Boober - Scene 3

Eric came to in some busted old western jail cell, pants torn to shit and zero memory of the night before. Phone barely showing signal, every app ghosted or quoting an hour-plus wait. Then one new name he'd never heard popped up on screen like a bad idea that knew exactly what it was doing. He hit it. Ten minutes later headlights cut across the dirt outside and a low-slung muscle car swung to a stop. Door popped and out stepped the driver, tall, dirty grin, leather jacket unzipped like heat wasn't even an option. Guy sized him up quick, asked if Eric was "ready to ride" in a voice that landed somewhere between dare and promise. Eric climbed in, the bench seat was wide, leather warm from the sun. The driver shifted into gear, hand lingering on the stick a beat longer than needed, fingers flexed like he already had plans for them. Engine growled, they peeled out and the moment the tires bit dirt the driver’s hand slid off the shifter and onto Eric’s thigh, squeezing hard enough Eric felt it through the ripped denim. He didn’t move it. Driver just kept driving with that same cocky smirk while the cabin filled with the low rumble of the engine and the heavier, hotter sound of Eric’s breathing picking up. The road stretched empty. The driver’s fingers slid higher, found the tear that ran straight up Eric’s inner leg, and slipped inside like he’d already measured the gap.