Chapter 1: The Van's Back Seat
The van smelled of motor oil and cheap air freshener, something pine-scented that had long ago surrendered to the tang of sweat and stale coffee. Kathryn’s knees pressed into the worn upholstery of the bench seat, a landscape of grease-stained rags and discarded fast-food wrappers. A single LED strip, stuck crookedly to the ceiling, buzzed and flickered a sickly blue, throwing sharp shadows across Marcus’s face.
He grinned up at her, one hand already snaking under her blouse, calloused fingers rough against the skin of her back. “Knew you’d come find me,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Saw you watching from the kitchen window all week.”
“Shut up,” Kathryn breathed, but she was smiling, that sly curl of her lips she saved for moments like this. She’d told David she was going for a walk. A walk. It was almost funny. Her husband was three streets over, arguing picket line logistics on a neighbor’s porch, his union badge clipped to his belt like a sacred relic.
Here, in the graveyard of someone else’s workday, Marcus’s hands found the clasp of her bra with practiced ease. “He still out there holding the line for the brotherhood?” he mocked, his breath hot against her throat. “Bet he’s talking pension plans while I’m here, planning to ruin you.”
She didn’t answer, just ground her hips down against the hard denim of his jeans, feeling him stiffen beneath her. The van was a tomb and a playground. A crumpled newspaper lay by her foot, the headline bold in the flickering light: Plumbers’ Strike: Day 23. She kicked it away.
“Just do it,” she whispered, her fingers tearing at the buttons of his shirt. “Stop talking.”
He flipped her then, a sudden brutal twist of muscle that made her gasp. Her back hit the seat, the springs digging in. He was on her, his weight pinning her, all pretense of charm gone, replaced by a raw, hungry focus. He yanked her jeans and underwear down in one sharp pull, the fabric scraping against her thighs.
“You want a real job done, you don’t call the union,” he muttered, biting at her neck, not quite a kiss. “You call a guy who isn’t afraid to get dirty.”
He fumbled with his own belt, his jeans shoved down just enough. There was no tenderness, no slow preamble. He drove into her in one deep, punishing stroke. Kathryn cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the close, metal walls. It hurt for a second, a burning stretch, and then the hurt melted into a thick, guilty pulse of pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his pace relentless from the start. Each thrust slammed her body into the seat. The van rocked slightly on its wheels. His hips pistoned, a brutal, efficient rhythm. He smelled of PVC cement and salt, his slicked-back hair coming loose, strands sticking to his sweaty forehead.
Her head turned to the side, her cheek against a cold, greasy rag. Through the fogged window, she could see the blurred outline of her own street, the neat sidewalk David had power-washed last spring. The absurdity of it—his careful domesticity, her chaotic betrayal—made her clench around Marcus, and he groaned.
“Fuck, you’re a dirty one, ain’t you?” he panted, his fingers digging bruises into the soft flesh of her hips. “Your husband ever fuck you like this? Or does he ask permission first?”
She didn’t want to think about David. She wanted the mindless grind, the feeling of being used and wanting it. She arched to meet him, her nails clawing at his tattooed forearms. “Harder,” she heard herself hiss, the word filthy and foreign.
He obliged, his rhythm becoming rougher, more erratic. The metal frame of the seat creaked in protest. His mouth was on hers, silencing her moans with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue. She could taste the coffee, the nicotine, the thrilling absence of care. This was what she’d come for. This was the feeling that her spotless kitchen, her scheduled sex life, her predictable, loyal David could never provide—the terrifying, electric feeling of falling.
His hand slid between their pounding bodies, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing rough, fast circles. The stimulation was too much, too crude, and it shoved her over the edge. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, convulsing wave that made her thighs shake and her vision blank out for a second. He followed a few strokes later, a choked curse spilling into the hollow of her shoulder as he pulsed inside her.
The only sound was their ragged breathing, mingling with the distant hum of a lawnmower. He collapsed on her, heavy and damp. The blue light buzzed.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The ache between her legs. The chill of the air on her exposed skin. The profound, unsettling silence.
Marcus shifted off her, pulling up his jeans with a casual grunt. He lit a cigarette, the flare of the match briefly illuminating his satisfied, hollowed-out face. “Gotta be at a job in twenty,” he said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.
Kathryn sat up, her movements stiff. She fumbled for her clothes, the fabric feeling alien against her skin. As she fastened her jeans, a pair of headlights swept across the van’s interior. She froze, her heart seizing.
A truck rolled slowly past. An old Ford.