“Here’s one for the road,” he says, as he tosses me an unfiltered Lucky Strike, flattened from six hours of Levi’s to leather on I-95. He takes down the last of his coffee - black - “It’s the only thing keeps me goin’ these days,” he says. Turning to face his truck, he climbs in with a familiarity that only 18 years and enough miles to
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I'll have your truck driver be in one of the diners in my book where he meets a member of a gang of greasers.
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god. and i have your number, too. damn.
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