The Deep Prick

~Chapter 7~

 
 
 
 
 
     The long dirt road did not cease to stay dusty and pot hole ridden. Green leafed trees towered the road, swaying with the wind’s presence. The sun was perfecting the days warmth, and making it stay a while. The warm wind blew through the red pickup truck, bringing a state of peacefulness to both girls; though, Caroline could not help but let another tear roll down her cheek. Perhaps it was finally her last tear… Grace looked at Caroline's subtle sorrow and softly wiped the tear from her cheek with her finger. Caroline let out a slight smile. She drove faster, picking up dust from behind her and letting it stay behind, like a faded memory... like the faded memory she held in her mind of Frances Wells.

     Maybe at this moment the law was not coming after them and seeking out their whereabouts the way a sunny rainstorm just yearns for that rainbow. But just twenty miles down the dirt road, behind Caroline and Grace, there was someone else yearning for their presence. A twenty-two-year-old British born guy, in a white 1980's BMW, named Oliver Heath drove steadily. He was turning up the volume of his energetic music; Woody Guthrie's “Hard Travelin'.” He was afflicted with an arm cast. His face was earnest and sweet. He was clean cut; the kind of guy who could pull off nerdy glasses and still look sexy. His dark James Dean textured quiff hairstyle, stayed put in the midst of the wind that blew through the car and his hazel eyes held a stare full of knowledge.

     Fifty miles driving behind Oliver Heath, was a thirty-one-year-old, Texan born guy, named Rowan Sanders. He drove in his black antique Porsche. He was drinking a can of root beer, afflicted with a casted foot. His long shoulder length dirty blonde hair was greasy and slicked beneath a black beanie hat. The greasiness managed to look alluring, as his stubble also captured that 'just came back from a hike' look. He was undoubtedly rugged, with kissable lips, that he licked just enough to color them a deep rouge; and with blue eyes that told a story of hidden trouble and dangerous passion.

     Another fifty miles down the long dirt road and driving behind Rowan Sanders, was twenty-five-year-old Californian born guy, named Collin Davis. He drove fast in his black antique Dodge pickup truck in mint condition. Collin looked seemingly uninjured, while smoking a nearly burnt-out cigarette. His Marlon Brando side parted hair style most certainly stood up to the glimmer he held in his deep brown eyes. His cheekbones could cut a yearning girl’s rosy cheek at first touch. His jaw line managed to look like it was sculpted by an 1800's marble sculptor. And the hands that lit up his second cigarette, were good hands; strong and yet gentle hands, any artist would gladly, draw, paint or photograph. He held a dreamy stare, like he was brought back to life into the 1960's. However, it was not the 1960's; but he may have been brought back to life.
 
                                                              
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      Caroline and Grace each ate fruits n’ cream pastel layered ice cream in a rainbow cone, on the truck bed of the red pickup, examining a map. They sat parked at a lone gas station, where bright and stark dry baron land sprawled out from every direction.

    “Santa Barbara?” Grace asked pleasantly licking her ice cream.

   “Nah,” Caroline replied.

   “Napa?” said Grace.

    “No,” Caroline said, paying far too much attention to her ice cream and at all its soft-hued swirly colors, which began to mix together.

     “I know! El Dorado?!” Grace said, sure of her choice.

     “I think not.” Caroline thought long, then asked, energetically, “what about San Bernadino?”