sure. Through those doors on your right."
Dale followed Sara's outstretched hand. Before leaving he leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her lips. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Will you still be here?"
Sara felt weak and giddy. "I'll be here."
She watched him walk away. When he finally disappeared from view, she sat on a bar stool. Her heart was racing. She felt silly for acting like a virginal schoolgirl. Regardless, she was also thinking how it would feel to make love with . . . What is his name? She'd ask when he returned.
Sara dashed to the back room to locate her purse and pulled out a small mirror and makeup. She applied a little blush here and a little there. Next, she put on a liberal amount of red lipstick and furiously brushed her hair, trying to look her very best. Satisfied with the results, she hurried back to the bar area, anticipating the moment her mystery man returned to sweep her off her feet.
***
Dale entered the battered door marked Dudes, not knowing what dangers lay behind it. Inside he found grimy floors, paper towels scattered everywhere, and enough cigarette butts in the urinals to fill a pack. He located a relatively clean area on the floor, put his knapsack down and walked to the sink. Turning on the water, he scooped it onto his face and looked at the cracked mirror. The deep penetrating eyes that stared back disturbed even him.
"Hey there, good buddy. Long time no see."
He grabbed a small towel and a leather knife case from his sack. Continuing to stare at his reflection, he pulled the knife from its sheath. A smile washed over his dusty features as the gleaming four-inch piece of metal was released from its covering; the light from the washroom's single bulb danced on the blade. Setting the cover aside, Dale placed the knife on the basin. Combining soap and water he produced a thick lather, which he applied to his face before picking up the knife again, bringing it close to his skin.
"Like Sara out there, be gentle with me and I'll bring you out to play more often."
With a rock-steady hand he scraped the knife's sharp edge across his cheek; the sound reminding him of ripping apart Velcro - both sides desperately trying to hold onto their grip. The knife brought a new identity - a new look - to the man in the mirror. One that was different, but the same. More honest. More sincere. More trustworthy.
The white soapy lather progressively turned reddish-pink as numerous nicks and cuts were made by the unforgiving blade. Undaunted, Dale continued to place the cold metal to his skin. As his hand made the final sweep of his throat, his eyes lit up as though wishing his accuracy would be off, and fate could step in to stop his internal madness. Regrettably, as in the past, today he would be given another chance to prove his worth.
Next he changed his clothes: the old thrift shop jeans replaced by a trendy brand name pair; his shabby shirt giving way to a fashionably striped one; his boots replaced by expensive leather loafers. Once satisfied with his new persona, Dale stuffed his old clothes inside the knapsack and slicked his hair back, Elvis-style.
"Wait until that bimbo gets a load of me," he growled at his reflection, splashing on some cologne. "If she thinks she's good enough to sample this merchandise, we'll have to show her otherwise."
His smiling face seemed to take on the form of several people all at once.
"It's good to be back. Now let's go out and play," he declared as he kicked the washroom door open.
***
Hearing her patron's approach, Sara straightened up on her stool. Her mind was reeling with the possibilities of what might occur next. As Dale entered the room, Sara wasn't sure her legs could support her if she was required to stand. Regardless what he was about to ask of her, she assured herself she was ready, able and very willing.
"Thanks for the directions," Dale said as he brushed by her. "You really should clean those toilets though. I was afraid something was going to bite me."
Dale stopped and assessed Sara, who looked utterly mystified. As had happened earlier, her eyes locked with his. Her heart felt as if it might pound its way through her chest.
"I trust you didn't assume I'd want to get down and dirty with an old tramp like you? If you did, I feel really sorry for you, Sara."
The eyes appeared the same, but Sara sensed some change had occurred. "You're a bastard," she said, getting off the stool.
"I'm glad you're taking this so well. I was afraid you'd crumble under the humiliation of yet another man turning down your sagging body." Dale smiled as he spoke and stepped toward the front doors.
In full pursuit and seething with anger, Sara cried out, "You're not as hot as you think you are. Most sons of bitches aren't!" She had almost reached him when he spun on his heels and grabbed both her arms.
"I was the best thing you ever had, baby," he grimaced. "You're never going to forget me or what happened here today. You'll replay every second in your scattered head, but you'll never discover the truth of what went wrong. I'll give you a hint though: we're not going to be together because of something that you did, not me, sweet Sara - you."
The gritty edge in his voice gave it a sinister quality. He released Sara, who from sheer fright had fallen to the floor paralysed. The rage she felt a moment earlier was gone, replaced by overwhelming bewilderment.
What did I do? Why is he leaving? What’s wrong with me?
Outside, Dale inhaled the fresh morning air and proceeded toward the road.
"If they don't know the rules, they shouldn't be in the game," he said to himself. Smiling, he opened his knapsack to retrieve a pair of sunglasses. "And of course, if you're playing against me you should expect to lose anyway." He glanced back at the roadhouse and his grin widened. "Isn't that right, Sara?"
With his shades in place, Dale stuck out his thumb and prayed it wouldn't take long to be picked up. With this warm-up round behind him, he was raring to start a new game in which the stakes would be much higher.
CHAPTER TWO
"Do you know how dangerous those things are?" Sheila Atkins yelled from the porch step.
Jeremy could barely hear her above the roar of his new motorcycle. The look on her face wasn't one of joy.
"Mom, get a life," he called back. "I'm 19 and an upstanding citizen. Do you really think I'm going to ride through town like a maniac?"
"I don't want to see my baby get hurt, that's all," she replied, resigned to the fact she couldn't convince her son of the dangers of motorcycles. "I'll see you tomorrow after the conference. Your father and I are leaving in a few minutes."
The word "baby" made Jeremy cringe. Hopping on the motorcycle, he performed a wheelie for his less than appreciative mother and sped uptown. With the wind on his face and hot summer air being forced into his lungs, Jeremy couldn't wait to show off his new ride to his gang. This two-wheeled marvel would reaffirm what everyone already knew: Jeremy Atkins was the coolest.
In a town of 1300 residents, there were few stand-outs. Jeremy Atkins was one of those few. It helped that his father had been the Mayor of Lasting for 15 years and his mother was the principal of Lasting High School. Even though Jeremy would admit that a portion of his heightened status was attributed to
