Harper's Rules 1 & 2

Chapter 8: Harper

"Ugh, fucking gas," I mumbled to my dashboard as the low gas warning light came on and pulled me out of shit memory lane. "I just filled you up four hours ago!"

My right index finger jabbed harshly on the dashboard search for the nearest gas station, then pulled off the highway exit at the first available exit. Once my car lurched to a stop in the middle of nowhere, I reached over my passenger's seat and slipped my credit card out of my wallet.

A thick, humid wall of late, Southern California summer air coated my skin as I stepped out of the car. A few strands from my ponytail clung to the back of my neck and a line of moisture encroached the surface of my skin at my hairline.

Gross.

Even though Highway 405 ran along the coastline, it was enough miles inland that the cool Pacific breezes didn't offset the stifling mix of heat and lightly swampy air that moved impassively around me as I stretched my tired arms overhead.

After I topped off my gas tank, I checked my watch and realized my bladder wasn't going to make the roughly three and half hours left to UCLA. Despite how every internal warning told me peeing was cleaner and safer for me than this gas station's bathroom, I huffed loudly and came inside.

A loud chime sounded as my palms pushed against the black metal handle on the glass doors and I stepped into a very brightly lit convenience store layout. A pale-skinned, brown curly-haired, zit-faced kid who wore an expression like he hated his own very existence lazily looked up at me. A quick glance at the counter showed one palm flattened over a splayed open Hustler magazine while the other palm cupped under his chin.

"Bathroom?" I asked since the fullness in my lower belly fired off warning signals that the help my skinny jeans offered in the bladder containment department wasn't going to last much longer.

Without a glance up, he silently lifted one finger and pointed sideways to the other end of the counter. I rolled my eyes at the complete lack of help and walked down the sticky-floored aisles until I saw the overhead universal symbol for the bathrooms. My nose cringed when I saw one unisex bathroom, sucked in a deep breath, and touched as few surfaces as possible inside.

After my best thigh-clenched hover over the toilet, I lifted one of my knee-high leather boots that I was now incredibly grateful I'd worn down in a foot flush, washed my hands, and grabbed a paper towel for the door handle. Despite the rough car ride with one stop for a quick meal, a mirror check showed I still looked fairly decent despite how my entire face was flushed pink from the oppressive heat. One adjustment tug to my ponytail left me satisfied enough that I rejoined Mister Public Porn Stash.

After I snapped up some last-push of the drive snacks, namely red licorice and three more Red Bulls, I slapped a ten dollar bill on the counter over his dirty magazine and mumbled, "Keep the change, pervert."

Outside the gas station, I hugged my sugar and caffeinated supply to my chest. A few steps away from my car, I stretched each ear down to the closest shoulder and released the tension that pinched the nerves down the sides of my neck.

As I rolled my head back, I made a mistake and looked up at a nearby roadside billboard advertisement adjacent to the gas station. The large rectangular structure loomed over me like a slow-motion horror film scene, like the zoom-in pan when the stupid girl has her moment of awareness right before she chose to outrun a serial killer.

How did I not see that!? Stupid bladder.

My mouth dropped open and my arms released my snacks onto the pavement of the gas station at the sight in front of me. As my Redbulls rolled away in a circular protest, I silently gawked at an advertisement that completely disgusted me. Against the burgundy red background, gigantic blocked letters in yellow screamed at me: