A Snowy Night in Texas

For every year I've spent driving, at least once within that year I have feared for my life. This story begins with an incident like that, but it was wasn't my or another driver's fault--it was the weather this time. I had been traveling south down a stretch of 35S between Norman, Oklahoma and Dallas, Texas, just passing the huge casinos marking the border between the states, when it started snowing heavily. I know, you think Texas and snow doesn't cross your mind but it does happen from time to time in November, December, and January, sometimes later I'm told but I'm a New Yorker so I wouldn't know too much about Texas's supposedly bi-polar weather.

My husband and I are both full time writers so we travel a lot. His tour happened to be in Europe this year while mine was in the south. I'd come from two weeks in Miami, Orlando, and Jacksonville, Florida where the weather was perfect and the water was cool but not freezing in the middle of December. It had snowed a little the weeks I traveled from Nashville to New Orleans, and then hooked a north to Little Rock. I'd lived in Arkansas for a year as a kid and found it far less enchanting as an adult.

It was always fun to travel through college towns. Norman had been powdered with snow and lay beneath gray skies as I got onto the freeway with my white rental Nissan Altima. It was nearing that time when I'd need to start looking for a place to stop for a restroom break when it started snowing. I was surprised to see the heavy fog drifting over the roads as the flurries came down in big drifts across the plains. Semi-trucks slowed to a crawl as drivers meandered around them.

I put distance between me and the semi-truck as well as the other drivers. After awhile, there was no one in front of or behind me. That's when I hit the slick snow patch in the road. I wasn't going fast--maybe fifty-miles per hour. Okay, under those conditions it was probably considered pretty fast, but I managed to catch traction and wipe out the tread on my front right tire to avoid hitting a guardrail. I kept going, but the car started doing a really weird vibration that made driving beyond thirty miles-per-hour really uncomfortable.

The good news: I was alive, I hadn't wrecked the rental car--which did have insurance, but still--and I hadn't killed anyone else in avoiding an accident; all good things to keep in mind. As the car's shaking became more unbearable and I feared I might have a flat, I pulled off the freeway onto the access road. The snow began to fall in big powder flakes that bunched on the windshield as I put on my hazards and tried to call my husband, not that I expected him to be able to do anything short of find the nearest towing service for me.

I tried to search maps myself but my 3G connection was fluctuating dangerously on one and no bars. I started swearing as my heart raced before I took a breather to figure out what to do next. I stepped out of the car, throwing my puffy jacket over my shoulders to assess the damage. I couldn't tell what happened from the outside as I crossed my arms over my stomach. I could hear the steady click of the hazard lights over the occasional slow passage of a car on the freeway nearby. I climbed back into the warmth of my vehicle.

After about fifteen minutes I was able to get enough of a signal to find the nearest tow-truck, who was twenty-two miles away. I called a few times and got a spotty connection. The last try, I was standing outside the car and could hear him better.

"I'll head over, but I have two more people ahead of you. I'll give you call when I'm headed out, but it might be an hour and a half or more." He said.

My heart sank. "Really? What if I try to drive it closer to you?" I asked.

"Can't say for sure," he said. "On a nice day I might risk it, but in the snow like this.... No, I wouldn't put my life on it. You got a phone charger?"

"Fortunately." I said as I climbed back into the car.

"Good. Don't leave the car on too long. Bundle up, and I'll try to get over to you just as soon as I can."

"All right, thanks." I hung up the phone. "I don't have any choice. Just wait." I said aloud to no one.

My heart rocketed into motion as a dark figure rapped on the door, dusting snow off the driver's window. I looked up to see a man in tall man a tan coat with a brown cowboy hat. He had a big red truck pulled up next to my car. If I hadn't been on the phone, I probably would have seen them pull up. I rolled down the window a hair.

"Hey," he held up a gloved hand. He had deep green eyes and an auburn beard under his cowboy hat. He wore a nice light blue shirt under his jacket. "You looked like you might be in some trouble."

"No--I mean, my tire's probably blown, but I'm fine. A tow-truck is on its way."

"Oh good. I was just gonna say that if you wanted to wait inside, my place is just across the field. I saw you break down and thought I'd invite you inside for some coffee or tea while you wait for the tow." He gave me a friendly grin.

"No, I think I'll be fine." I held up a hand and shook my head. A million true crime horror stories and movies were popping into my mind at that moment: my car being found and me not in it, the man across the field having no idea where I could possibly have disappeared. It was all too perfect and too horrible for me to do anything but wait here or drive on if I had no choice... if he got violent....

But he didn't. "I totally understand, and if you were my wife I'd tell you to sit tight in the car as well." He nodded at my wedding ring and then looked closely at my face. Something about him was as familiar to me as I was to him. "Are you... you're Cindy Johnson, the writer!"

"Yeah," I gave him a feeble smile. More fear bubbled into my chest as I considered that I'd need to turn on the car before attempting to make my get-away. His truck was easily a V-6 at least so I wouldn't get far, but again I was over-reacting.

"We've met before!" He clapped a hand to his chest. "At the writer's conference in New York eight or nine years ago. I wrote 'Sands of Time', remember?"

"John Ackerman--the best western writer I'd ever read, from Texas!" I pointed at him and got out of the car. We hit one another with a full embrace that only writers who have been in the trenches together can manage.

Both our novels were torn apart by an editor for a high-end publishing company at a conference. We sat, side-by-side as writers and their stories took turns being obliterated by the strong will of the critiquing editor. Some of these guys were just kids and they were so very fragile. I watched them break, some of them falling into tears as they stuttered unconvincing responses to the editor's hardline queries. As the editor reached John to my left, I realized as he had realized that my novel was not immune to this punishment. It would be painful, it would hurt, but in the end, it would be worth the torment. The final results of our novels would be far greater than they'd been before, at least for those of us that didn't break and drop out.

But being there, stammering, and rationalizing your story to someone who couldn't care a less--that's not why they're here after all ("Oh yes, your story and your pitch are simply amazing! You're going places, my friend!" *soft golf clap*)--falling to your most vulnerable and open self along with your peers, and having to rise up and come back the next day with something better; that forms a bond that can't be removed by time. We were all family after that, and we knew one another as authors. We weren't just nobodys who wanted to get their stories published. Every book at that conference would find its way to the bookshelves one way or the other. Maybe not, but we all wanted to think they could although most of them probably didn't deserve to be on a bookshelf. Regardless, I knew John Ackerman and I knew his story.

"What a world! Why don't you come back over to my place and we'll have some coffee and catch up while you wait." He said. "No need to wait around in the cold all day."

How could I say no? I followed him to his truck and got in the passenger side as he climbed into the driver's seat. He backed up the access road to the gravel trail that lead past his field and horse-stables to his house. John was a true cowboy, from what I remembered. He wrote stories about the West and even had a best selling historical fiction about the hell that took place during the Mexican Revolution.

We pulled up in the driveway behind a silver Lexus and a black Chrysler SUV. I stepped out. It was still snowing heavily as I stepped over the muddy gravel ruts and climbed the paint-washed porch. John opened the door and we walked inside his large two-story house. I could hear the television on in the living room. Everything was gorgeous. Rust-red persian rugs covered the floors. The kitchen had been remodeled recently. Chips and salsa were already out on the counter along with some beer, wine, champagne, and an assortment of top shelf liquors.

"Hey there!" A short woman with long dark brown hair with black glasses emerged from the living room. She wore a checkered shirt that was too big for her that hung down to her legs. I couldn't tell if she was wearing pants or not, but her tanned legs descended to a pair of socks and that was all. "I'm Courtney Willford."

I'd heard the name and had seen the face, just like with John. "Were you--

"I WAS!" She yelled. "But I was in a different class. We sat at the same table together, like across from one another, but we didn't really have a chance to meet."

"Yeah, I remember seeing you, but you know, almost ten years." I shrugged.

"Of course, but seriously: take off your jacket, relax, have a drink, and we'll just have a great time until you gotta jet." She grabbed some chips and hurried back into the living room.

"Yeah, Courtney's already started the party so don't feel too pressured." John took off his jacket and unbuttoned the sleeves of his dress-shirt to expose muscular forearms.

I got a drink of wine while John and I caught up. It had been a long time and he'd been busy with the television show and writing the next parts in that series. Mixing television with writing was a really confusing and convoluted process. A few minutes later, a younger man in a black sport coat descended the steps. He looked like he was maybe twenty-five and had short brown hair and a beard similar to John's. He entered the kitchen slowly when he saw me.

"Hey Marcus, this is Cindy. She was at that writing conference with me and Courtney."

"Oh really?" His demeanor changed from serious to jovial to know that I was a fellow writer. He shook my hand. "Cool. I write science fiction, but nothing compared to the lethal weapons that John writes." Everyone grinned.

"So, like Orson Scott Card?" I asked.

"Eh, I liked Joe Haldeman and Robert Heinlein more than Card, but I've been totally into Neal Stephenson lately. His stuff is so huge it takes me like a month to read." Marcus answered.

"Marcus has been busy learning how to drive a horse." John said after pouring himself a glass of scotch.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yeah, just thought every good character in a book might have to ride a horse. Might be good to know how." He shrugged.

"That's a fair point and I might have to take you up on that offer." I cocked my brow in John's direction.

Courtney returned after having rolled a joint. She lit it and started passing it around. I took a small hit, handing the J to John after.

"I gotta pass." Marcus stepped back.

"Ah, I totally forgot." Courtney said. "Sorry Marcus."

"It's fine. I totally would but...."

"It's part of this Sober November thing he's on." John said.

"Oh, I see." I said, taking the joint to hit it one more time.

"So what do you have going on tonight?" Marcus asked me.

"Not much, just need to get my tire fixed and then get get to my hotel. I was going to try to push to Austin tonight, but I don't think that'll happen." I handed off to Courtney.

"Austin would kill me tonight." Marcus shook his head.

"Love Austin." Courtney said, looking dazed as she held the smoldering joint between two lazy fingers like a cigarette.

"My next book signing is in Austin, then San Antonio, and then I fly to Albuquerque." I said.

"Damn, sounds like you have a full schedule," said John. "You're free to crash here if you don't want to stay in a motel room. None of us will jump on you or anything--not unless you want us to."

Marcus raised an eyebrow at John as if to question his motive for saying that, but let it drop. "Sounds like your books are doing well." He smiled.

"Yeah, can't complain." I took a sip of wine and felt the buzz start to wash over me.

"Now Marcus," said John, "you've been very modest throughout this whole author conversation."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"One of Marcus's books won the Nebula'r award." John said, his speech slurring just a little so that 'nebula' came out 'nebular'.

I wanted to laugh, but held back. "That's very cool." I said, taking another sip from my drink. I felt my phone vibrate. The number that came up on the phone screen wasn't in my contacts but I recognized the number that I had dialed earlier to the tow truck company. "Hold on, I gotta take this real quick."

"Hey, this is Bud." The man I'd called earlier spoke through the speaker on my phone. "One of my calls got a different towing company, and the other one said they were able to push their car home. Still need a lift?"

"Yeah," I said, rubbing my neck. I still had half a glass of wine in hand. "Sure, I'll meet you out there in a second."

John was still sober enough to drive, so he took me back out to my car. It had started snowing more heavily than I expected. It wasn't so much that I didn't think I'd make it to Austin safely but... why make the effort when it was supposed to be sunny in the morning? Dangerous stress-filled highway 35S through Texas during a snowstorm, or easy relaxing morning drive after a good night's rest? John followed me out to the tire place with my car where the kid behind the counter assessed that the tires on my right side were severely worn and might not make the trip to Austin during these conditions.

"Leave it here overnight and we'll have it up and running first thing in the morning. It's 7:45PM. Most tire places have wrapped up or are going to wrap up real soon."

"It's okay. I didn't think my plans tonight were going to go the way I wanted anyway." I said and paid for the tow before hitching a ride with John back to his place until I could coordinate my next move.

An hour and three glasses of wine later, I decided to stay over at John's with Courtney, John, and Marcus. Courtney had been watching a 'Modern Family' marathon and eventually fell asleep with its dry and awkward plots droning monotonously in the background as the three of us talked about boring book-author stuff. You can put together the characters of people based on what kind of literature writers call their favorite.

John was a historical guy and loved westerns, but he had a guilty pleasure for true crime novels so you could see it in his writing. It actually made it somewhat of a staple for his characters within the genre, kind of like CSI in the old West. His characters might have been a little bit on the comic-book deductive side but it certain built for good stories.

Marcus rattled off a long list of romance novels that he had just finished. "How are you patient enough to get through those? Most men I've met have only read the Cliff Notes of 'Pride and Prejudice'." I said.

"Well, we had to read it in high school and I actually decided to read it on my own after reading the Cliff Notes." Marcus admitted, stroking his beard. "You know what, it's November 29th, I've been sober since before Halloween--give me a shot of that scotch."

"Yeah!" John grunted. "That's my boy!" John's face was already red, but I could tell he still had half a tank left as far as inebriation went.

I moved up to the scotch as well as we all started telling our craziest stories from when we were younger. I can't remember half the stuff that was said at that table, but it was juicy and some of it was very honest. I was surfing on that perfect relaxation wave where you're not too drunk but if you drank any more you might be. I never liked going beyond that point so I held back as Marcus caught up.

The light over the table was yellow as the television continued in the next room with Courtney snoring on the couch. The three of us went outside and smoked another joint as the snow continued falling in powdery bunches like we were in the north-east or something. It was such a magical and enchanting night. Marcus, John, and I were drunk and high enough to think making snow angels was a good idea before another layer of snow softened them to incoherent shapes in the dusty white landscape.

We retreated to a large red gazebo next to John's wood-working shed and laughed as we shared the last of the bottle of scotch. We'd all started getting comfortable and holding hands as I took turns sitting on their laps to share the bottle. Marcus was uncomfortably hard, and he was wearing those tight cowboy jeans so I could see the shape of him on his thigh. I rested my hand on his bulge as I took a sip of the scotch, feeling him throbbing painfully. He had his hand around my waist, and I could feel him stroking the side of my breast through my bra and sweater. Normally, the motion would tickle but I felt a yearning want for him to go further. My right nipple perked and hardened, inspiring my left to do the same.

"Love when it snows it Texas." John sighed and reached for the bottle in my hand. I got up and tripped on a uplifted floor board, falling into John's arms.

"Woah, careful!" He helped me get more comfortable. We all laughed, before John took the bottle and drank the last of the scotch down. He set the empty bottle on the banister of the gazebo and reclined against the post with me resting on his leg. I felt the warmth of his breath and the smell of the scotch as he kissed me. His tongue clashed with mine and I saw Marcus instinctively approach.

I grabbed the front of Marcus's dress shirt and pulled him over as I unhinged from John and felt Marcus's lips meet mine. We eventually pulled apart and began laughing as we stumbled through the snowy cascade toward the warmth of the house.

Courtney snored louder than ever from the couch as we crept upstairs, John in the lead, me in the middle, and Marcus behind. We were like three kids who were trying not to wake the babysitter, except we were adults and were so horny we wanted to fuck like vikings on a burning ship bound for Valhalla. We fell down in the hall in a drunken mess, giggling as quietly as we possibly could until we could get into the bedroom and turn the light on.

John's face was red with laughter as he unbuttoned his shirt. Marcus and I made out as I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his belt loose from his jeans. He helped me pull off my sweater and unhooked my bra before I got down on my knees to peel his underwear down. His huge cock released from the confines of his tight underwear. He was so horny, there was a large stain of precum on his underwear. I pulled the fabric hairs from the tip of his cock as I heard John undo his belt buckle.

Marcus pushed his fingers through my black hair as I felt his cock between my lips. John masterbated as he watched me suck Marcus up and down. My eyes rolled into the back of my head at the feel and the sound of him lodging in the back of my throat. I ran my tongue down Marcus's shaft as John stepped forward. A totally different taste met my tongue as I felt John slide down my throat. Marcus ran his hand up and down his shaft as he lowered a hand to my painfully hard nipples.