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Thorn is not a newbie. He's been running all across the barren wastelands that make up what once was America since he was fifteen -- he knows his shit. He does not need one of the psychic kids running with him to save his neck, no sir. No matter how good Rae is at his job.
When their run goes incredibly wrong, and they narrowly manage to escape somewhere across the snow-capped mountains, Thorn has to admit that having someone along is not all that bad -- especially when Rae provides more fun ways of resisting the bitter cold…
Praise for Express
"Sophia Titheniel makes 'punk' feel desirable in her futuristic short story EXPRESS."
4 Ribbons! -- Chrissy Dionne, Romance Junkies
"This short sexual escapade hit all the highlights in erotic romance for me. I can easily recommend this quick story for anyone wanting an incredibly hot and intense sexual encounter against a futuristic backdrop."
--Cactus, Whipped Cream Reviews
"If you like your romances short and hot and if you’re looking for a quick read that might make you feel a little hot under the collar, then you might like this short story."
-- Serena Yates, Rainbow Book Reviews
This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
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Copyright ©2009, 2018 Sophia Titheniel
The ground is hard, covered in pine needles, mud and dirty snow, but Thorn collapses face down on it as if it were a feather bed. His bones ache, a deep, dull throbbing that spreads from the small of his back all the way up his spine, making even thinking too difficult a job for him to accomplish right now.
He won't even mention the cold -- after five hours and over three hundred miles flat on his bike zigzagging across the Junction with a gang of scavengers after their asses, he thinks it's become embedded in of him. He can barely flex his fingers; the skin is so red and dry from lack of circulation.
"Well, that was fun."
Thorn snorts. He raises his head half an inch from the ground, needles stuck to his cheek and into the side of his Mohawk. "Your life would be so dull without me, admit it."
"No shit." Piercing blue eyes twinkle back at him, and Rae sits down by his side, pushing wet, dark hair off his face. "It's amazing how you revaluate boredom when your chances of survival drop under five percent."
"That sounds way more dramatic than it was," Thorn protests, pushing himself up on his elbows. "We did manage to get out of there alive, didn't we?"
"Yep." Rae nods very seriously. "Middle of fucking Nowhere, Bumfuck Colorado. With little to no gas and no provisions."
"We got whiskey."
Rae chuckles, wrapping his arms around his knees and pulling them against his chest in an effort to keep himself warm. "How many times? Whiskey is not a food group, buddy."
Thorn shrugs. "Beats hibernation."
"Now that was dramatic."
"Was it?" Thorn smirks. "C'mon, do you have a better idea?"
"Start a fire, for instance," Rae replies, glancing around the snow-covered ground. "There's gotta be some wood we can use, just to last till morning."
"Good luck finding anything dry," Thorn snorts, finally pushing himself up to a sitting position. "Though I suppose we could use a few drops of gas to set the thing burning. You got a lighter?"
Rae makes a face. "No. We could get the wires to spark, though."
Thorn glances over at their steeds, both of them looking the worse for wear but still standing proud under their cover of scratches and mud. "You want to risk it?"
Thorn knew what Rae's answer was going to be before he'd uttered it, "Not really." Touching anything on either of their bike's engines would mean disrupting the fragile algorithm of tape, spit and prayer that held the shit in place, dropping the possibilities of putting it back together to somewhere below zero.
"But we have whiskey," Thorn announces then, trying to sound bright and alert. He pulls a flask from under his jacket, the whiff of icy draught that hits his collarbone suggesting him to screw the cap open and gulp down some before handing it over to Rae. "We'll manage."