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The rider raised his brows slightly as if to inquire whether I was planning to roll the window down any time soon, and I flushed and rolled it down. The outside air was growing chilly and somewhat damp, moving the evening’s scent past my face, I caught road dust and engine smell and something even warmer from the rider’s body: sharp saltiness with a musky undertone. It was like worn leather or dried meat, something neither alive nor dead: in arrested decay. All the muscles of my thighs and pelvis tensed for a moment. I’d always noticed that if you liked a man’s smell, the rest might not matter much. He could be a pipsqueak or a gun control advocate and still he could do just fine in bed if you liked his smell. And the rider wasn’t a pipsqueak by a long, long shot. “Evenin’,” he said. “Uh…hello,” I replied. “You’ve been sitting here a long time, girl.” My eyebrows went up–how did he know? “Your engine’s cold,” he said by way of explanation. Looking at me very carefully, he took a.

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