An hour out of Hot Springs, the rain began falling hard and grew steadily worse as Miranda drove east. Even at top speed, her wipers couldn’t keep the windshield clear.
It’s like being in a car wash. I should’ve stayed with Uncle Bright until tomorrow, she scolded herself. It didn’t look this bad when I checked the weather forecast. The wind had picked up, too, buffeting her little Kia about. She scanned the radio for an updated report, but all she got was static.
Squinting through the downpour, she searched vainly for a place to pull off the narrow country road. Maybe the deluge will let up after a while. She tapped her brakes as she rounded a curve, and felt the car hydroplane. The rear end fishtailed and pulled her across the oncoming lane. Struggling to control the vehicle, Miranda turned into the skid.
Luckily no one was coming in the opposite direction, and she sighed as the car righted itself. She eased off the accelerator and plowed on.
By the time she saw the fallen tree, it was too late. Instinctively, she cut the wheel to the left. The impact crunched the passenger side and spun her around. Unable to get a purchase on the wet pavement, the car skated off the road, landing nose down in a drainage ditch. The engine stalled.
Muddy water swirled across her windshield. At least I’m not hurt. She switched on her emergency flashers. Good, they still work. With shaking hands, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and flipped it open, only to discover she was out of range.
“Shit, shit, shit!” she swore. “What the hell am I going to do now?”
The only thing she could do, it seemed, was sit and wait, and hope someone came along to rescue her. Eventually, the rain would stop. Then she noticed the water was rising, inching up the doors. If it gets much higher, I won’t be able to open the door.
Would I be safer inside the car or outside? The idea of standing out in the pummeling rain held little appeal.
Just when she’d decided to remain inside and take her chances, the Kia shifted its position and sank deeper into the ditch. Water seeped in around the doors. Time to evacuate. She leaned against the driver’s side door, trying to force it open, but the pressure of the water held it fast. The crumpled passenger door wouldn’t budge either.
Yanking the keys from the ignition, she flipped the trunk lever and heard it spring open.
She slung her purse over her shoulder, scrambled across the console, and unlatched the fold-down back seats.
As she crawled into the trunk, the rushing water tugged at the car, undermining its precarious hold on the embankment. She pushed the trunk lid open and climbed out. Rain pelted her head and shoulders. Wind whipped at her hair. She slipped on mud and fell against the rear fender, banging her hip hard. Water sluiced around her ankles. Grabbing her suitcase, she heaved it out onto the wet ground. She dug her hands and feet into the soggy earth, dragging the suitcase behind her as she clawed her way toward the road.
Blinded by the rain, she felt the pavement before she saw it. She stood up, holding her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes, as the Kia tore away from the embankment and went bobbing downstream.
Tears ran down her cheeks, blending with the rain. What if the water comes up over the road? she worried. There’s no higher ground to climb to.
She was just about to start reciting Hail Marys when she spotted two white lights shining weakly through the rain. Over the roaring storm, she could hear the growl of a diesel engine. As the truck approached, its headlights picked out the tree lying in the road. Miranda hurried toward the tree, waving her arms. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
The big dualie slowed and stopped. The driver’s door swung open and a tall man wearing a cowboy hat stepped out.
“You okay?” he yelled.
“My car got washed away,” she shouted back.
The man grabbed her arm and picked up her suitcase. “What happened?”
he asked as he helped her into the truck.
She told him how she’d hit the tree and skidded into the drainage ditch, barely escaping before the water carried off her car. “I’m awfully glad you showed up when you did.”
“Lucky you didn’t drown. These flash floods can be treacherous. I’ve seen ’em sweep away double-wides.” His windshield wipers slashed at the rain as he studied the fallen tree. “I think there’s enough room to drive around.”
He shifted into gear and eased forward, testing the soft shoulder to make sure it would hold the dualie’s weight as he maneuvered around the obstacle. When they’d cleared it, he braked and got out. Miranda heard him rummaging in the truck bed. What’s he doing? she wondered. A few minutes later he got back in the cab, drove a couple of car lengths, then stopped again.
Seeing her confusion, he explained, “Moving the tree off the road. Don’t want someone else to hit it.”
He climbed out into the rain once more to untie the tree. When he returned, he was soaked to the bone like Miranda. He tossed his dripping cowboy hat on the back seat and she finally got a good look at him. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, a slightly hooked nose. Black hair and coppery skin. Might have some Indian blood, she thought. He probably wasn’t much older than her, but fine lines already etched the corners of his brown eyes, the legacy of years spent in the sun. His wet shirt clung to his muscled torso, the body of a man accustomed to physical work.
He handed her a box of Kleenex. “Wish I could offer you a towel, but that’s all I’ve got.”
“Thanks for rescuing me. You’re my knight on a white charger.”
“It’s a Dodge Ram.”
Miranda laughed and wiped her face, then introduced herself.
“Clint Jackson,” he said. “What’s a lady like you doin’ out in this weather?”
“I was on my way to San Antonio. Now I’m not sure. There’s the little matter of the car…Fortunately, it’s a rental.”
“When we come to the next town you can report it, and we’ll see about gettin’ you another one.”
Clint waited with her while she explained what had happened and filled out a mound of paperwork.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the rental car agent apologized. “We won’t have another car available ’til tomorrow afternoon.”
“What am I going to do until then?” she groaned, staring out at the rain.
Clint touched her arm lightly. “I’ve got an idea, if you’d care to hear it.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I’m headed to do a little gamblin’ at a riverboat casino on the Texas-Louisiana border. You’d be welcome to come along.” He turned to the agent. “Could you arrange for this lady to pick up a car at Lake Caddo?”
“No problem.”
Miranda weighed her options. She could check into a motel and watch TV while she waited for a car, or she could spend an evening with a tall, dark, handsome man and maybe win some money along the way. It didn’t take her long to decide.
“You’re on,” she agreed.
The agent passed her another stack of paperwork and made a phone call. “You’re all set.”
Designed to resemble the paddlewheel riverboats that steamed through Lake Caddo in the mid-1800s, the Lucky Lady featured two decks for gaming. A third level held a restaurant, several bars, and a number of sleeping chambers. As they stepped inside, Miranda felt dazzled by the flashing lights, booming music, and the omnipresent click-and-whir of slot machines. Hundreds of men and women clustered around tables playing roulette, poker, and craps. Others sat trance-like before the one-armed bandits.
Scantily clad waitresses maneuvered between them, balancing trays of drinks. Now and again, a shout rose above the din as a player scored a win.
“What’s your passion?” Clint asked, taking her arm.
“I don’t know. I’ve never gambled before.”
He grinned at Miranda and winked. Now that he’d changed clothes and dried his hair, he looked even better than before. “Well, how ’bout I introduce you to mine?”
He purchased chips in various denominations and led her to a table marked with red-and-black numbered boxes. A wheel turned lazily as four men and a woman contemplated their bets.
“Put this on your favorite number.” He handed her a five-dollar chip.
Miranda laid it on twenty-two. My birthday. Clint slid a chip marked $25 beside hers, then set another at the intersection of squares eight, nine, eleven, and twelve. When everyone had placed their bets, the croupier spun the wheel, sending a ball bouncing about until it settled into slot twenty-two.
“You won!” Clint exclaimed.
“Beginner’s luck,” she said, trying to sound modest. But as the croupier passed her $185 in chips and slid a much larger stack toward Clint, she felt like jumping up and down.
Clint raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, pressing a hundred-dollar chip into her palm. His dark eyes sparkled. “Can you do it again?”
“I’ll try.” She put the chip on number twenty-nine. My age.
He set an identical chip at the corner of squares twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-eight, and twenty-nine. Again the croupier spun the wheel. When it slowed, the ball rested on number twenty-nine.
“Yes!” Clint jabbed his fist into the air, his face flushed with excitement.
He picked Miranda up and spun her around as the croupier slid stacks of multicolored chips toward them. The thrill of the win and the heat of his body made her feel wild and reckless.
“Place your bets,” the croupier said.
When Miranda slid a chip onto a square, not only Clint but several other players followed her lead. This time, however, the ball skipped over her number. She guessed wrong the next time, too. But twice afterwards, she scored again. The tower of chips before her grew taller and taller. A small crowd gathered at the table, calling out encouragement. The atmosphere buzzed with electricity.
Clint stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, his hard cock pressed against her butt. Heat waves rippled up and down her thighs. Her pussy throbbed in anticipation.
“One more time, baby,” he whispered in her ear.
Miranda pushed a stack of chips onto square thirty-six. The number of days I’ve been on this journey. The croupier spun the wheel. The ball danced, dropping into one slot then bouncing out again and into another. Finally it settled on number thirty-six.
Clint whooped and pulled her tight against him. Feeling giddy, she kissed him, tasting his excitement. My head’s spinning like that wheel.
He tipped the croupier, then scooped up their chips and cashed them in. When he handed her a fistful of hundred-dollar bills, she squealed, “Oh my God!”
“Looks like your day turned out just fine, after all,” he grinned.
He ordered champagne sent to one of the top deck chambers and escorted her upstairs. The bottle was waiting on ice when they entered the room. Clint popped the cork and when the foam spurted out, Miranda giggled at the erotic implications.
He filled two glasses and toasted, “To my lucky lady.”
The bubbles tickled her nose and throat. Her whole body, in fact, seemed to sparkle like the golden champagne. Already she felt deliciously drunk. Clint licked champagne off her lips. She sucked his tongue into her mouth, savoring its sweetness.
He maneuvered her to the bed, kissing her neck while he unbuttoned her blouse.
Unhooking her bra, he picked up a new hundred-dollar bill and rubbed her bare breasts with it. The slight roughness made her skin tingle. Her nipples stiffened. He pulled off her skirt and caressed her belly with the bill. Then he spread her legs and stroked it along the insides of her thighs. Longing to be rid of her panties, Miranda arched her mound toward him, moaning softly. He laughed and pressed the C-note to her wet crotch. How can cold cash feel so hot? she wondered.
Her hands explored his taut stomach muscles, his chiseled chest, his strong back.
His cock strained against his jeans. She freed it and it stood up, twitching like an angry rattlesnake. Grabbing another hundred-dollar bill, she palmed his stiff shaft with it until drops of fluid oozed from the tip.
As she licked the glistening drops from the purple head, he slid off her panties.
His thumbs parted her pussy lips. His tongue teased her clit ands probed her opening.
Lightning bolts shot through her body as she came in his mouth.
Quickly, he slipped on a condom and plunged inside, riding her through another orgasm. He lifted her hips so he could thrust deeper. When he hit bottom, she cried out and wrapped her legs around him, her fingernails digging into his back. He pumped faster and she moved with him, begging harder, harder, clinging to him as he bore into her like a jackhammer, until she exploded again and he came along with her.
After their hearts had stopped racing and their breathing returned to normal, Clint refilled their glasses with champagne. Propped up on a pile of pillows, Miranda hummed Mary Chapin Carpenter’s song, “Sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the bug,” and thought, isn’t that the truth?