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All the signs were there a little cutie with no particular plan, waiting for the next guy who would offer her a ride a little further on down the road to nowhere. And the grungy backpack on the stool next to hers told me she didn’t have a car to leave her luggage in. She was picking at a plate of toast, hinting that funds were tight. Tugging self-consciously at the slipping hem of her low-rise jeans, she tied to cover up the exposed lavender waist band of her thong panties. Fashionably ripped designer jeans betrayed she came from money, so she possibly didn’t have a ton of street smarts as of yet. The frayed cut-off tee-shirt exposed plenty of firm midriff, suggesting that she might be used to getting by on her physical appeal. The requisite rebellious-phase nose ring was present, as was a small tramp-stamp tattoo on her bare lower back. A really nice pair of tits seemed to lurk within the confines of her tight shirt, and her perfectly formed rump was nicely on display as she straddled diner stool in a somewhat unladylike posture. A light hint of freckles and a perky little upturned nose gave her a very cute appearance. She was a pretty thing, trim but with nice curves, about five foot three, sporting a blonde pixie haircut with just a tinge of fading pink dye. The girl was sitting by herself at the counter. Numerous truck-driver types, a family of three probably on vacation, a sorry looking drunk slumped in a booth. I mentally discarded most of them immediately. It was around mid-afternoon but there were still about a dozen patrons. I stepped inside, removed my sunglasses, and surveyed the crowd. Walking across the wide parking lot I finally arrived at the truck stop diner.
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Ten bucks plus shipping on the internet, and suddenly I’m a movie and TV talent agent. ‘SILVER STARS TALENT AGENCY - Angela Wentworth, Owner - Hollywood, CA’ the sign proclaimed. Attaching it to the steel door of the RV, I adjusted it to level and then gave it a quick once-over. “You want anything while I’m there?” Dad said he didn’t and the window rolled back up into place.ĭetouring back to the RV, I opened the door to the back and grabbed a magnetic sign. “I’ll see if there’s anything promising in the diner,” I announced.
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Dark tinted windows blocked my view into the cab, but the window rolled down as I approached. I approached the passenger door of my dad’s white pickup truck. Yeah, he was definitely getting worked up in there and prompt attention was needed. The steel trailer shuddered under the impact and I flinched at the unexpected metallic bang. As I passed by the horse trailer, the huge black stallion within gave a snort of curiosity and then lashed out with a hoof at the rear gate. I turned off the engine in the RV and climbed out. Finding and eager-beaver volunteer was part of my job.
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In the case of a jittery stallion, the sure-fire solution was to find some way to tame his nervous sexual energy. So owners were willing to pay handsomely for handlers like Parker’s - with our special skills and knowledge - to deliver their precious cargo across the country unscathed. With all the drug testing that goes on these days in high-stakes horse racing, giving the animal sedatives during the trip was of course out of the question. Race horses take that nervous energy to a whole different level, and in unskilled hands have been known to injure or even thrash themselves to death in a panic-induced frenzy in a trailer. Horses are by nature jumpy animals and frankly not all that bright on average. Our clientele trusted us with the delivery of multi-million dollar race horses and you can believe we raked in the money from that crowd. We were building our reputation as one of the premier horse transporters in the nation.
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I worked part time when I was still in high school, but in the two years since graduation I had gone to full time and the business had really taken off.
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I pulled in near to him, feeling a sense of pride at the bold lettering on the truck and trailer - PARKER’S EQUINE TRANSPORT.ĭad and I had built the business up from scratch after Mom had left. Dad pulled onto the huge asphalt expanse of the lot at the truck stop, heading for the seclusion of the unoccupied parking spots at the far end of the property. It and my dad’s diesel pickup drifted onto the off-ramp. As the exit approached, the right blinker on the horse trailer ahead of me came on. “There’s a big commercial truck stop in about four miles,” I responded after a brief search. I think we better pull off soon.”ĭad waited while I checked my GPS. “Hey Pumpkin, that stallion is getting twitchy back there. I put him on speaker as I concentrated on keeping my vehicle from drifting out of its lane. It was my dad, calling from his truck up ahead of me on the highway.