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He must get over quickly or he'd be scraping another concrete barrier. Sweat poured down his forehead into his eyes, down his neck, and his armpits felt swampy. The air conditioner blew cool air but the heat from the freeway pavement and the surrounding traffic was overpowering.He frantically searched for an opening so he could merge. The speed limit in this section was posted at 45 miles an hour, but that was ridiculous. Nobody backed off from the 70 and 75 miles per hour traffic flow from the "flying wye" interchange at the main freeway, down this steep spur leading into town. A sea of brake lights would come on when people slowed during the last quarter mile before the connector stub ended at the main traffic lights, and City Boulevard began. John glanced at his speedometer: 55 and climbing. He was already over the legal limit, but 15 mph slower than the flow of traffic.His attention was diverted by a loud roar beside him. A big man in a black biker's vest was crowding into his. He started to repeat himself, “Wow, you’re…” I stopped him by kicking one leg up and catching him with my knee on his shoulder. I didn’t hit him very hard but it jolted him to his senses. He let go of me, got off, and helped me up. I rushed to my room, without the towel. As soon as I closed the door behind me I leaned against the door and thought, wow that was exciting. From the other side of the door I heard him say, “Carly, I’m sorry…really sorry.”I opened the door a crack and said, “Don’t say that…it was my fault.”“Yes, but I’m still sorry.”“You want to make it up to me?” I asked.“Sure anything…anything you want.”The devil took over and I said, “Take off all your clothes right there in the hall.”“Why?” he asked.“Because you said you would do anything for me,” I explained.“Well, okay but then what?”I peeked out and saw he already had his shirt off and was unbuckling his belt. Then his jeans fell to the floor. Soon he was standing there in only his jockey shorts. “Okay,” he.
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