This, what we had, was permanent. Road tested and proven. We'd survived his family's rejection, survived the whispered comments and sideways glances, survived every person who'd ever suggested we were making a mistake. Every separation made the reunion sweeter. Every goodbye made the next hello more precious. I'd chase him across state lines and truck stops for the rest of our lives if that's what it took. Because love wasn't about easy moments in shared beds and lazy Sunday mornings. It was about the hard moments, the distance, the desperate drives and stolen hours. It was choosing one another, over and over, across every mile and every obstacle that attempted to keep us apart. And I'd choose Kyle Compton every single time. Two months later, the job offer sat on our kitchen counter, mocking me with its crisp letterhead and generous salary, regional accounting manager, travel required, Charlotte, Rowley, Atlanta, cities that would put me on the road as much as Kyle. I picked it up for the tenth time that hour, reading through the benefits package, the upward mobility, the corner office they were practically handing me. Everything I'd worked toward since graduating from college. Everything I'd told myself I wanted. The front door opened, and Kyle walked in, home three days early from his latest run. His face lit up when he saw me, and he crossed the kitchen in three long strides to pull me into his arms. Surprise. He murmured against my hair. Finished the delivery ahead of schedule and drove straight through. I melted into him, breathing in his scent, feeling the tension I'd carried for six days dissolve. Best surprise ever. He pulled back, studying my face with those two perceptive blue eyes. What's wrong? Nothing. Chiera. His thumb brushed my cheek. I know that look. What happened? I handed him the offer letter, watching his expression shift as he read. Pride flickered first. He'd always supported my career, bragged about his wife, the hotshot accountant, to anyone who'd listen. Then understanding dawned, followed by something that looked like resignation. This is huge, baby. Everything you've been working toward. It's also everything you've been working to get away from. I took the letter back, set it on the counter with deliberate care. You're transitioning to regional roots so you can be home more. Taking a pay cut to make it work, and I'd be taking a job that puts me on the road as much as you used to be. It's different, is it? We'd be ships passing in the night, coordinating schedules and living out of hotel rooms. When would we see each other? Sunday afternoons when our rout align? He was quiet for a moment, his jaw working like he was chewing over words he didn't want to say. Finally, is this what you want? The job, I mean. I looked at him. Really looked at him. At the man who'd driven through the night to surprise me. Who'd chosen me over his family, over his father's money, and his mother's approval. Who was rearranging his entire career so we could have breakfast together more than twice a month? Who'd built a life with me that, despite its challenges, felt more right than any corner office ever could. I want you, I said. I want us. I want to come home to you, not a hotel room in Atlanta. You're sure? Because I'll make it work if this is your dream. You're my dream, Kyle. Everything else is negotiable. His kiss was soft this time, reverent. When he pulled back, his eyes held something that looked like relief. I love you, and I'm really glad you're not taking that job because I've got news too. Oh? Local wrote. Home every night. Pays considerably less, but he shrugged. Turns out I'm willing to make some sacrifices for the woman I love. I laughed, wrapping my arms around his neck. We're really doing this? Choosing one another over career advancement? Damn right we are. He lifted me onto the counter, stepping between my legs. Besides, we don't need big salaries. We've got something better. What's that? The knowledge that no matter how many miles or days or judgmental relatives separate us, we'll always find our way back. I pulled him down for another kiss, this one deeper, more demanding. Take me to bed, Kyle. We've got three whole days before your next shift, and I plan to make the most of every single minute. Yes, ma'am. He carried me to our bedroom, the one with sheets that smelled like both of us, pillows that held both our shapes. As he lay me down and covered my body with his, I knew we'd made the right choice. Love wasn't about grand gestures or perfect circumstances. It was about showing up day after day, mile after mile. It was truck stop reunions and tracking apps and driving two hours for stolen moments. It was choosing one another over family approval, over societal expectations, over every voice that said we were too different to make it work. It was this choosing us over everything else the world had to offer. And I'd choose us every single time.