#truckdriver!johnny davis x plus-size fem!OC/reader

[capnmachete]

Johnny Davis x plus-size fem!OC (Period piece -- mid-1960s, Bikeriders universe but canon-divergent)

PART 9: Please Mr. Postman Long distance and long-haul trucking make a brand-new romance a little complicated. Two-for-one today; should have Part 10 up later tonight or first thing tomorrow.

By-request tags: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler; @zablife; @lou1333; @potter-solomons, @hoodeddreams13 Thanks you guys for reading and for your wonderful comments! If anybody else wants to be tagged, just LMK.

(Part 1/Part 2/Part 3/Part 4/Part 5/Part 6/Part 7/Part 8)

Part 9: Please Mr. Postman

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  That’s where the first postcard comes from; it's got a picture of the Liberty Bell on it.

The mailman comes around midmorning; you're usually still asleep after workin' all night.  But you’re off on Tuesdays, and Momma’s got her weekly hair appointment.  So today you’re the first one to see the mail.

You don't see it at first; it's stuck between the electric bill and Daddy’s Reader’s Digest and mixed in with the coupons for Ivory Soap and Crisco.  And when you do see it, you figure it just got delivered to the wrong house. Mr. Meadows -- he's the mailman -- is gettin’ up in years. It ain't the first the first time he’s mixed up the mail. 

You don’t flip it over to find out which house it was supposed to go to, until you’re halfway back to the front porch. 

And there it is, big as day:  Miss Corinna Albright, 210 Lucas Avenue, Granger Iowa, written in careful print.  And on the other half:  J.D. XOXO in slanty left-handed cursive.  Which leaves you standin’ in the middle of the sidewalk, grinnin’ like a fool, butterflies havin’ a riot in your stomach.  And real glad Momma didn’t get the mail first, otherwise you’d be gettin’ interrogated right now. “He sure don’t say much,” Gus remarks the next day, lookin’ over your shoulder; you're showin' Sharlette the postcard while you clock out and she clocks in.  “Quit snoopin’,” you tell him, and poke him with your elbow.  You ain't bothered.  Johnny's the quiet type; don't talk much, so it stands to reason he don't write much either.

“So what? Lookit them X’s and O’s,” Sharlette points out, wavin' Gus away.  She turns the card over again, looks at the picture and the postmark.  "Dang.  Man's only been gone three days, maybe four.  You sure all you did was kiss him?” she asks you, eyes narrowed.

“Sharlette!” you squawk, and smack her shoulder. You ain't really offended, though, on account of that's just how Sharlette is. Likes to tease and get a rise out of people. 

She hands it back with a grin.  “I’m kiddin’.  But don’t go runnin’ oft and elopin’ just yet; I ain’t up to workin’ doubles every day until Gus hires somebody else,” she teases. 

“Don't get ahead of yourself; we ain’t even gone on a real date yet,” you grumble, pretendin’ to be annoyed.  Even though you ain’t really.  And Sharlette knows it.  She sees the tiny smile you can’t quite squash under pretend-aggravated, and smiles back, reachin' into the cooler for the milk.

--- The next postcard comes a few days after that – St. Louis, Missouri, with a picture of the Arch.  And another one early the next week.  Arkansas this time. No photo on this one, just says Arkansas in big, bright cartoon-looking letters. Maybe there ain't anything noteworthy enough in Arkansas to put on a postcard.

It don’t really matter what’s on the front anyways; it’s the J.D. XOXO on the back of each one that lights you up like a dang Christmas tree, every time.  They might just be postcards, and not fancy love letters, but each one makes you feel like a princess all over again. 

By the end of two weeks you’ve got a little collection goin’ – the three you already got, and another one from Memphis, with Graceland on it.  All four are stuck in the frame around the dresser mirror in your bedroom.  Every time you go to fix your hair or put on a little mascara, there they are – proof that Johnny Davis is out there thinkin’ about you while he’s on the road.  And it purely makes your day.

“That man’s sweet on you,” Sharlette tells you with a confident nod, lookin’ at the latest postcard.  “There ain’t no mistakin’ it.”

“Where’s all these postcards comin’ from?” Momma asks, when the inevitable finally happens and she beats you to the mailbox.  “And who’s J.D.?”

“Just a pen pal!” you lie, brightly, hopin’ it sounds convincing.  “I joined a club; there was an ad in the back of the Life Magazine last month.”  And you slide the card out of her hand.  And manage to keep yourself from snatchin’ it away fast enough to make her suspicious.

“Sure is friendly,” she comments, eyes narrowed.  Has seen the Xs and Os too.  Dangit. 

“Well, you know, folks in different places have different ways!  And some folks are just naturally more affectionate than others!”  you chirp, and hustle back to your room before your pink face can give you away.  Once you’re behind the closed door, you flop back on your bed, huffin’ a relieved sigh.  And spend the next few minutes admirin’ that postcard and daydreamin’, with a sappy smile on your face.

It ain’t that you especially like lyin’ to Momma.  And you ain’t ashamed of Johnny, or embarrassed about havin’ a new maybe-boyfriend.  Or gettin’ kissed into a floaty, muddleheaded daze right outside your own work.  But Momma’s set in her ways, and nosy.  And  got a lot of opinions and questions, most of which you don’t particularly want to hear, or have to answer. 

She’d have a fit, too, if she knew you were plannin’ to go on a date with a trucker.  A divorced trucker, at that.  According to Momma you can’t trust a divorced man.  Or truckers either.  She’s convinced every last one is a skirt chaser and a two timer, with wives and girlfriends scattered all over the map. 

And Daddy?  Well, holy moly, let’s don’t even bring Daddy into it.  He’s real protective and old fashioned. And just as quiet as Johnny but not half as easygoin'.  Has already scared off three or four fellas that wanted to take you out.  Just your luck that Smooth Melvin, of all people, is the only one Daddy approves of so far.  And that’s only because Daddy and Melvin Senior work together at the mill.  The two of ‘em spend nearly every Saturday evenin' sittin’ in the garage, drinkin’ beer and gruntin’ at each other, while Momma watches her shows inside.

So it’s a whole lot simpler to just keep everything under your hat for now.  You're grown, after all, and what Momma and Daddy don’t know won’t hurt ‘em.  Besides, you ain’t even officially had your first date yet, so there ain’t really anything to talk about.  (At least that’s what you tell yourself, because it makes you feel a little less guilty about keepin’ secrets.)

---

As nice as the post cards are, and as bubbly and happy as you get when one shows up in the mail, the phone calls are even better.  There’s only been two so far; they ain’t easy to manage on account of Johnny’s on the road so much.  The timin’ gets complicated, and long-distance calls from a payphone get real expensive real quick. And you don’t have much privacy, either, thanks to Momma at home and a certain unnamed nosy fry cook at work.  Somebody’s always around.  Johnny don’t have any privacy either, really – on the road for two weeks solid at a time, sleepin’ in the truck and callin’ from payphones here and there. Still –  you do get to talk a little bit, and you make the best of it.  The first time’s on your night off, real late, after Momma and Daddy have gone to bed.  You’ve got the curly cord on the wall phone in the hallway stretched about as far as it’ll go, down the hall and through the crack under your closed bedroom door. 

Which means you gotta sit on the floor next to the door while you talk.  Stretch that cord any further and you risk pullin’ the phone clean off the wall and makin’ a commotion.  And if you wake Momma up, then that’ll be the end of the conversation for the night.

“I like the postcards,” you tell him, keepin’ your voice down, twistin’ the cord around your finger like a lock of hair. "I wasn't expectin' that."

“Yeah?” he says back, and you can hear the smile in his voice.  Imagine the way his eyes are crinklin' at the corners.  “I know it ain’t the same as travelin’, and seein’ all those places for real, but it’s somethin’.”  There’s a little pause, and you hear a sound you recognize already – the bright metal clink of Johnny’s lighter, and a sharp injale.  “Besides, I hadda make sure you don't forget about me while I’m gone.” Not a snowball’s chance in hell you’re gonna forget about Johnny Davis.  “It just so happens I got a very good memory,” you tell him instead, grinning to yourself.  “But a little reminder never hurts.” You stay on the phone as long as you can, until you’re gettin’ sleepy and Johnny’s about to run out of dimes.  And talk about anythin’ and everythin’.  You tell him about all the latest gossip and goin’s on in LaGrange.  He talks a little about the girls, and about what his life in Deerfield is like when he’s home, which is hardly never.  And his bike.  Which has a name, you find out. “Louise?”  you ask him, surprised, laughin’ as quiet as you can manage.  “Why Louise?”

“Hell, I dunno, really,” he tells you back.  “It ain’t named after anybody or anything like that.  Just kinda looked like a Louise to me, I guess.” 

And you flirt, although not too much, what with Johnny on a payphone in a truck stop, and Daddy sawin’ logs down the hall loud enough to rattle the windows.  And you sittin’ on the linoleum floor next to your bedroom door,  because that’s as far as the phone cord will go.  You have to put the receiver down for a minute and get up and move around, because your butt’s fallin’ asleep. "Gonna have to get you a phone for your room," Johnny tells you, when you pick up again and explain. "Or a longer cord, at least. So's you can be comfortable while we talk. Can't have you sittin' on the floor gettin' all cramped up and uncomfortable."

The truth is you'd sit on a damn cactus if that's what it takes to talk to Johnny, hear that low, slow voice, remember the way his warm breath tickled your ear. "You're bein' awful thoughtful," you tell him instead. "Keep it up and I might just have to kiss you again next time I see ya," you say, and laugh. "Yeah? I guess I better hurry up and get back there, then," he says, and laughs, that warm cigarette-raspy chuckle.  It’s the nicest sound you’ve heard all dang day.  Only thing better is hearin' him call you sweetheart a few minutes later, when he says good night. You hang up and go to bed all warm and tingly, thinkin' about future kisses.

---

The next time he calls, it’s at the diner.  On a slow night, thank heavens, so you can actually stand still and talk for a minute.  You scuttle back to the tiny office, to the phone on the wall just outside the door, and snatch up the receiver Gus has left danglin’.  “You still up for goin’ on that date?” Johnny asks you, as soon as you pick up. 

You say yes so fast you nearly trip over your own tongue; it comes out in an almost-shout.  Loud enough to make Gus turn plumb around at the grill, and give you a funny look. 

“Well – I got a little time off comin’ up end of next week,” Johnny tells you.  “Cut a deal with my dispatcher to switch some things around, and got a coupla days off in a row.”  It’s enough time, he explains, to swing by for a quick visit with his girls in South Bend, then stop off at home for a night.  And then come to LaGrange. You're about tickled enough to jump up and down. And surprised -- you didn't expect this to happen so quick, but you sure aren't complainin'. "Really? What day?” you ask him, eager. 

"The 20th," he tells you.  "If I get an early jump and make good time, I can drop the load off and be in LaGrange before dark.  You free that night? Lemme take ya out someplace nice. Stay out as late as you want; I won't hafta run off so quick this time.” 

You peek inside the office door at the calendar on the wall. And then gasp. *The 20th?  September 20th?”  you ask Johnny, excited.  The timin' couldn't be more perfect! “The Webster County Fair’s goin’ on that weekend, over in Fort Dodge!” you tell him.  “It ain’t but maybe twenty, thirty minutes from here!” 

The county fair’s just about the most excitin’ thing that happens around here – bright lights and music, ferris wheels and funnel cakes.  It’s near about perfect for a first date. 

Johnny thinks so too. “Yeah?  Well alright then; that's what we'll do,” he tells you.  “You be good, Miss Corinna. Can’t wait to see ya.”

And you hang up floatin’ on air, stomach full of butterflies again.  And do a little two-second-long happy dance that earns you another sideways look from Gus.  You start right in on him, about needin’ the night of the 20th off, puttin’ on your best pretty-please and battin’ your eyelashes.

Gus grumps and crabs about it right off the bat.  You're not surprised, since there ain’t much Gus don’t grump and crab about.

But you ain’t worried. You got a whole week to convince him, or get one of the other girls to switch off. And you will do whatever it takes, move heaven and earth if you have to. Because there is no way you're gonna miss out on a date with Johnny Davis. ___ Song inspo: Please Mr. Postman, The Marvelettes (1961)

[capnmachete]

Johnny Davis x plus-size fem!OC (Period piece -- mid-1960s, Bikeriders universe but canon-divergent)

PART 8: You Came, You Saw, You Conquered An envelope, a nickel tour, and a kiss. Apologies for the long-ass chapter! But couldn't see cutting it off any sooner :-) Probably gonna add this over on AO3 at some point as well.

By-request tags: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler; @zablife; @lou1333; @potter-solomons, @hoodeddreams13 Thanks you guys for reading and for your wonderful comments! If anybody else wants to be tagged, just LMK.

(Part 1/Part 2/Part 3/Part 4/Part 5/Part 6/Part 7)

Part 8: You Came, You Saw, You Conquered It ain’t the answer you expected.  But it ain’t necessarily a bad answer either.  Actually it ain’t really an answer at all, not just yet.

“Go!!” Sharlette hisses, flappin’ her hands at you, when you go back in the kitchen to ask if you can take a break for a few minutes.

“He wants to show me somethin’,” you explain, lookin’ to Gus. 

“I bet he does,” Gus grumbles.  “Bet I know what it is, too.  Truck driver ast a girl to come outside so he can show her somethin’ –”

“Oh, shut up,” you and Sharlette tell him, both at the same time.  “It ain’t like that,” you tell Gus, cuttin’ your eyes at him – too purely wound up to notice the fact that he’s tryin’ to look out for you, in his own pain-in-the-behind way. 

“Alright,” he grumbles.  “But you ain’t back in ten minutes, I’m comin’ out there after you,” he warns you, shakin’ a spatula. 

“What’re you gonna do, flip the man sunny-side up?” Sharlette asks him, snappin’ her gum.  “Go on, hurry up with that dang bacon already; I got people waitin’.”

—-

It’s the littlest bit chilly outside, the first hint of fall creepin’ in.  The Peterbilt is parked a little ways across the lot; the wind swirls your apron around as you and Johnny crunch across the gravel together.  It’s not a long walk, not really, but it feels like an almighty serious one.  Johnny’s quiet, don’t say anything else yet.  He's still holdin’ your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.  That helps; it settles the jitters in your stomach a little bit. “I don’t usually do this kinda thing,” you tell Johnny.  “I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m some kind of a lot lizard.”  You look down at your two pairs of feet – your tired ones in comfy saddle oxfords and bobby socks, Johnny’s scuffed-up workboots – movin’ in tandem as you walk.

“Nah.  Why would I think that?  If I thought that, I wouldnt’a asked you out here,” he tells you, with a quick glance over.

And you reckon that’s true.  First of all, Gus and the owner don’t allow lot lizards.  Once in a while one shows up in town and tries to set up shop, but they get chased off in pretty short order.  And truckers talk.  Word gets around; if that’s the kinda thing you’re lookin’ for, you’re wastin’ your time in LaGrange.  Tiffany’s about the closest thing we got, and she’s just a little slutty, not an actual real-life harlot.

And besides, if that’s all Johnny was after, he sure has taken the long route to get there.  Coulda tried sweet-talkin' you out into the parkin' lot ten times over by now.  Sure has spent a lot of money on coffee and pie, and a lot of time talkin’ and holdin’ hands, just to get somethin’ he coulda had a whole lot faster and easier up the road in Williams, where I-35 crosses Highway 20.

He ain’t been anything but a gentleman so far, kind and quiet.  So you feel safe, walkin’ across the lot to where the big red rig stands.  And besides, you got Sharlette inside peekin’ out the window, ready to send Gus out with his spatula. 

“Good lord, this thing sure is tall,” you remark, when y’all get there.  For all the semi trucks as you’ve watched come and go, you ain’t ever got right up this close to one before.  Mostly because nice girls don’t follow truckdrivers out into the parking lot.  Not usually anyway, but this ain’t a usual kind of thing, so it don’t count.

You stare what feels like straight up; the Peterbilt cab towers over you, all red paint and steel and shiny chrome.  Makes you feel little. You can’t even see in through the window from where you’re standin’.  To be fair, you ain’t very tall, and Johnny’s not a real tall man either, but still.  It is just purely BIG.

“Hang on; I gotta get somethin’,” he tells you.  You’re eager to sneak a peek when he opens the driver’s side door; you’ve always wondered what the insides of the cabs look like and the curiosity’s eatin’ you up a little bit.  And besides, it’s a nice distraction from worryin’ about what you might be about to see.

So it’s a little bit of a disappointment when he circles around to the passenger side instead.  You follow a couple of steps behind.

He’s halfway up – hand on the chrome grab bar, door open and standing on one shiny steel step, leanin’ into the cab and rustlin' through the glovebox, when he half-turns and looks back at you, surprised.  Musta heard your feet shiftin’ in the gravel as you crept up closer.

He smiles and raises an eyebrow.  “You enjoyin’ the view?” And your face turns hot in the dark. Because you wasn’t really lookin’ at his backside – was actually creepin’ up to try to sneak a peek inside the cab, whatever you could see from down below.

Of course now you are lookin’ at his backside.  Because now that it’s been brought to your attention, you kinda can’t help lookin’.  And it ain’t a bad view at all, even if he’s wearin’ the same kind of gray Dickies work pants your daddy wears down at the garage.  Not exactly high fashion, but fills ‘em out nice. Got narrow hips and wide shoulders, nice trim waist. 

Not that it’s exactly ladylike for you to be noticin’ that kind of thing, even if you are, so you rearrange your face and sidestep a little.  “I was just tryin’ to see past you.  I swear,” you explain.  “I ain’t never seen the inside of a truck cab before; I always wondered what all it looked like.”

“No?” he asks, and looks down at you, surprised.  And then reconsiders, thinkin’ about the kind of girls who do get up close and personal with semi trucks.  “No, I guess maybe you ain’t.”  He blinks, thinkin’ for a minute, then fetches somethin’ out of the glovebox – a big manila envelope – and hops down off the step into the gravel.

And loses the serious look he’s been wearin’ for a minute.  “You wanna take a look inside?” he asks, and grins.  “C’mon, Miss Corinna,” he tells you and steps back.  “Go on up, take a look around.  Sit behind the wheel if you want.”

It certainly ain’t the reason you came out here, but after years of watchin’ one truck after another rumble into the lot and away again, curiosity’s about to eat you up.  And you’ve done already walked out here in full view of the folks in the diner; anybody who’s liable to think you’re doin’ something you shouldn’t be doin’ is probably already thinkin’ it anyway. 

Besides, it’s a nice distraction from your own nerves, which are janglin’, still waitin’ to hear why he rushed out of the diner so doggone fast last time.  And why he ain’t been back in so long.  So why not?  “You sure….?” you ask him.

“Sure I’m sure.  It ain’t like you’re gonna crank it up and steal it.  Are ya?” he asks you, teasin’, with a slow smile, eyes sparklin’ in the sodium lights. 

“Cain’t even if I want to,” you tease back, relieved at the break in the tension.  “You still got the keys,” you point out, with a laugh.

“Oh yeah,” he says, and looks at ‘em like he’s surprised, then grins.  “I guess I do.”  

Not like you’d know how to drive the dang thing anyway; you’d be scared to death to try.  And it’s a trial even gettin’ high enough up on the steps to see inside properly, as you find out a second later.  “Oof,” you say, after one failed attempt; that first step is a big one, and it ain’t the most ladylike thing, trying to climb up to see the actual cab. 

Johnny chuckles.  “Yeah,” he says.  “That first one’s a doozy if you ain’t used to it.”  He stands next to you, shows you how to latch onto the chrome grab bar and the door handle, the other grab bar inside.  “Don’t let go until you’re all the way up the steps,” he cautions you, “it’s a long way down and that gravel ain’t soft.” 

And sets one warm hand on your back, protective.  It makes you feel a whole bunch of things.  First of all it reminds you he’s a daddy with two little girls; makes you kinda imagine how he might be with them.  And it makes you feel all bubbly inside – first time he’s touched anything besides your hand, and it’s an almighty distraction.

But you ain’t lookin’ to fall on your rear end in front of God and everybody, so you try not to pay too much attention to that warm palm against your back,   And try again, and make it up onto the first step, with a not-very-delicate grunt of effort. The second step’s a little shorter.  “Don’t be lookin’ up my skirt, now,” you tell him back over your shoulder, fake-scoldin'.

He laughs.  “I ain’t.  Scout’s honor,” he tells you, and you make that last step into the cab and plop yourself into the seat. It’s a wonder in there – about a hundred dials on the dashboard, and two big gearshifter knobs with at least twice as many gears as you ever seen in a regular car.  A whole lot more complicated than the three-on-the-tree Pontiac parked at home.  A CB radio sets up front in between the seats.

The seats are big and comfy and the wheel’s huge when you slide behind it, makes you feel like a bus driver.  You’re sorely tempted to ask Johnny if you can honk the air horn, but it’s late and you don’t wanna wake up the half of LaGrange that ain’t already out at the football game.  He smiles up at you from the ground when he hears you oohin’ and aahin’.

It’s just as keen as you always thought it would be, and a whole lot more roomy and comfy.  And neat as a pin; for a man travelin’ alone Johnny Davis keeps things pretty tidy.  Just an empty coffee cup and a duffel bag, a St. Christopher medal hangin’ off the rearview. A little plastic Jesus stuck to the dash, and school photos of his two girls on the back of the visor.

And behind you, between the seats, a kind of a hatch behind a curtain, halfway up the back wall.  When you crane around and peek through it’s like a tiny little bedroom – a bunk and a radio, a pillow. A towel hung up; a book layin’ open on mussed-up covers.  Which gets you thinkin' thoughts you probably ought not to be thinkin’ in the middle of a workshift at the diner.

So you clear your throat and turn back around and quit lookin’ before you can think yourself into some kind of trouble.  “You like it up there?" he asks.

And you nod down at him like your head’s on a spring, slidin’ back over the passenger seat.  “It’s the neatest thing I seen in a long time,” you tell him, honestly.  “Even more interestin’ than I thought it would be, and comfy too.  I see why you like it.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, and rubs a hand over his beard.  “It ain’t a bed of roses; I don’t guess anything is really.  But I like it.  And I get to see a lot of places.” 

He pauses a second, lookin’ away, grin fadin’, like he just remembered the envelope hangin’ by his side and the reason why you was out here in the first place.  “Anyways – here,” he tells you. He hands the envelope up to you, ducks his head.  “I didn’t want to bring it inside and flash it around like it was somethin’ – I dunno.  Somethin’ to celebrate.  Felt disrespectful.”  He says it quiet, a hand on the back of his neck, lookin’ away, off to the side at nothin’. 

If curiosity was eatin’ you up before, it’s plumb killin’ you now.  “Should I – ?” you ask.  And when he nods, you open the envelope up and slide a little sheaf of papers out. 

You seen a paper like this before.  Gus had one, for a little while, brought it to work and laid it down in the office by accident.  This one is a little different – got some signatures on it and a big fancy raised seal, a date stamped on one corner.   July 18, 1966, almost two months ago.  State of Illinois, Circuit Court, Lake County, it says.  Judgment of Dissolution of Marriage or Civil Union. You must have a strange look on your face, because he rubs his knuckles across his nose and sniffs, and hurries up to say somethin’ else.  “It’s real important to do things the right way,” he tells you, lookin’ away, hands stuck in his pockets..  “I done things the wrong way around once before, and I hurt some people,” he says, quiet.  “I ain't gonna do that again. You gotta finish one thing all the way, finish it right, before you start somethin’ else.”

You blink at that for a long minute, lettin’ it soak in. He’s pulled out a smoke but ain’t lit it, just turning it around in his hands, and lookin’ down at it.  First time it occurs to you maybe he’s got a little flutter of nerves goin’ on too.  “I wanted to get my head straight, too.  And give things time to settle down.  It don’t look right to start somethin’ new before the ink’s even dry.”

A little warm spot’s popped up in your chest, just a little kernel.  Hopeful but tryin' not to get ahead of yourself.   “What kinda somethin’ new are you lookin’ to start, Johnny Davis?”  You look up at him and find him lookin’ back.

“Well, that kinda depends on you,” he tells you, with a shrug, and one of those up-from underneath smiles. The slow ones, that always feel like they’re just for you, a little secret.  “Was wonderin’ if maybe I could take you out somewheres next time I’m in town.”

It takes a second for that to sink in, and for that little warm spot to take over your whole self!  You feel like you’re just about to bust from excitement.  You’re so full of happy butterflies you’re ready to jump down and do a little happy dance right now.  Except you’re a good five feet off the ground in the cab of a huge truck.  And you’d prolly break your neck and kill yourself, and wouldn’t that be a damn shame now that you’ve got a date with Johnny Davis to look forward to?

It don’t even occur to you yet that next time he’s in town might be anywhere from a week to a couple of months.  Or that there ain’t really much of anywhere in LaGrange to get taken out to.  But none of that matters right now.  

You’re so tickled that it also don’t occur to you you haven’t actually said ‘yes’ yet.  Until he speaks up again. “I mean – I ain’t steppin’ on anybody’s toes, am I?  If you and Smooth Melvin are, like – a thing – “  He says it with a half-smile, like he knows already. But you tell him anyway. “Me and Smooth Melvin ain’t a thing anywhere except maybe in Smooth Melvin’s dreams,” you tell him, smilin’ like you’re about to bust.  “That’s what I was hopin’,” he tells you, grinnin’ right back, eyes all crinkled up like he’s for-real happy. You turn sideways in the big vinyl seat, get your feet settled on the top metal step and a hand on the grab bar..  It’s still a long way down.  “Help me down,” you ask him – holdin’ your free hand out, expectin’ him to take it. “I gotcha,” he tells you, tuckin' the unlit smoke behind his ear.  And he leaves that hand hangin’ right where it is. Steps in and reaches up fits his hands around your waist instead.  Lifts you right off that step like you don’t weigh more than a feather – there’s muscles under those sleeves – and sets you down on the ground gentle as anything.  It’s meant to be gallant and not handsy, you can tell that’s what he’s aimin’ for, but it surprises you and you end up turnin’ it kinda spicy by accident.  You make a little squawk of surprise when you feel your feet leave the step, afraid you're fallin', and reach out to brace yourself on his shoulders.  And kinda halfway slide down his body on the way down to the ground. And end up kinda sorta in Johnny Davis’ arms, skirt rucked up a little.

Which maybe ought to be awkward as hell but somehow it ain’t.  “Sorry, I just – “ you say, flustered, smoothin’ your skirt back down, face goin’ a bunch of shades of pink under the freckles.  Meanin’ to explain how you panicked a little.

He grins down at you, soft-like.  "Does it look like I’m complainin’?” he asks, hands still on your waist.  And damn if they don’t feel every bit as good as you suspected.  Even better if you’re gonna be honest about it.  “So is that a yes?” he asks you, after a real long second.

Holy crap.  “Yes!” you finally remember to say; it comes out in an almost-shout; it makes him laugh.  But in a warm way, not a mean way.  “Yes, that’s a yes,” you say again, voice a little more normal.  Except a little breathy, because bein’ this close and havin’ Johnny’s hands on you is turnin’ that tiny spot of warmth into a slow fire, settin’ up a warm tingle in your belly and spreadin’ into all kinds of places it’s prolly better not to talk about.

“It’s a date, then,” he says, smilin’. “You and me, Miss Corinna.” And you nod yes, but you don’t say anything because all of a sudden you ain’t so good with words either.  You’re near enough to kiss him – close enough to feel warmth comin’ off him, bosom almost brushin’ the front of his workshirt.  All you’d have to do is come a half-step closer and lean in.

And you’re thinkin’ about it, and his eyes are all soft and his hands are warm on your hips, and you’re pretty sure he’s thinkin’ about it too.

It don’t happen right then – out there in the parkin’ lot under the sodium lights.  Another truck pulls in and headlight beams wash over both of you, makin’ you blink in the sudden glare.  And light you both up bright as noontime, and everybody and their momma inside the diner can probably see you both clear as day. 

Which makes you feel a little shy all of a sudden, because people in this town see one little thing, and before you know it, it spreads like wildfire. That's how little towns are.  And because Gus really might pop out here any minute now with his damn spatula, thinkin’ you’re about to get carried off. It don't happen until after you’ve swapped phone numbers and addresses. “I ain't easy to get hold of though," he explains, on account of he’s on the road most of the time.  But it feels good havin’ the number in your apron anyway.  “I’ll call ya,” he promises, “soon’s I know when I’ll be passin’ through again.” And after you’ve crunched your way back across the parkin’ lot towards the diner, hand in hand.  You been outside longer than you meant to be, and there’s more cars in the lot now. You can see through the window the diner's startin' to fill up, the after-football people startin’ to come in.  “I oughta get back to work,” you say, although it’s the last damn thing you feel like doin’ right now.

“Yeah – gettin’ busy in there,” he remarks, glancin’ up through the windows as you get close.  “I don’t wanna keep ya.”  He squeezes your hand and laughs.  “Nah, I’m lyin’ – I do wanna keep ya, but I know I can’t.” 

He flicks his pretty eyes up to the window and back down again.  And thinks a minute, brow all knit up.  “C’mere a second,” he tells you, and takes his feed cap off, sticks it in his back pocket.  And pulls you around the corner of the building into the shadow – not so hard you couldn’t resist if you wanted to.

But do you want to?  Oh hell no you don’t.  And the next thing you know Johnny Davis is gettin’ the goodnight kiss you didn’t give Melvin earlier.  Your back is leant up against the wall; one big warm hand’s braced next to your head and the other one’s tippin’ your chin up, rough-skinned but gentle.  And them lips, all pink and pretty under that mustache?  They are just as soft and warm as you figured they might be, and he tastes like cigarettes and peppermint Life Savers, and the chest where your hands land is solid as anything under the the worn-soft cotton workshirt.  It ain't a sloppy, passionate one – too soon for that, and too public, and he’s a gentleman anyways.  He ain’t sweepin’ you into his arms and bendin’ you backwards and tryin’ to devour you alive like those men on the covers of the silly romance novels.  Or shovin' his tongue in your mouth like a hog rootin' for truffles, like Melvin does, thank God. It's just soft and warm, and it don't last very long. But you feel like you’re about to bust into flames anyway, and he hums under his breath, and you have to get your bearings again for a second when it stops.  And it’s a good thing he didn’t kiss you while you were still sittin’ in that damn Peterbilt, or you mighta ended up in that sleeper bunk. Crawled right on in there yourself and pulled him in after you.   "Mercy,” you mumble, a little flustered, but in the best kind of way. 

“Goodnight, Miss Corinna,” he tells you, smilin’, and brushes your cheek with them soft lips, whiskers tickly. Talks quiet and low, right in your ear. “See you soon.”

It can’t hardly be soon enough, and boy do you have somethin’ to tell Sharlette as soon as you get two seconds to talk.  And you spend the rest of the night walkin’ on air, and smilin’ so big and bright and goofy everybody looks at you like you ain’t quite right in the head.  --- Song inspo: You Came, You Saw, You Conquered, The Ronettes, 1969. Didn't come out until a few years after this chapter is set, but too good not to use. lot lizard: prostitute that hangs around truck stops Also -- for any truck nerds -- Johnny's truck is based on a 1964 Peterbilt 351 needlenose. The sleeper box would have been an after-market add-on, maybe a Mercury.

[capnmachete]

Johnny Davis x plus-size fem!OC (Period piece -- mid-1960s, Bikeriders universe but canon-divergent)

PART 10: Can't Judge a Book By Lookin' At the Cover You really can't! Date night arrives, but doesn't unfold entirely as expected; people are full of surprises. By-request tags: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler; @zablife; @lou1333; @potter-solomons, @hoodeddreams13 Thanks you guys for reading and for your wonderful comments! If anybody else wants to be tagged, just LMK.

(Part 1/Part 2/Part 3/Part 4/Part 5/Part 6/Part 7/Part 8/Part 9)

Part 10: Who Do You Love?

It’s funny, ain’t it?  The way time seems to both speed up and slow down all at once when you’re waitin’ for something to happen. 

One minute it seems like next Saturday is years away and time’s dragging.  And the next minute it’s here already, and you’re flustered and you ain’t quite ready. 

“Maybe somethin’ pink,” Sharlette suggests, directin’ her remarks to your bathrobe-clad behind.  She’s sprawled across your bed, propped up on her elbows, kickin’ her feet lazily behind her.

You emerge from your bedroom closet.  “Are you serious?” you ask, hands on your hips, brow scrunched in disbelief.

“Please.”  Sharlette snorts and rolls over onto her back, lookin’ at you upside down. “‘Course I’m not.”

After spendin’ five nights a week at Corinna’s Diner, wearin’ your uniform, you’re both about as sick of pink as a person could possibly be.  “Maybe the yellow dress; the one with the blue flowers and the swirly skirt,” she offers.  “That’s good colors on you.” 

“Maybe,” you say, chewin’ your lip and considerin’, then perusin’ the other options in your closet.  You pull out the yellow dress, and another pair of hangers – a twinset and a skinny pencil skirt, one Momma says is ‘slimming’.   “What about this one?”

Sharlette wrinkles her nose.  “Heck no.  How’s a guy supposed to get a hand up that thing if y’all decide to make a run for third base?  I mean – “ she amends.  “Not that I’m sayin’ you will, but …I’m just sayin.”  She shrugs.

“You’re terrible,” you scold.  But you put the pencil skirt back.

“And bring a sweater, in case it gets chilly.  Might oughta pull your hair back too so the wind don’t whip it around,” Sharlette advises.

The sun's just startin' to go down.  Sharlette got here an hour ago – dropped the baby off with her mama a little early, so she could come over before work and help you get ready for your big date.  Partly also to be nosy, but that’s alright.  She’s your friend, and you’re one big ball of nerves, and honestly you’re glad for the help and the company.  It’s been awhile since you went out on a date with anybody worth dressin’ nice for.

Momma's out at her book club tonight.  Told her you and Kendra from the washateria are goin’ to the fair together.  By the time Mama gets home, you and Johnny will be long gone. And she'll be in bed and sound asleep bed before he brings you home, so she won’t be none the wiser. You've managed to avoid the whole subject of Johnny and the date so far, and hope to keep on doin' it.

This took some careful planning, to get all the timing worked out just so. Johnny’s comin’ just about seven, like you asked, an hour after Momma's departure, and an hour or so into Daddy's game. You should be able to come and go without either of them catchin' on.

Daddy’s home, but he’s in the garage with Melvin Senior, drinkin' beer and watchin' football on the little black and white TV, volume turned up full-blast.  You could drop an atom bomb on the front porch and he wouldn’t notice, that’s how loud it is, and how focused him and Melvin Senior get when there’s a Colts game on.  So you can scoot out the door and into Johnny’s car real easy, while they’re occupied.

In the end, half an hour later, you’re just about ready.  Got your Keds on, freshly whitened with bakin' soda and vinegar and a toothbrush.  And a cute pair of cherry-red capris and a pretty white twinset, that you picked out over Sharlette’s objections.  “White?  But what if you spill a Co-Cola?  Or – “  She had mimed throwin’ up, with sound effects and all.  “It’s the fair, there’s roller coasters and the tilt-a-whirl and all,” she’d pointed out.

You had informed her, primly, that you’d stick to Seven-Up.  And that you’d be skippin’ the rollercoasters and the tilt-a-whirl. And you will, too, because throwin’ up on a first date seems like a surefire way to make sure there ain’t a second one. 

And so you’d gone on and worn the white twinset anyway, because it makes you feel pretty and a little bit sophisticated, like a little bit bigger, rounder version of Audrey Hepburn.  Which maybe is the kinda thing Johnny’s likes, bein’ from the big city and all.  Pulled your hair back into a pouf of dark curls -- because Sharlette’s right about the wind -- and tied it up with a red scarf to match the capris.

You’re just finishin' up – givin’ your hair one last blast of Aquanet and retyin' a shoelace – when you hear somebody pull up outside.  And your heart just about jumps outta your chest.  “He’s here!” you hiss at Sharlette, all big-eyed.  And the two of you hustle over to the window.

And gawp. And blink.  “Ho-ly shit,” Sharlette says, after a minute.

It shouldn’t be a surprise.  Not really – Johnny’s talked about it enough times,  But it still is anyway. 

Out front at the curb, where you were expectin’ to see a car, is a motorcycle.  A beautiful motorcycle.  Gorgeous and shiny, all chrome and two-tone paint, creamy white and sparkly candy-apple red, almost the same shade as your capris.  The engine’s rumbling in a way you can feel in your bones all the way from inside the house.

And Johnny himself.  Holy Hannah! He’s still your Johnny, you see that pretty quick, but for a half a second you almost don’t recognize him.  No feed cap, no dusty gray work pants and worn-out steel-toed boots.  The neatly-pressed button-up, with the undershirt peeking out at the collar, is the only thing that’s all the way familiar.

“Shit fire,” Sharlette mumbles behind you, wide-eyed, lookin’ out over your shoulder.  She blinks at you.  “I don’t guess he’s got a brother back home or anythin,’ does he?” 

Johnny looks almost like somethin’ that rolled in off a Hollywood movie screen. All denim and leather, heavy motorcycle boots and pressed jeans, and a black leather jacket kitted out with silver zippers and snaps.  His eyes are hidden behind a pair of jet-black Ray-Bans.  Unlit smoke tucked into the corner of that almost-too-pretty mouth, partly covered up by a mustache. It’s jaw-droppin', and makes your knees go all watery for a second.  This is a whole different Johnny, at least on the outside – one you ain't seen yet. Just as handsome but a little dangerous-lookin', too, like he's got a streak of bad-boy in him. It sends a little shower of sparks down your spine.  (And makes your panties a little damp, if you’re gonna be all the way truthful about it.)

He shuts the engine off and gets off the bike, pushin' his shades up into his slicked-back hair. And tucks his smoke behind his ear.

The whole thing near about makes your heart stop. But you don't get to gawp and admire for real long.  Because a second later you realize you ain’t the only one who’s heard the rumblin' engine out front and looked out the window.  There’s a metal creak, and the clatter of the garage door opening downstairs – the sound of doom. And you go pale as a sheet under your freckles.

Dear Jesus and all his little angels.  Daddy. 

Normal everyday Johnny, cleaned up nice and drivin' a sedan, might -- might -- pass muster one day with your conservative, straight-laced, hardass Daddy. Maybe. In a pinch, if you get real lucky. And if you catch Daddy in a good mood and all the planets line up right, and maybe leave out the part about the divorce and the two kids. But this version? Lord. This date might be about to be over before it even starts. Johnny's a good man, hardworkin' and kind. But one look at that motorcycle and all that leather, and Daddy ain't gonna slow down long enough to find that out. You gasp and cuss, and nearly knock Sharlette down, hustlin’ for the door and the stairs.  “I gotta get down there, before Daddy chases him off, or shoots him or somethin’,” you yelp, before you realize you forgot your handbag.  Shit, shit, shit.

“Oh lord,” Sharlette says, worried.  “Go on, hurry up,” she says, tossin’ your purse down the steps after you.  “Can’t be lettin’ your boyfriend get kilt before you even go out on a real date.”

You ain’t never moved so fast in your entire life – rushin’ like the house is on fire.  You sprint down the stairs so quick you nearly trip and break your neck, and bolt for the front door.  Not that you got any real idea what you’re gonna do when you get outside – tackle Daddy?  Throw yourself in front of Johnny?  Cover your eyes so you don’t have to watch whatever happens next?

While you’re fumblin’ with the chain latch on the door, you can see out the window – Johnny, off the bike now. And Daddy, big and tall with that Army brushcut he still wears, stridin’ across the lawn towards Johnny -- big ol' steps, ready to give him what-for and send him packin'.  You say a fast lil’ prayer and finally get the lock undone, then nearly leap out onto the porch, rushin’ over to … you don’t know what, exactly, but somethin’. And –  halfway across the lawn – you hear the damndest thing.  “‘57, right?  What’s the displacement on that thing?” Daddy rumbles, amblin’ over, scrubbin’ one big hand over his crewcut.  Johnny pushes his shades up into his hair, and smiles.  “Nosir. A ‘56.  Flathead. Rebuilt the engine; added the rear suspension myself; Rides real smooth now.”  He pulls a hand out of his pocket and offers it to Daddy for a shake.  “John Davis.  Johnny.”

“Bob Allbright,” Daddy says, shakin' Johnny's hand.  And next thing you know, the two of ‘em are crouched down next to the motorcycle, talkin’.  You’re still in the middle of the yard, blinkin', tryin’ to wrap your head around what you’re seein’.  “Used to ride a little when I was stationed overseas, during the war,” you hear Daddy say.  “Norton.  You familiar with them?”

"Oh yeah. Sure.  Great bikes, Nortons.  A 16, or a big four?”  Johnny looks up and winks at you, grinning past Daddy’s shoulder, while Daddy pokes at some engine thingamajig.

—-

Twenty minutes later, it’s just you and Johnny outside, and Sharlette still gawpin’ through the window upstairs in disbelief.  Daddy and Johnny had talked motorcycles for a few minutes, and then walked a few steps away -- talkin' quiet, Johnny listenin' all serious-faced and noddin' every few minutes. You sat on the porch swing, bitin' your lip. And then next thing you knew Daddy was shakin’ Johnny’s hand again,  tellin’ him to have you home by midnight! And headin’ back to the garage and the Colts game.  “Be good,” he had told you on the way past.  “And don’t tell your Momma about this; you know how she gets.” And that was that.  No bloodshed, no shoutin’, not even a cross word.  And the date’s still on, apparently with Daddy’s blessin’. Will wonders never cease? “I don’t know how you did that,” you marvel to Johnny, still a little shocked.  You turn away to watch the garage door rattle shut again.  “He don’t like hardly anybody.” Johnny shrugs, then lights up a Marlboro.  “I’m pretty good with Daddies,” he tells you, cigarette ember glowin’ in the almost-dark..  “Helps bein’ one myself.  Just told him I’d treat you just like I’d expect a man to treat my girls. Promised him I'd drive safe and get you home on time. In one piece..”  He smiles.  “Anyways -- let's see here. Lemme get a look at that outfit; I ain’t ever seen you in anything except a pink uniform.” He takes a step back. You blush a little, and give him a coy little twirl.  And he shakes his head, with a low, appreciative whistle, pretty blue-grey eyes takin' you in.  “Look at you.  Pretty as a picture.  You look real nice.” You blush harder; can't help it. "You're lookin' pretty good yourself," you tell him, grinnin'. "And you are plum full of surprises, Johnny Davis." (And so is Daddy, but that's another matter for another time.) "Oh yeah?" Johnny asks, eyes lightin' up, beamin'. He holds his hand out for yours. “C’mon, Miss Corinna. You ready to take a little ride, get on over to the fair?” You nod, and give him your hand; it near disappears in his bigger one.  “Uh-huh. There’s just one little problem, though,” you tell him, with a nervous laugh. “Oh yeah?” he asks, smile fadin’ a little. “What is it?” “I ain’t never been on a motorcycle before,” you confess.  “I got no idea how to get up on there or where I'm s'posed to put my feet; you’re gonna have to show me what to do.” Johnny’s face brightens again, and that little crease between his eyebrows goes away.  “Is that all?  I thought it was somethin’ serious.  Come over here, princess, I gotcha; it’s real easy.” Surprisingly, it is pretty easy, even though the helmet’s kinda heavy.  And even though your legs are kinda short and you gotta hold onto Johnny’s shoulders to climb up.  Which ain’t exactly a hardship; gives you an excuse to feel the thick, solid muscles under that leather jacket.

And a coupla minutes later you’re flyin’ through the dark -- laughin’ and squealin' for joy, halfway about to pee your pants out of sheer little-bit-scared excitement.  Your very first motorcycle ride, arms wrapped tight around Johnny’s waist and snugged up against his warm broad back, cheek against the worn-soft leather, on the way to the Webster County Fair. --- Song inspo: Can't Judge a Book By Lookin' at the Cover, Bo Diddley (1962) For any bike nerds out there: Johnny's bike is a 1956 Harley-Davidson Hydraglide, with a few aftermarket mods (most notably a rear suspension for a softer ride, which wasn't stock until 1958). And the Norton 16 and Big 4 are British-made bikes that were built for military use during WW2.

[capnmachete]

Johnny Davis x plus-size fem!OC (Period piece -- mid-1960s, Bikeriders universe but canon-divergent)

PART 6: One Fine Day Good things come to those who wait. By-request tags: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler; @zablife; @lou1333; @potter-solomons If anybody else wants to be tagged, just LMK. FYI: for better or worse this will likely pick up steam shortly, several upcoming chapters already in the can and being edited and oo I like where it's going, hopefully you will also. Minor drama and romance and some sweet/fluffy spice ahoy, batten down the hatches and hoist the whatever-it-is and all that good stuff LOL

(Part 1, Part 2. Part 3, Part 4, and Part 5)

A month goes by.  Two months.  You keep your eyes open for the big red Peterbilt, hopin’ it’ll be there one night when you show up to clock in. Stay late, lingerin' around awhile after you clock out, in case he shows up closer to sunrise.

For awhile, you hustle over to the windows every time you hear big tires crunch gravel and air brakes squeak.  Damn near drop whole plates of food, you’re so eager to go see if maybe it’s Johnny Davis. 

It ain’t.  Not in June, not in July either.  You’re about to bust one Tuesday evenin', about midshift -- practically bouncin' on your toes when you see a big red rig roll into the parkin’ lot.  Except when it gets a little closer, it’s a Kenworth.  And the driver that gets out don’t look anything like him – tall and skinny and bald as an egg, head all shiny in the sodium lights.

Nice enough fella, polite and all that. Still, it’s hard not to be snippy and sour with him; when his pancakes are ready you slap his plate down hard enough to make him jump a little.  It ain’t his fault he’s not Johnny Davis, but that don’t help your mood much.

Purvis don’t understand why you give him the stinkeye, either, and why you don’t have much to say to him lately.  “What’d I do?” he asks you more than once, confused, when you slop his coffee over the edge of the cup on purpose.

He purely has no idea what all was goin’ on in that booth between you and Johnny that other night.  What he interrupted.  Johnny -- quiet Johnny who don’t say much -- confidin’ in you, talkin’ about things you figure he don’t talk much about ever, to anybody.  And holdin’ your hand.  And who knows where it might have gone if it wasn’t for Purvis and his damn hashbrowns?

And you ain’t about to tell Purvis Williams your personal business and have it get spread all over town.  So he’ll just have to keep right on bein' confused, unless he wants to drive on down the highway to Eagle Grove for his breakfast instead. Which wouldn't hurt your feelin's a bit.

By the time the beginning of August rolls around, and Sharlette shows up with the ice cream and three different colors of fingernail polish, you’re startin' to think you might not ever see Johnny Davis again. 

“Who knows?” she says through a mouthful of butter pecan ice cream.  “You can’t never tell about men; they seem like they’re simple to figure out, but they ain’t, not really.” 

The two of you are sittin’ on the floor of your bedroom, faces full of night cream, cotton balls between your fresh-painted toes, hair up in curlers. Radio turned up so Momma can’t eavesdrop, like she likes to do.

Sharlette finally got tired of watchin’ you mope around at work.  Pried the whole story out of you, and then invited herself over for a girls’ night.  Got her momma to watch the baby. Bought butter pecan ice cream and everything, tryin’ to cheer you up.

“You think I mighta said somethin'?” you ask her – pickin’ apart every little minute of that night, not for the first time. "Or been too forward, maybe?"

“By doin’ what?  Jeez Louise, ‘Reena.  Ain’t like you climbed up on the man’s lap and asked him for a horsey ride,” she points out with a snort of laughter. 

“Sharlette!” you say, mouth droppin’ open in a mix of shock and laughter, pink-faced under the goopy white Noxema. 

“Don’t tell me you ain’t thought about it, Miss Prim,” she says, grinnin’ and jabbin’ her spoon at you.  “You ain’t as proper as you look.”

Hard not to grin back.  She’s right.  Maybe you ain’t thought about that exact thing, but you’ve thought about plenty else.   “I’m takin’ the Fifth,” you tell her.  “Ain’t that what they say on Perry Mason when they go to court?  Anyhow, it don’t matter. He’s married,” you remind her, a little blue.

“Thought he was divorced?”  One Noxema-slathered eyebrow lifts up.

“Was s’posed to be gettin’ divorced,” you correct her.  “Who knows, maybe him and the Mrs. patched things up or somethin’.”  The ice cream in your bowl’s gettin’ melty; you spoon the rest of it up real quick, partly to keep yourself from thinkin’ too much about that.

It ain’t like that kind of thing never happens.  People get all the way to the courthouse steps and decide they’re makin’ a mistake, decide to give it another go.  Happened to Gus once; happened to Momma too.  Still with Daddy, for whatever that’s worth, even though he’s just as dull as he ever was, never talks about anything but politics and pinkos and what wheat’s sellin’ for down at the mill. Would for sure explain why he ain't been around again.

“Naw.”  Sharlette shakes her head.  “I bet it ain’t that.  Prolly just one of those man things.  You know how they are.  They say a little too much, show you somethin’ they didn’t mean to show, and they get scairt.  Get to feelin’ embarrassed and shy and clam up again.  Start actin’ like they don’t know you.”

“ ‘s that what happened with Robbie?” you ask.  It ain’t none of your business, not really.  But y’all are already talkin’ real personal, and you’ve always wondered where Sharlette’s baby’s daddy got off to. 

“Pssh.”  Sharlette makes a sound like a deflatin’ balloon, and laughs.  “No. Robbie ain’t scairt of anything except havin’ to change diapers and act like a grownup.”  She sighs, a little blue herself.  “You want some more ice cream?” she asks, gettin’ up to go down to the kitchen.

“Hell yes, I do,” you say, and hand her your bowl.  Then you change your mind and heave yourself up off the floor to go with her.  “I think we got some chocolate sauce down there too.”

“Well now you’re talkin’!”  She grins and links her arm through yours, and for a short little while you forget all about your troubles.

****

By the end of another few weeks, you’ve pretty much resigned yourself to the idea that you probably ain’t ever gonna see Johnny again. Maybe Sharlette’s right; maybe he scared himself a little, openin’ up more than he meant to.  Or maybe you're right and he’s back with the Mrs., and steerin' clear of you and LaGrange.

It makes you sad.  Because even if nothin’ big really happened, and even if anythin’ past friendship was just a daydream anyway, you miss seein’ him, miss talkin.’  You wouldn’t mind havin’ that back, even if that’s all you get.  But it don’t seem like that’s in the cards, and pretty soon you don’t go runnin’ to the window at the diner quite so often anymore.

You’re resigned enough that you actually give Smooth Melvin Hoskins– that’s the only way you can think of him now, and it makes you laugh and feel a little sad all at once – another chance.  This date’s not as bad as the first time.  A burger joint instead of a seedy bar, and he’s not quite as handsy this time, but it’s still nothin’ to write home about.  Same ol’ haw-haw laugh, same Skoal breath, same ol' everything.

You get dinner and a strawberry milkshake out of it, at least. And a ride to work afterwards, which doubles as a handy excuse not to go to the drive-in with Melvin after dinner.  And that’s good, because all that’s gonna do is wind up with him tryin’, not for the first time, to get into your panties, and that’s just not happenin’.  Not with Smooth Melvin.  Not lookin’ to be Mrs. Hoskins or even anything close to it, and for sure not lookin’ to end up like Sharlette.

And lo and behold, what do you see when Melvin pulls into the parkin’ lot at the diner to drop you off?  There’s the big red Peterbilt in the parkin’ lot, for the first time in months, big as sin and twice as shiny.  And your heart does a weird little flip.  And you near about bolt out of Melvin’s Chevy.  You almost trip over a big rock mixed in with the gravel, that’s how eager you are to get inside. 

Which is when you know for sure you’ve still got an almighty crush on Johnny Davis. One you thought had petered out, one you were pretty sure you'd talked yourself out of.

Guess not. Not the way your heart's thumpin' when you hustle across the parkin' lot.

“Dang! Don’t I get a goodnight kiss, even?” Melvin calls after you out the driver’s side window.

“Maybe next time, I gotta go!  I’m late!” you holler back without even turnin’ around. And bust in the glass door, the little bell over it ringin’ like crazy.  Everybody in the place looks up – Gus, big-boobied Tiffany, Purvis from the feedstore. Mr. and Mrs. Hoover from the farm up the road, plus a couple of other truck jockeys, from other big rigs out in the lot.

And Johnny.  Who smiles, pretty blue-grey eyes lightin' up and crinklin' around the corners.  “Hey, lookit who it is,” he calls out and raises his white china mug in your direction.  “Miss Corinna!”   And you can feel yourself smilin’ back, so wide you're surprised your face doesn't split in two.

It takes you a few minutes to clock in – fizzin’ and bubblin’ over inside like a glass of Coca Cola – and get back out there into the dining room, and fill a few coffee cups and pass out a few plates. Tiffany cuts her eyes at you when she clocks out, like she can't hardly believe Johnny's talkin' to you instead of her, and you grin back, pleased as punch. And maybe a little smug.

“I shouldn’t oughta have dumped all that on ya, last time i was here,” he says, when you finally get a minute and sit down on the other side of the booth between customers – stealing away a minute for your customary shared cup of coffee.  “ ‘m sorry,” he says, ducking his head a little. "That was a lot; I don't know what got into me."

“Stop it,” you say, waving him away with a plump pink-nailed hand.  “That’s what friends are for, and we’re friends, right?”

He lifts his head and a smile blooms across his face – the one that makes him look like a boy in a grown man’s body, brings a sparkle to tired dark-blue eyes.  “Yeah,” he admits, with a chuckle, chewin’ on a toothpick.  “Yeah, I guess we are, ain’t we?”   And looks at you in a way that feels like somethin’ maybe a little bigger than just friends.  Makes you all warm and tingly inside. And he lays his hand over yours this time, and don’t let it go until Gus starts hollerin’ and bangin’ on the little silver bell like his hair’s on fire.

------

Song inspo: One Fine Day, the Chiffons (1963)

[capnmachete]

Johnny Davis x plus-size fem!OC (Period piece -- mid-1960s, Bikeriders universe but canon-divergent)

PART 5: Hands Across the Table Things are not always what they seem.

By-request tags: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler; @zablife; @lou1333 If anybody else wants to be tagged, just LMK.

(Part 1, Part 2. Part 3, and Part 4)

Part 5: Hands Across the Table

Well, it’s a disappointment, that’s for sure.  You’d be lyin’ if you said you didn’t spend a night or two snifflin’ into your pillow, feelin’ sorry for yourself. 

It takes you a little while to get over it.  The next time Johnny shows up, you dodge him. 

It’s purely torture and makes you feel like a fool, seein’ him again, knowin’ you’d blown some friendly chitchat up into somethin’ big and romantic in your head, like a silly little girl.   Makes you feel even more foolish, knowin’ that Gus knows, and Sharlette too.  And feelin’ their big cow eyes on you.

You ain’t rude – not exactly – but you keep your head down and scuttle past his spot at the counter.  Still polite – say hi and what can I get you but not much else.  And you damn sure don’t flirt. 

He looks a little surprised, forehead all wrinkled up, puzzled – but he don’t push.  Just lets you keep your distance.  You find things to do in the kitchen, keepin’ your head down and foldin’ napkins and whatever all else you can think of.  Just keepin’ busy, only comin’ out to pour coffee when you can’t think of a reason not to, until he leaves and the big red truck pulls away again.

He gets the message, and the next time he comes in, he heads for a booth instead of the counter – long legs stretched out under the table, an arm draped over the back of the red vinyl seat.  Not that you mean to look, but you can’t help it.  Your eyes still drift over, even when your brain tells ‘em not to.

He don’t ignore you – not exactly – just gives you room.  Still smiles, says hi and it was nice seein’ ya, but not much more.  Is it that obvious that you’re wranglin’ with something in your head?    Momma always says every little thing shows on your face; maybe she’s right.

Either way, you keep some distance even though your feet keep wantin’ to walk over and set down.  And although you catch him lookin' over once or twice, he don't object.

Which you’re actually a little sorry about.  Because the truth is you can't help rememberin' the boyish grins, and the flirtin’ and the chitchat.  It was nice, havin’ a handsome man smile at you, listen to you like he was for-real interested in your poky little life in LaGrange.  Buy you a slice of pie and treat you like a lady, instead of a tired waitress in an all-night hash house.  

And eventually you cave, because you miss all that.  And because maybe at least havin’ Johnny Davis for a sort of a friend is better than not havin’ him around at all.

So the next time he passes through, you’re a little chattier again.  And by and by you slip back into your routine – a little friendly talk between customers, coffee and pie.  Only this time at a red vinyl booth with a table between you.  And he don’t go in the pie case without askin’ anymore.

You watch your step, don’t get too personal or flirty.  You’ve done broke your own heart once already, and it’d be way too easy to do it again. And you ain’t about to mess with a married man.

“Be careful, Corinna,” Sharlette says, when she sees you comin’ back with two empty pie plates and a smile.  “Watch yourself; don’t go gettin’ into a pickle.”

“I ain’t,” you say, a little miffed.  But you don’t stay mad, because she means well.  And if anybody knows about fallin’ for the wrong man and endin’ up in a pickle, it’s Sharlette.   Anyway, she’s just tellin’ you the same thing you been tellin’ yourself.

But you can’t deny it’s nice.  It feels good to get smiled at, share some pie and get called “Miss Corinna’ now and again.  Even if it ain’t ever going to be any more than that. --- It’s two more visits – two more nights of passin’ the time between customers – before things take a turn.  

Johnny comes in this time before your shift starts.  You know he’s there when you pull up in the parkin’ lot – see the big red Peterbilt already parked over by the other trucks.  He’s already sittin’ at a booth with coffee and a half-empty plate when you come in.  “Hey, stranger!” you say, bright, glad to see him.

It’s been a couple months since the last time he came through.  He’s grown a beard since then, short and neat, a little gray mixed in.  And you’re fixin’ to tease him a little bit about it, when you notice he ain’t lookin’ like his usual easygoin’ self.

When you get to the table, he’s slow to look up.  “Hey there, Miss Corinna,” he says.  He smiles, like always, but it ain’t the bright boyish grin you’re used to by now, have come to expect.  He’s got a pen in his hand, sleeve laid across somethin’ on the table and eyes down.  The lines across his forehead are lookin’ a little extra-deep. 

You may not be flirtin’ anymore, but that don’t keep you from bein’ nosy.  “Whatcha got there?” you ask, craning down over his shoulder.  He huffs a big sigh and leans back, moves his arm outta the way  – kind of a surrender, lettin’ you take a look. 

It’s a birthday card, spread out on the table – one with a princess and a dragon on it and a big number ten.  “I never know what to write, y’know?” he says, whiskey-and-cigarette voice gone soft and raspy.  He laughs, a low little chuckle that don’t sound all that happy, rakes a hand through his hair.  “I ain’t so good with words,” he confesses, with a wry smile. “Not big news, I guess, right?” 

That’s not how you woulda said it.  Even though it makes sense, given all the talkin’ you do and all the mostly-not-talkin’ and just-listenin’ Johnny does.  Still, the admission, all low and quiet, yanks on your heartstrings.  So does the little bit of melancholy in his pretty blue-gray eyes.

It’s stupid, and maybe a little dangerous, gettin’ all soft inside, but you can’t help it.  More heart than sense, like usual.  And even besides that, you never can stand to see a friend sad, and – you suppose – you are friends now, in a kind of a way.

You chew your lip a little and check your watch, the one with the red-leather strap, dainty on your plump wrist.  “Maybe I can help with that,” you offer.  “I mean, if you want help, anyways,” you add, in case that came off presumptuous.

It didn't.  His brows lift, hopeful.  “Yeah?” he asks, lookin’ purely relieved.  “Yeah, I’d like that.” 

“Just a sec,” you tell him, and go fetch yourself a coffee and grab a couple slices of pie.  Because that’s your thing, you and Johnny.  It was before you went and got yourself all twisted up for nothin’, and now it is again.  Johnny shows up, and you pour yourself a coffee and fetch some pie – his dime, always – and you talk.  

And he trusts you, you realize with a little blink of surprise.  Enough to help him fill out a birthday card for one of his kids.

You trust him too.  You must, anyways, since you’ve done told him all kinds of stuff. Practically your life story, over the course of a handful of late nights in a near-empty truck stop diner. 

He may be off the market and off limits, but that’s okay.  He’s still somebody you look forward to seein’, sittin’ down and talkin’ with, pleased whenever the big red semi rumbles its way off the service road and into the parkin’ lot. 

It’s halfway through the pie, birthday card all written up nice, when you find out Johnny ain’t actually married.  Not anymore.  Or won’t be, anyways, as of a couple of weeks from now. 

“You and the Mrs. plannin’ a birthday party for Miss Patsy?” you ask, sipping your coffee and lickin’ a stray drop off your lip. 

He’s just finished sealing the hot-pink envelope, pauses with his fork hung in midair.  Blinks at you, slow.  “It – uh – it ain’t exactly like that,” he mumbles through a mouthful of pie, red creeping up his throat under the whiskers.  He rubs the back of his neck, eyes down. 

“Oh?” you ask. 

And that’s all it takes.  It takes Johnny a minute to get warmed up, but pretty soon he’s actually talkin’.  In little dribs and drabs, stop and start, but still. 

And you ain’t about to get up and stop listenin’.   Not when the hands on your watch show it’s time to clock in. Not even when Gus barks at you from behind the window. 

Johnny looks up when Gus hollers.  “I’m keepin’ ya,” he says, apologetic. 

“Gimme a minute,” you holler back at Gus, because really there’s nobody here besides Purvis from the feed store.  And Purvis is only just now startin’ on his steak and eggs – Sharlette got him all set up before she clocked out, he won’t need anything else for awhile. 

“I got time,” you tell Johnny, ‘keep goin’.”  And you settle a soft pink hand on top of his big battered one.

Maybe you shouldn’t.  Even though you only mean it as friendly encouragement.  At least that’s all you think you mean.  Because it’s nice to hear him talk for a change, nice to know you ain’t the only one with troubles and worries. 

And because you ain’t heard the important part yet – the fact that there’s no Mrs. Davis, or that pretty soon there won’t be, anyways.  He looks down at your hand on his, long enough you start to wonder if laying it there was a bad idea.

And you’re about ready to pull it away and apologize, cheeks gone hot and pink, when he flips his hand over under yours.  Not holdin’ it, not exactly, just palms laid together, warm.  His hand’s a little weathered like the rest of him, traces of axle grease worn into the seams, but it’s nice. 

And it gets him talkin’ again.  Eyes down on your hands, because maybe it’s easier to think that way.  His rough-padded thumb smoothes over the backs of your fingers, absentminded, while he talks low and soft --  like he’s not even aware he’s doin’ it.  Fingers folded over yours.

And you keep your own mouth shut for a change – doin’ your best to ignore the little warm tingle runnin’ up your arm from where your hands meet -- and just listen.

It’s a messy story – young and careless, bun in the oven by accident.  Married too fast, for the wrong reasons; one baby and then another.  Puppy love not enough to keep things goin’.   An entanglement with somebody else, somebody he knew from ridin’ motorcycles. 

You can already hear Momma’s voice in your head:  Once a cheater, always a cheater. Prim and scolding. 

But Johnny says he feels like a complete heel about it, wishes he’d never done it.  Would take it back a hundred times, if he could.

And you believe him.  He don’t say much but it’s clear as day on his face – the shame and the regret.  He looks away, out the window at the dark, like it takes somethin’ out of him to do so much talkin’ all at once. 

Maybe it does; he looks purely tired.  Either way, it don’t matter, he says; what’s done is done. Marriage has been limpin’ along for a few years now, half-hearted, nothin’ ever quite right again.  And the Mrs. finally called it quits – took the kids and moved back to her momma’s house in Springfield. Been gone awhile now.

‘It’s like Brucie says; can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube,” he says, with a sad little half-smile – eyes flickin’ up to yours and then back down again.  “Used to say, anyways.” 

And that’s when the rest comes out, a little at a time: best friend passin’ away, the club fallin’ apart, the other best friend gone.  Wife – about to be ex-wife –  filin’ papers, court date comin’ up in two weeks. All over but the shoutin'.

And it’s right about then that Purvis – goddamn him – starts bitchin’ about where’s his waitress and why can’t he get another order of hashbrowns, before he starves.  And Gus starts hollerin’ again.

“Hold that thought,” you tell Johnny, meaning it.  You look him straight in the eye, squeezing his hand hard.  “I’ll be right back, I swear.”

But by the time you get done bringin’ Purvis his damn hashbrowns, Johnny’s table’s empty – a sawbuck and a single under the coffee cup, air brakes squeakin’ and huffin’ in the parkin’ lot.  You make it to the glass door just in time to see the big red Peterbilt pullin’ away.  You step out into the gravel and wave like crazy, both hands overhead, but you can’t tell if he sees you or not – it’s too dark and the truck’s already pullin’ away, onto the highway service road. ___ Song inspo: Hands Across the Table, The Velours (1957)

[capnmachete]

Johnny Davis x plus-size fem!OC (Period piece -- mid-1960s, Bikeriders universe but canon-divergent)

PART 3: How About Another Cup of Coffee, How About Another Piece of Pie? Another rainy night and a pleasant surprise.

By-request tags: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler; @zablife . If anybody else wants to be tagged, just LMK.

(Links to Part 1 and Part 2.)

You think you mighta seen him, just once, in between times.  There was a big red Peterbilt rollin’ out of the parking lot a few weeks ago, right as you were pulling up to go in and start your shift.  And it made you wonder for a second if maybe it was Mr. Eastern Freightways again.  Not like you’d been thinkin’ about him a whole lot or anything, but did realize you were smilin’ to yourself, rememberin’ blue-gray eyes and a boyish grin, the big tip and the jukebox.  

Part 3: How About Another Cup of Coffee, How About Another Piece of Pie

Second time he rolls through town – a couple of months later –  it’s another long rainy night, another fill-in maybe-double. Another set of tired feet, another run in your nylons, quick-fixed with clear nail polish that’s stickin’ to your skin, drivin’ you a little bit crazy.

He comes in outta the rain and takes his cap off, parks himself on a stool at the counter.  Sets his cap and logbook down.  Lights up when you arrive in front of him – that little-boy grin again.  “Miss Corrina,” he says, smilin’, like it’s a pure delight to see your tired self. 

And you surprise yourself, with how pleased you are to see him back in LaGrange again, even though his hung-up jacket’s drippin’ water on your floor.  Ain’t like he can help it; it’s rainin’ cats and dogs outside. 

"Soggy out there," you remark, smilin' but tryin' not to look too over-pleased. It's harder than you expect it to be.  “Coffee?”

“Much as you got,” he tells you, noddin’.  “Please.”  He orders and slides the menu back.  Don’t say anythin’ else until you’re back’s turned, over by the window handin’ Gus the ticket.  “Was thinkin’ maybe you didn’t work here no more,” he says, off-hand-like, and clears his throat.  “Didn’t see ya the last time I was here.”

The flirt slips right on outta your mouth before you catch it.  “Oh – why, were you lookin' for me?” you ask back over your shoulder.  And Gus laughs – a big ol’ donkey bray – and snatches the ticket.  You cut your eyes at him, and then turn around to pour Mr. Eastern Freightways a coffee.

And turn a little pink under the freckles when he shrugs and says, “Maybe.”  And smiles, a little lopsided grin. 

Takes you a second to figure out what to say back.  Gus is still chucklin’ to himself in the kitchen.  And you decide you’re just gonna have to let that slide and deal with Gus later, even though he’s purely aggravatin’ the fire out of you right now.  Because you ain’t eager to show off, at this particular moment, just exactly how mouthy you can get, and how many bad words you know. 

You don’t get a chance anyway.  Because before you can say anythin’ back – anythin’ at all – the little bell over the door jingles.  And jingles again.   

And suddenly the diner’s jumpin’.  Why is it things always get busy just when somethin’ interesting starts happenin’?  Almost midnight,  little bitty LaGrange, and suddenly everybody and their brother decides it’s time to come in for pancakes and patty melts.

The little bell over the door rings and rings, and seems like it doesn’t stop for a solid hour after that.  Who on earth let the cows out at this time of night? 

You’dve liked to linger around the counter, maybe flirt a lil’ more, but you’re too busy runnin’ your dang feet off.  And the man's busy anyway – head down, logbook spread out on the counter and pencil out.  Catchin’ up on DOT paperwork, maybe. 

Finally – finally – the rush dies down.  About time; you’ve done spent the past thirty minutes tryin’ not to think about your sore feet and the way your damn nylons are chafin’.  You bring the last dirty dishes back and add ‘em to the mountain in the kitchen, where Gus is already startin’ to wash up.  And bitchin’ about it.

The worn-out must show on your face, because when you come back out to the counter to top off Mr. Eastern Freightways' coffee, he looks up.  Studies your face, dark brows pushed together, forehead all creased.  “Rough day?” he asks, like he means it.

And ain’t that a wonder?

"Rough night.  A little bit,” you admit, with a shrug, pouring out of the Pyrex pot, topping off the thick white china mug.  Steam rises up; gives you an excuse for the pink flush in your cheeks.  Not used to customers askin’ about your day; mostly just askin’ for ketchup for their hashbrowns, or complainin’ their bacon ain’t crispy enough.

He looks at you for a long minute after you set the pot down.  Pats the stool next to him, one big banged-up hand tapping the patched red vinyl.  “Come on.  Siddown, Miss Corinna.  Take a breather.  Pour yourself one too; my dime,” he offers. 

You ain’t really supposed to take breaks – not officially – but it’s tempting.  You look back through the kitchen pass-through at Gus, who’s flippin’ eggs.  Only one other customer still in the house, over in a corner booth.  Already got his food and paid his check, just lingerin’ now over a soda and a slice of cake. 

You think on it for a minute.  What’s Gus gonna do – fire you?  Can’t afford to, not right now. 

So you pour yourself a cup and sit down.  Gus raises his eyebrows at you, but he don’t say anythin’.  “Yeah, there you go,” your new friend tells you, encouraging. “That’s better.”

He don’t say much, but nods every now and again, quiet little mmhmms.  Maybe he ain’t really payin’ attention – could be thinkin’ about somethin’ else – but at least he’s got the good manners to act like he is.

And the next thing you know, you’re rattlin’ away, talkin’.  About work, about Momma gettin’ on your behind over this and that, about all kinds of stuff.  About the date you had earlier tonight, so bad it was almost laughable. Melvin from the gas station tryin’ to be all suave, takin’ you to the dirty little roadhouse up Route 49 for cheap beers, tryin’ to cop a feel twenty minutes in. And you slappin’ the beJesus out of him and stormin’ out, knowing he was prolly gonna tell everybody he got some anyways.

It’s almost embarrassin,’ the way you rattle on.  But Mr. Eastern Freightways, he’s got one of those faces.  Got soft eyes in a tough-guy mug.  Don’t say much, but has a way of lookin’ at you like he’s really listenin’ – head tilted a little, smoke hangin’ unlit between his fingers like he’s too busy listenin’ to stop and light up. 

When you finally stop babblin’ long enough to take a breath, he don’t do anything for a minute. Just long enough for you to start thinkin’ you’ve made a dang fool of yourself, tellin’ all your business.  But then he gets up and goes to the little pie carousel – opens up the glass door and fetches out two pieces.  Coconut cream, all fluffy on top.

Gus looks at him through the pass-through like he’s lost his mind – all big-eyed.  And maybe you do a little, too.  But he pulls out a sawbuck and waves it at Gus through the window – enough to pay for a whole pie.  “Relax, chief; lady’s tired is all,” he says, like Gus don’t have nothin’ to say about it.  And sets the money down next to the register. 

And then he’s back.  Puts the two plates down and eases back onto his own stool with a groan – tired himself, maybe.  “Day like that calls for a piece’a pie,” he tells you, with a half-smile, and offers you a fork.

And you freeze.  And hesitate.  Because that’s what big girls do.

God knows you like pie as much as everybody else does, but so much as look at sweets in public and people start givin’ you that look.  You know the one – the superior one, lookin’ down their nose.  Poor thing. Be a real beauty if she just lost a few pounds.  No wonder she ain’t got a man.  That look.

“I shouldn’t,” you say.  Knowin’ damn well you’re gonna go home and eat ice cream anyways later, because it has been a lousy night.  And some people are just built big, and you’re one of ‘em.  Whole family runs big; you could eat nothin’ but salad until you dropped dead, and you still wouldn’t be a size two like prissy little Tiffany on the day shift.  You push the pie away, even though it’s makin’ your mouth water.  “I’m watchin’ my weight,” you lie.

He pauses and blinks, fork in midair – big dark-blue eyes.  “Watchin’ it for what?” he asks, like he ain’t never noticed that you’re – zaftig.  

Turns out he has, though.  “Nah. Bullsh – nonsense,” he says, catchin’ himself, because, as you’re findin’ out, he’s got a little better manners than the average truck jockey.  “C’mon, what’re you talkin’ about, ‘watchin’ your weight?’ You’re just right,” he tells you, lookin’ you over – not in a dirty way, just appreciative, which turns your cheeks a little pink.

If he notices that he’s gentleman enough not to say anythin’.  “Go on, have some, don’t make me eat by myself,” he teases, bumping you with his elbow, real light.  He forks up a bite.  “And I ain’t tryin’ to get fresh with you,” he says, quiet-like, not lookin’ at you.  “I got manners,” he insists.  Which you’ve already figured out.  “Besides, Miss Corinna, I don’t wanna – y’know – get on old Smooth Melvin’s bad side, flirtin’ with his girl,” he adds, with a slow grin aimed down at his pie.

Which makes you snort through a mouthful of coconut cream.  A big guffaw, the laugh that Momma always says makes you sound like a mule.  Not exactly feminine, but who cares?  He grins again, big and bright, eyes nearly squeezed shut.  Like he’s just glad to see you relax a little.  And maybe he is, who knows?

You turn a little pink again. "I swear I ain't blind," you mutter, feelin' ilke a dummy.

“Well,” you say, when you finish laughin’ and chokin’ on pie.  “Smooth Melvin ain't here. And it’s just Corinna, by the way.  Now you’re one up on me,” you tell him, smilin’ back.  “You know my name and I don’t know yours.”  You let your eyes flick over to his cap.  “Less it’s Eastern Freightways.”

“Dang.  Sorry.”  He smooths one big hand over his hair and ducks his head.  “Too many hours on the road, you forget how to talk to people sometimes,” he explains, a little sheepish, which only makes you like him even better. “Johnny.  Johnny Davis," he says, tappin' the patch on his jacket. The one that says Johnny, the one you didn't notice.

"That's alright. Print's kinda small," he says, grinnin', so you don't feel so dumb about it after all.

A few minutes later, Johnny’s gotta run – got a trailerful of car parts headin’ for Minneapolis, and a deadline to make, he says.  “Sure has been nice talkin’ to ya,” he tells you, all earnest, even though it’s you done ninety-five percent of the talkin’.  Maybe more.

You’re still smilin' to yourself, and thinkin’ about Johnny Davis, an hour later when Sharlette finally clocks in.  “How’s it been so far tonight?  Hope you ain’t too tired,” she tells you, apologetic.

“Ought not to be tired,” Gus pipes up, wipin' his hands on his apron.  “Considerin’ she been eatin’ pie and runnin’ her mouth half the night.”

You cut your eyes at him, annoyed. “Wait, what now?” Sharlette steps back and looks at you, confused, so you explain – the rain, the surprise late-night crowd, the pie and coffee.  Johnny Davis.

Gus stands by, tappin’ his foot, arms folded. “Ain’t you got work to do?” he asks Sharlette, pointedly. 

“I'm goin', i'm goin' -- keep your pants on,” she says, wavin’ him away.  “How come that kinda stuff don’t ever happen when I’m here?” she wonders out loud, pouting a little, and punching her time card. “Wouldn’t hurt my feelings any if a handsome truckdriver bought me dessert."

It certainly didn’t hurt your feeling either, and even if you don’t say so so out loud, the smile on your face prolly says it loud enough.

“I don’t know what y’all’re gettin’ so het up about,” Gus grumbles, coming to shoo Sharlette out into the dining room.  “Man prolly got a wife and seventeen kids back home, maybe a girlfriend on the side, too.  Prolly just bein’ nice.”

“Oh, hush,” you tell Gus, but it does prickle at the back of your mind a little bit.  Takes a little of the fluff outta your cloud.  Maybe he’s right; who knows?

And maybe he’s wrong.  Johnny wasn’t wearin’ a weddin’ ring – and you did look, couldn’t help it.  But that might not mean anything. Drivers don’t always wear theirs on the road. Too many ways to get ‘em hung up on something fixin’ an engine, and get hurt.  Seen it happen to your own daddy; nearly lost a finger that way. 

Well, either way, no harm in just enjoyin’ and daydreamin’.  "Sourpuss,” Sharlette tells Gus, and sweeps by, snatchin’ the pen out from behind his ear and dodgin’ a swat on the backside. 

And you go home to fix Momma somethin’ to eat before you go to bed.  And maybe dream about handsome might-be-single truckdrivers.  And pie.

___

Song inspo: Let's Have Another Cup of Coffee, Glenn Miller Orchestra

[capnmachete]

Johnny Davis x plus-size fem!OC (Period piece -- mid-1960s, Bikeriders universe but canon-divergent)

PART 7: A Lover's Question Some things are too important to let slide, no matter how much you'd like to pretend they aren't.

By-request tags: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler; @zablife; @lou1333; @potter-solomons If anybody else wants to be tagged, just LMK.

(Part 1/Part 2/Part 3/Part 4/Part 5/Part 6)

A Lover's Question In a perfect world, the whole damn town would just go home, and the other travelers would get on' goin to wherever they're headed. And you could just sit in the empty diner with Johnny Davis and talk all night, feelin' his warm hands wrap around yours, the way his thumb strokes over your wrist. It ain't a perfect world, though, it's just LaGrange on a Friday night. And Friday night in September means high school football in LaGrange, and in damn near every other little town in Iowa. The real rush won't come in for a couple of hours yet, not until after the game's over, but people are still comin' in in dribs and drabs.

While you're tendin' to 'em, you find yourself keepin’ one eye on the table where Johnny’s at, just in case he ends up leavin’ again.  Because this time you’re not lettin’ him go without sayin' a real goodbye. Or without makin' sure he’s comin’ back, even if you gotta drop six plates worth of eggs and bacon and practically chase after him to do it.

“Poor man can’t hardly even take a leak without you followin’ him to the men’s room and waitin’ outside the door,” Gus grumbles, flippin’ a pancake. 

“I ain’t that bad,” you say, turnin’ a little pink, although you wonder if you are.  Maybe a little.  “Am I?”

Gus makes a pffft noise, but he smiles when he thinks you ain’t lookin’.  Tells you, a few minutes later, it’s nice to see you in a good mood again, even if it takes a whole-ass truck driver from out of state to make it happen.

One time, while you’re back in the kitchen, Johnny does get up and go outside, and you flat-out freeze for a second.  Until you see his Eastern Freightways cap's still on the table, and his jacket's still laid on the booth seat where he was at a minute ago.  You unclench a little when he comes back in again.  Got his logbook with him and a pencil tucked behind his ear, like he’s plannin’ on stickin’ around awhile.  Settles in, elbows on the table and spread his paperwork out.  Looks up and catches your eye, and gives you a wink.

And pulls a pair of eyeglasses out of a shirt pocket -- thick black frames -- and puts ‘em on, before he gets down to work. One hand dug into his slicked-back hair, eyes down and pencil out, Marlboro layin’ half-smoked in the ashtray.  Ain’t tonight just full of surprises?

You come and sit down – pie and coffee, in hand, like always – when there's a little lull and things get quiet for a few minutes.  “Since when do you wear glasses, Johnny Davis?” you ask him, smilin’.

He looks up from his notes and turns a little pink.  Sets back and takes ‘em off.  “Since about a year ago.  When Patsy asked me why I was always squintin’,” he says, and demonstrates, eyes narrowed and forehead wrinkled up.  Then relaxes again, smilin’, a little sheepish.

You wonder for half a second why you ain’t ever seen them before.  But that’s just the nature of havin’ your eye on somebody who lives two whole states away.  And drives truck.  Stuff happens in between visits; takes awhile to find things out.  Things that are old news to him are still new to you.

“Anyways, I don’t wear ‘em much.  Makes me feel old.  Like a square.”  He shrugs, smiles down at his pie. 

Truth be told they make him look kinda distinguished.  Smart, which he is, even if he ain’t necessarily book smart, which ain’t the only kinda smart that matters anyway.  You don’t tell him that though, because maybe distinguished sounds kinda like square.  “They look fine,” you tell him, meanin’ it.  “Onlyest thing I’m worried about is now that you can see me for real, you might change your mind.” 

It’s a joke.  It really is.  But you can’t help the way your momma’s voice pops up in the back of your head, talkin’ bout big girls and girls with sassy mouths and girls who are headin’ for thirty and no ring on their finger yet. 

“Who, me?”  Johnny looks up and if he ain’t genuinely puzzled he’s doin’ the best puzzled act you ever did see.  “Nah,” he says, waving the comment away.  Looks up at you from underneath, kinda sideways in that way he does, like he’s about to tell you a secret.  Or like maybe there ain’t anybody else around, just the two of you and not a diner full of grizzly tired truckers slurpin' coffee and bitchin’ about speed traps.   “You look even prettier than you did before, and you was pretty already,” he tells you, quiet-like.

And damn if all Momma’s harsh words don’t just fly away like a fart in a windstorm.  (Another thing momma complains about, your ‘indelicate’ way of talkin’.)   And the little bell in the passthrough window’s ding-ding-dinging, and Gus is hollering, and Miss Sanders from the high school is bitching about an empty ketchup bottle.  And if you had your way you’d just stand there half the damn night soakin’ up the sweet words and the warm gaze of Johnny Davis’ dark blue-gray eyes, because the way he looks at you makes you feel like a big ol’ princess.

You can’t, of course, because you’re a waitress at a hash house and not a princess.  So you try not to blush too hard, and say “I bet that’s what you tell all the girls." Because that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to say.  And he grins at you because you don’t believe that, and he knows you don’t believe that, and you hustle off back to work so flustered you give the milk truck driver’s well-done steak to toothless old Mr. Anderson, and Mr. Anderson’s pudding to the milk truck driver, and you plumb forget about Miss Sanders and her damn ketchup altogether.

___

Ten o'clock. You know the rush is comin', but it's not here yet. Half the town's still at the football game, prolly watchin' the Tigers get the tar beat out of 'em. (LaGrange people are loyal as hell to the home team, even if ain't very good. Which it ain't.) Once the game's over it'll get real busy. Folks always want somethin' to eat afterwards. And since the burger joint  – the only other restaurant in town – shuts up shop at ten p.m., that means they all show up at the diner.

At least you got a little help; Sharlette comes in on Friday nights during football season to help handle the crowd.  Clocks in at ten, just before the game usually starts wrappin' up.  She’s in the kitchen tyin’ her apron on when you come back with a load of plates.  “Well looky looky who’s back,” she tells you, peekin’ out the pass-through window and grinnin’.  “Surprise surprise. You feelin' better now?"

“She ain’t quit grinnin’ since she came in the door,” Gus reports, answering for you.  And he’s right. Your face damn near hurts from smiling, hands still warm and tingly from where Johnny’s been holdin’ ‘em half the night, feet bumpin’ under the table every time things slow down enough for you to sit a spell.

“I bet,” Sharlette nods.  “So I guess things is goin’ good then.  Djoo ask him yet?”

And for the first time all night, your smile dims a little.  “No,” you admit, a little pink-faced, tryin’ not to look Sharlette in the eye.  “I ain’t had time,” you lie.

It ain’t very convincin’.  And Sharlette knows you too well to buy it.  “Corinna May Allbright!” she says, rollin’ her eyes at you, callin’ you out, all three names.

And she’s right.  You’re had plenty of time to set down and talk, and hold hands, and everything else.  Football crowd won’t roll in for another thirty minutes or so.  And you know it's important. But it ain’t an easy question to ask, especially with customers comin’ and goin’.

And even though it’s been burnin’ in the back of your head half the night – way longer, if you’re gonna be truthful about it – you been tryin' not to think about it. Purely hate to ask it.  First of all because everythin's been goin' so good, and you're still on cloud nine, and it might sour the wonderful mood. And second of all, because you might get an answer you don’t like.

“He did come back, so maybe it don't really matter all that much...?” you try again, lookin’ away and findin’ something to do with the silverware.

That don’t go over any better.  “Bullshit,” Sharlette tells you. "C'mon, 'Reena."

“Even I know that’s bullhockey,” Gus chimes in from the flat-top grill, “and nobody around here tells me anythin’.”

“You ain’t helpin,” you tell Gus darkly, glarin' at the back of his head.

“I’m here, so you got time now,” Sharlette insists, hands on hips. “Get on out there and do it; I can’t stand to watch you mopin’ around for another month after he leaves again – “

“ – two months –” Gus corrects her without turnin’ around. 

“Two months after he leaves again,” she continues, “just because you’re too chicken to ask and get it settled.  Now go on, while you got a chance.  Before the game ends and everybody and their momma shows up,” she says, and swats at you with an order pad. 

“Fine,” you huff.  And spend the whole walk out to the booth tryin’ to find a good reason not to ask, but there ain’t one.  Not one that’ll satisfy Sharlette.  Or one that’ll satisfy you either, if you’re bein’ honest about it.

“Hey there,” Johnny tells you, lookin’ up from his logbook, when you walk up, tryin’ not to chicken out.  He pushes his glasses up into his hair and rubs the space between his eyes, lookin’ purely tired, but smiles. 

Maybe this ain’t the time to have this conversation.  You’ve done nearly talked yourself out of it when he speaks up again.  “I’m gonna have to roll out soon,” he tells you, kinda apologetic.  “Not that I want to, but – “  He shrugs.

And of course he’s gonna have to go; it ain’t like he’s passin’ through LaGrange on a pleasure trip, just to see the sights.  That big red truck’s outside, full of somethin’ or other, just waitin’ for him to drive it to wherever it’s goin’ next. 

And then he won’t be back again until who knows when.  And that’s the thing that finally puts some steel in your spine and gives you the courage to do somethin’ about it.  That and Sharlette’s eyes practically burnin’ a hole in you from behind the passthrough window.

You huff a big sigh and set down.  And Johnny reaches for your hand like it’s just the most natural thing in the world to do, and that helps a little.  “Can I talk to you about somethin’?” you ask him, a little quiet.  Like you ain’t already talked to him about damn near everything else under the sun. His forehead does that wrinkly thing it does when he’s thinkin’.  But he don’t let go of your hand.  Puts his other hand on top of it, even.  “Yeah, sure,” he tells you, with a little nod, although he’s startin’ to look as worried as you feel.  “Anythin’.”

Well, it’s now or never, ain’t it?  You can do this, you tell yourself, a little mean-like.  Because the truth is you might not get another chance to ask for who knows how long; it ain't like he's here every day.  And there ain’t enough butter pecan ice cream and Noxema in the world to get you through another two or three months of wonderin,’ and imaginin’ the worst.

“How come you left so fast last time, without even sayin’ anything?” you ask him – words all run together, spittin’ it out before you have a chance to change your mind again. "I was startin' to think you weren't comin' back."

And then hold your breath, while the question lays there on the table in between you for a second or two, like a turd in a punchbowl. And you ain't even got to the hard part yet, about the Mrs. And whether she's still the Mrs. or not.

He looks at you real hard for a minute, then drops his eyes.  But not your hand; he turns that over in both of his, fingers warm, lookin' down at it.  “I’m real sorry about that, Corinna,” he tells you.  “I – “   He gets stuck for a minute, head tilted and brow all knit up, like he’s thinkin’.  “I ain’t real good with words,” he says finally, not for the first time. And sighs, lookin’ right at you again, eyes all soft.  “You got a second to take a walk with me?" he asks, finally. "I got somethin' I wanna show ya." ___ Song inspo: A Lover's Question, Clyde McPhatter (1958)