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— Woo-oo-oo! Now that’s a body! — a loud whistle rang out from the corner of the roadside café. — Girl, what modeling agency did you escape from?
Mallory turned around, clutching her dark sunglasses. Something twisted inside — irritation? Or shame? She hadn’t decided yet. The tight black shorts were pulling across her ass, and the red tank top, which had seemed fine earlier, now felt way too revealing. The bag’s strap burned her shoulder, and her breasts — the same ones she still didn’t know what the hell to do with — seemed to live their own life, responding to every movement, every stare.
— Hey, sweetheart! I’m talkin’ to you! — the guy at the table kept going, your typical cowboy in a baseball cap, with a giggling brunette next to him, a nose ring glinting. — Don’t take it the wrong way, but I’d marry you right now if you just tell me your name.
Mallory glanced down and saw how tightly the tank clung to her, outlining every curve of her tits like they were painted on. Her nipples were clearly showing through the fabric, and she could already feel the damp air inside the diner teasing their sensitivity. Or maybe it wasn’t the air. Maybe it was her own reaction?
'Fuck,' flashed through her mind as she bit her lip. Not because she wanted to flirt. But because she used to be Mark. And just yesterday she’d been back home in Chicago, lying on the couch in sweats, tearing into a bag of chips, watching Route 60 for the tenth time. Mark just loved that movie — light, a little weird, but full of vibe. And he hadn’t noticed when that tall guy showed up, the one with the smirking monkey-face and a wrench instead of a pipe.
— So, Mark. One wish? — he’d said back then. — Just one. Think carefully. You've always wanted... to be “on the other side,” right?
‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but if we’re wishing, I always wanted to ride down Route 60!’ — Jason blurted out, laughing, once the shock had passed and trying not to spill any secrets.
And in the next second, the stranger vanished, and Mark passed out cold. And when he woke up, he was in a motel on the edge of the highway. With long red hair, a MISS DIOR tank top, bold tattoos, and a woman’s passport with the name Mallory James.
— This is so fucked up… — Mallory whispered, her cheeks flooding with heat, like someone had grabbed her face and shoved it toward the mouth of a volcano.
She spun around sharply, like someone had just called her name. And she saw him.
Across the highway, near an abandoned gas station, he stood. Him. In a greasy jacket, with a monkeyish face and that pipe-wrench-thing in his mouth, twirling it like it was a candy he didn’t want to let go of. O.W. Grant.
She blinked — and he winked. Calm. Cocky. Like everything was going exactly as planned.
— Hey! — the cowboy called from behind. — Where you goin’, gorgeous? I was makin’ you a damn proposal here!
Mallory didn’t answer. She bolted from the roadside café, nearly falling at the exit because of the heels that had somehow appeared on her feet. She didn’t remember putting them on. But now they were just there, as solid and real as her tits.
— Fuck! — she gasped, barely catching her balance, then kept running, stumbling awkwardly, swaying and struggling to stay upright. Every...