Lured (Straight Taste Book 3) Read online

  Lured

  Straight Taste, Volume 3

  Jaylen Florian

  Published by Jaylen Florian, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  LURED

  First edition. August 28, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Jaylen Florian.

  Written by Jaylen Florian.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1

  Not being a trucker, visiting a truck stop never crossed my mind.

  Even though I had moved into a dilapidated duplex on the eastern edge of my small town, within a quarter mile of one of the state's largest truck stops, I had not anticipated going inside. I worked at a wetlands preservation area where I was training to become a park ranger. I didn't own a truck, nor did I know anyone who drove a truck.

  Actually, the truck stop was intimidating. A behemoth. Hundreds of freight trucks parked in an adjacent lot large enough to hold a stadium. I later learned that the establishment served thousands of people a day. Most were truckers, stopping for fuel or rest near the intersection of two Midwestern interstate freeways. With a sprawling building, at least the size of a department store, I knew it had to offer numerous services and amenities, but at the time I moved into the duplex I could only guess what those might be.

  It was September. The temperatures were cooling, some of the trees were beginning to change color, and the almanacs and prognosticators predicted an especially cold winter was ready to invade the land, and only weeks away.

  I had just completed a summer internship at state conservation areas north of the Missouri River, a half day's drive away. I had rented a room there above a vineyard garage attached to a winery. Though careful with my limited finances, when I moved home I spent most of my negligible savings paying the first and last months' rent payments, plus security deposit, for my rental unit in the clapboard duplex.

  The duplex was cheaper than the apartments in rental complexes closer to the center of town, allowed for easy street parking, and the proximity to the freeway saved me precious time during the wee hours of the morning when I frequently had to arrive at the wetlands preservation by six o'clock, depending on my assigned weekly shifts. Certainly, there was nothing fancy or extravagant about the little home. But what sold me most, right on the spot after I had viewed it, was the enclosed front screened in porch. Though just twelve feet long and seven feet in depth, it provided privacy and additional light, and, most of all, a cozy personal space where I could read books while feeling the autumn breezes swirling through the mesh-covered screens.

  Books were very important to me. Introverted and on the shy side, I usually found more gratification being alone than being in social settings. That is not to say I wanted to be alone all the time. I craved making connections with other men. Whether that would be just for sex, or for companionship too, I really did not know then. The whole sphere of sex and dating was hazy to me. A hidden world, like a hidden dimension, encased in fog. Though twenty-two years of age, my sexual experiences had been limited to bursts of activity, all within the past several months. Earlier in the year I stumbled upon glory hole encounters with men working in an automotive and motorcycle repair shop. Later, during the summer, a confident and refined man in his thirties had been fully inside me, advancing my experimentation and self-esteem.

  My name is Kieran. That September I thought of myself as a young man with a promising chance for a meaningful future. I no longer detested my ginger hair, freckles, lean body, and heterochromatic eyes, the left one blue, the right one green. I had begun to understand that some other people found me sexually desirable. I was finally at a point where I had the state of mind to discover what the dynamics could be like with me interacting sexually with other men. In other words, I was ready to conquer the world, or at least my tiny portion of it.

  But what I wasn't prepared for was covert manipulation. Subterfuge.

  Naively, I projected my desperate longing onto others, mistaking their interests in me to be like my behavior, in pursuit of validation and lust and friendship. Until that September, I did not understand the lengths some would go to in order to achieve other goals. The resulting events are the reason I am sharing this story with you.

  Chapter 2

  I may not have ever visited the truck stop if it hadn't been for the storm. The tornado season had concluded in the summer, but it was not uncommon for storm cells to form throughout the year in this region. It was a Saturday night and a colossal thunderstorm whipped pelting rain against my quivering bedroom windows. Lightning bolts from an angry sky could be heard crashing into the ground and the thunder seemed to rumble just above my roof. I unplugged every appliance to protect against power surges from the lightning and buried myself in bed, under my quilt, and thought about summer memories jogging beside the river and vineyard.

  I awoke later from fierce shivering. The storm had passed and an uneasy quiet had descended. My power had been knocked out by the storm. I lit a candle for a bit of illumination and found my flashlight. The streetlamp in front of my duplex was dark and the few nearby duplexes also appeared to be without power. I dressed, put on my shoes and coat, and stepped outside to assess the damage. I flicked my flashlight onto the highest setting for the light beams and discovered that most of the wooden porch railing had blown away. Pieces of debris, likely from nearby homes and businesses, was scattered across the small yard, walkway, and sidewalk. One of the large screens on my porch had torn off. I circled the circumference of the duplex and found no further major damage. But on the portion of the house belonging to a man named Andrew, who was the other occupant and whose rented living areas were structurally identical to mine, I observed a shattered bedroom window.

  I returned to the front of the duplex and knocked on Andrew's door to check on him. Andrew kept to himself and I knew scant details about him. He worked at a tattoo parlor and juggled ever-changing work hours, alternating between afternoon, evening, and late night shifts. I guessed him to be just under thirty years of age and not quite six feet in height, though still a few inches taller than me. He had thick hair, more brown than blond, and an attractive golden skin tone. His light green eyes seemed to be lost on something far away, no matter how close I might be standing to him. Andrew was lean, always dressed in jeans and black shirts, and often fussed with his old car. I mostly saw him near the curb of the street, working with tools under the open hood of his car, trying to breath more life into a machine that had long since exceeded its expected lifespan.

  Andrew didn't answer his door. I should have realized that storm or no storm, if he was home I would have heard him loudly banging his girlfriend. They knocked the sheets every single night she came over and the thin walls separating our units barely muffled their cries of ecstasy, which tended to remind me of my loneliness. On the nights when she stayed home and he had the place to himself, I could hear Andrew playing classic rock music, the bass beats vibrating the whole house.

  I went into my living room, bundled up in my heaviest coat, and sat on my old sofa to call the power company. An automated recording, using an imperious and monotone voice, informed me that the company was experiencing high call volume and urged me to call again at an another time.

  H
ow had the cold seeped inside so thoroughly that I couldn't stop chattering my teeth? I grabbed the flashlight and again checked my windows looking for signs of damage. They had survived the storm, but in tandem with the duplex's poor insulation, provided little barrier from the encroaching cold.

  I just wanted to heat up. I considered sitting in my car and running the vents against my face. I thought about driving to one of those pancake restaurants open twenty-four hours a day. However, when I stepped outside again I noticed there was so much debris in the street, including a tree that had toppled at the end of the road, that it would be unnecessarily treacherous to be weaving around road obstructions.

  That is when I looked in the direction of the truck stop and noticed its signs were still lit up. I realized it must have its own electricity generators for circumstances just like this, since serving so many people made it an impossibility for them to strictly rely on the local power company. Still, I resisted going there. What would truckers think of me and could I possibly feel welcome? On the other hand, I craved sipping a steaming cup of coffee in a warm room.

  As I approached the truck stop I spotted lights on inside the windows. Outside, truckers filled their rigs with fuel. A few cars and trucks pulled in to the lot. Numerous people were standing in the parking areas and visiting, presumably talking about the unexpected impact of the night's storm.

  I entered one of the large glass doors under a gabled entranceway. A convenience store was the first room on the left from the wide hallway. Across from it on the right was a gift store. I walked toward the food court and passed restrooms, a laundromat, a barber shop, a smoking room, and a resting den with oversized chairs facing a flat screen television monitor suspended from the ceiling and blaring out the latest news from CNN. The food court was even larger than I had imagined. A full service Mexican restaurant with booth seating and an extensive bar dominated the vast room, which had skylights and a soaring cathedral ceiling with wooden beams. Beside the bar and restaurant, a crescent-shaped row of popular fast food stations lined a massive seating area and offered burgers, donuts, ice cream, pasta, pizza, and smoothies. I chose the coffee shop, lured by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee beans, and toasted up on a stool that faced out of the room's floor-to-ceiling window onto the rest of the food court. I sipped black coffee from the largest size cup they offered, not caring whether the caffeine would keep me up the rest of the night. The next day was Sunday and I could rest all I wanted.

  Sufficiently comfortable, I removed my coat and pondered the enormity of the establishment. My assumptions had been so wrong. Sure, the truck stop had a spacious presence from the outside, anyone could see that. But I guess I hadn't taken a moment to consider what was inside. My presumption had been that the truck stop existed without any interest in doing business with someone like me. The scale of the amenities offered and the actual number of people milling about came as a complete surprise. It was like a town inside of a town. The only thing missing were motel rooms. If I explored long enough, I thought I might stumble upon those somewhere, too.

  Also, the people I watched walk by did not fit my expectations. Men and women of all ages, all body types, all heritages. Some thin, some obese, some muscular, some voluptuous. Could they all be truckers, I wondered. Surely not. But I had been wrong about everything else, so it was time for a change of perception.

  My fears of sticking out like a sore thumb had also been unjustified. No one seemed to glance at me with a discerning or unwelcome eye. I had almost expected someone at the front door to ask for proof that I drove a truck. But that was a silly thought. The customers did not seem to be focused on anything but their particular tasks at hand, whether that be buying fuel, getting a bite to eat, running a load of laundry, or catching up on world events in the television den.

  So, I was invisible, or so I thought. I felt invisible until Leo walked in and sat beside me.

  Chapter 3

  I had not seen this stranger walk in. I don't know where he came from. But suddenly, he materialized. He was seated directly beside me, despite the existence of a half dozen more empty stools he could have selected. He was likely in his early thirties. His face was dominated by smoldering eyes under thick brows. A goatee contoured around his mouth. A widow's peak marked the top of his forehead, below dark hair styled backwards, though no gel was detectable in his locks. He wore a denim jacket over a Western style shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots.

  He put his elbows on the food and drink bar stretched against the window in front of us and smirked at me. "What are you up to?" he asked.

  "Getting thawed out," I answered. His expression was intriguing and almost made me smile, but his question had been accusatory and it annoyed me to a certain degree.

  "Hmm."

  "Hmm, what?"

  "All that coffee at this hour?"

  "I have tomorrow off from work."

  "So it's an all-nighter?" he asked. "Loading up for the week?"

  "I don't have a truck," I answered.

  He laughed and kept his eyes on mine. "That's not what I meant." He looked me over and smiled. It was a natural and easy smile revealing nice white teeth and a hint of wickedness at the corners of his mouth.

  "I'm Kieran." I offered my hand and he shook it.

  "Leo."

  "I live nearby and lost electrical power from the storm. This is my first time here. I dropped in to escape the cold."

  "Your first time? Really?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "They all say that, Kieran."

  "Who is 'they'?"

  Leo swiveled so that he directly faced me. He maneuvered one of his knees against my leg. "The guys seeking a jolt of excitement."

  I flushed. Why I did so was a mystery to me. I had done nothing wrong. I really had stopped in to heat myself with the hottest cup of coffee I could find. But Leo viewed me as someone with another agenda. We've all heard stories about truckers hooking up with locals and prostitutes, but it had been difficult for me to believe most of them were anything but fiction. Tall tales from bored people spending nights away from home.

  Back to my tendency to flush, I have to admit to you that it had always been a problem for me. I not only flushed easily, but sometimes to the point where my cheeks burned and my throat constricted, barely allowing me enough air to breath without passing out. Commenting on this involuntary reaction, or apologizing for it, seemed only to make it worse. I had learned that the best course was to wait it out, trying to carry on as normally as I could, and then forgive myself afterward for not being able to better control my emotions. As you might imagine, I had to offer myself frequent forgiveness.

  Leo had no doubt at all about what my flushing indicated. "No stress, my man. You're good with me. It takes one to know one."

  "One what?" I asked. Sarcasm and denial were absent from the tone of my voice.

  "A guy in need. A sneak. A pervert. Whatever you want to call it."

  "Pervert?" That word shocked me. It felt like an indictment, yet it casually left his mouth.

  "Come on. Let's put it this way. A guy who likes his secrets. Okay?"

  I nodded. I didn't want this conversation to change into an argument. Leo was interesting to me, and very appealing, and I wanted to learn more about this guy who had such self-assurance that he could sit down beside a stranger and push right to the heart of the matter. Plus, he was right. I treasured my secrets.

  "You're a trucker?" I asked.

  "Yep," he answered with pride. "I've got a few years under my belt."

  "What do you haul?"

  "Furniture, mostly."

  "So you move people's belongings to new homes?"

  "Nah, my trips are business to business. New pieces and antiques. Everything you can think of. It's a constant trek moving them between coasts, where they are eventually sold online or to collectors, or displayed in retail warehouses."

  "Do you often make pitstops here?"

  "When I'm on the northern route, yes," he answered. "Th
is is one of the better truck stops. All of us try to get here if we can, but we're limited by law to how many hours a day we can be on the road."

  "Do you get lonely?"

  "Nope."

  "Never?"

  "Kieran, you must be a detective or some profession like that. All these questions. Do you ask questions for a living?"

  I told Leo about the job I had started on the wetlands preserve. I shared with him that I hoped to be a park ranger some day, but whether my specialty would be science, education, or law enforcement remained to be seen. I finished my coffee and pushed the empty cup away.

  "Want another cup?" he asked.

  "I might." I did not want him to leave.

  "If you're still chilly, there's a better way to instantly warm up."

  "Yeah?"

  Leo stood, offered his hand, and lifted me from the stool. "Follow me."

  Walking beside him I noticed that Leo was an inch or two taller than me, muscular through his shoulders, and a tad bow-legged. "Where are we going?"

  "The showers."

  Chapter 4

  I paused in the hallway outside of the coffee shop. Leo reached to grab my arm, as if he would tug me along. But I backed up a step from him.

  "They have showers here?" I asked.

  "Of course," he answered, smiling at my naivety.

  "But I don't have a towel. Or shampoo, or soap."

  "They provide all that. Don't worry."

  "How much does it cost?"

  "Eight bucks."

  I looked in my wallet. "I have half that in cash."

  "I'll spot you," Leo said.

  I followed him out of the front entrance and to the side of the building, closest to the parking lot for the largest trucks. The entrance lobby to the showers looked like a downscale spa, but it was clean and smelled of soap and lime. I read the signs with instructions on utilizing the facilities and noticed that there were two prices—eight dollars for the general showers and thirteen dollars for the private showers. Leo purchased two tickets, one for a general shower and one for a private shower, and we were admitted into the men's locker room. In either case, usage was strictly limited to one hour.