Read The Road to Glory for Free Online Page A
Authors: Blayne Cooper, T Novan
very next county road and headed north. She had to slow to no more than ten miles per hour when even her truck’s powerful low beams weren’t cutting through the dense curtain of hazy moisture. Another hour passed, and when she was certain she was good and lost Leigh pulled onto a wide dirt road and drove only about fifty feet. She eased her truck to the side, killing her engine and lights. Leigh half-expected to see the blinking ‘ritz’s’ sign in the distance. But she didn’t.
Unbuckling the seat belt, she popped open her door and dropped down onto the wet ground. The air felt heavy against her skin and fine mist instantly enveloped her, dampening her hair and clothes. She pulled in a deep breath of fresh, moist air. "I’m totally lost," she moaned, her eyes scanning her surroundings. She saw nothing but mud, prairie grass and fog. Leigh rubbed her temples and debated relieving herself outside. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see her in this weather and at this time of night. But then she remembered the ticks that had attached themselves to her ass while she was squatting a few years ago. Scowling, Leigh unconsciously rubbed her butt. Their removal was even more humiliating than their discovery. No, morning would be soon enough.
It was so dark she didn’t bother to close the curtains in the small living space of her cab. Instead, she stripped down to her panties and crawled into bed, pulling up the soft sheet. Her eyes fluttered shut and she exhaled slowly. Her body relaxed immediately, and she tumbled into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
The male squirrel wearily sat up and cracked open his beady black eyes. "Where am I?" He looked around the back of what appeared to be a moving truck. Moving? "I’ve been kidnapped!" he wailed piteously. "Stolen from Potter Park. Torn from the breast of my community in the prime of my life!" The rodent tried to bury his head in his arms as he sobbed. But sadly, his stubby appendages were too short. Damn God and her sick sense of humor!
"You have not been kidnapped, fool," his long-time mate hissed. "You went on an all-night bender and passed out drunk!" The larger squirrel kicked at the half-crushed beer can that the male was leaning against.
He only groaned, looking at the can. It was white with black letters that proclaimed, ‘Beer’. Generic beer? When he pushed off the can it rolled over and the back was revealed. ‘Suitable for human consumption.’ Oh, the misery! How low had he stooped?
The sound of a honking horn caused the female to reach up to cover her ears but, like her mate, she couldn’t reach them without ducking her head awkwardly. She repeated her husband’s virulent curse, not knowing the chain of events their simple words would set in motion.
* * *
RJ blew on the embers, igniting the tinder so the flames would grow and consume the larger sticks. Once she was satisfied the fire was doing all right without her, she stood and picked up her beer from the table. Taking a drink from the long neck bottle, she watched the fire grow. I’m a firebug. It’s a good thing those stories my mother told me about playing with matches weren’t true.
Flea stood up from her spot in the very center of the picnic table and gave a good cat stretch, her arms outstretched in front of her, purring all the while. Then she proceeded to dig her nails into the table; it was the perfect scratching post.
"Ruth Jean Fitzgerald! What is it you that you think you’re doin’?"
"Mother?" RJ whirled around, quickly putting the bottle behind her back and spilling most of it down her legs when she did. "Damn," she muttered as she tried to surreptitiously toss the bottle away. Now I look as though I’ve pissed myself. I am twenty-seven years old. It’s not fair!
Flea smiled and plopped back, content to watch the show. She hated beer anyway, unless, of course, it was root beer.
Katherine Fitzgerald crossed to the picnic table, placing two large
Unbuckling the seat belt, she popped open her door and dropped down onto the wet ground. The air felt heavy against her skin and fine mist instantly enveloped her, dampening her hair and clothes. She pulled in a deep breath of fresh, moist air. "I’m totally lost," she moaned, her eyes scanning her surroundings. She saw nothing but mud, prairie grass and fog. Leigh rubbed her temples and debated relieving herself outside. It wasn’t like anyone was going to see her in this weather and at this time of night. But then she remembered the ticks that had attached themselves to her ass while she was squatting a few years ago. Scowling, Leigh unconsciously rubbed her butt. Their removal was even more humiliating than their discovery. No, morning would be soon enough.
It was so dark she didn’t bother to close the curtains in the small living space of her cab. Instead, she stripped down to her panties and crawled into bed, pulling up the soft sheet. Her eyes fluttered shut and she exhaled slowly. Her body relaxed immediately, and she tumbled into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
The male squirrel wearily sat up and cracked open his beady black eyes. "Where am I?" He looked around the back of what appeared to be a moving truck. Moving? "I’ve been kidnapped!" he wailed piteously. "Stolen from Potter Park. Torn from the breast of my community in the prime of my life!" The rodent tried to bury his head in his arms as he sobbed. But sadly, his stubby appendages were too short. Damn God and her sick sense of humor!
"You have not been kidnapped, fool," his long-time mate hissed. "You went on an all-night bender and passed out drunk!" The larger squirrel kicked at the half-crushed beer can that the male was leaning against.
He only groaned, looking at the can. It was white with black letters that proclaimed, ‘Beer’. Generic beer? When he pushed off the can it rolled over and the back was revealed. ‘Suitable for human consumption.’ Oh, the misery! How low had he stooped?
The sound of a honking horn caused the female to reach up to cover her ears but, like her mate, she couldn’t reach them without ducking her head awkwardly. She repeated her husband’s virulent curse, not knowing the chain of events their simple words would set in motion.
* * *
RJ blew on the embers, igniting the tinder so the flames would grow and consume the larger sticks. Once she was satisfied the fire was doing all right without her, she stood and picked up her beer from the table. Taking a drink from the long neck bottle, she watched the fire grow. I’m a firebug. It’s a good thing those stories my mother told me about playing with matches weren’t true.
Flea stood up from her spot in the very center of the picnic table and gave a good cat stretch, her arms outstretched in front of her, purring all the while. Then she proceeded to dig her nails into the table; it was the perfect scratching post.
"Ruth Jean Fitzgerald! What is it you that you think you’re doin’?"
"Mother?" RJ whirled around, quickly putting the bottle behind her back and spilling most of it down her legs when she did. "Damn," she muttered as she tried to surreptitiously toss the bottle away. Now I look as though I’ve pissed myself. I am twenty-seven years old. It’s not fair!
Flea smiled and plopped back, content to watch the show. She hated beer anyway, unless, of course, it was root beer.
Katherine Fitzgerald crossed to the picnic table, placing two large