Andi jumped down from the cab of her Peterbilt 18-wheeler. She'd just returned from a three day road trip that involved delivering a load of Depends© undergarments to a distributor in Miami, and she was glad to be back. On the seat of her truck was a wad of white tissue paper with a corny little gift inside she'd bought for her fiancé. A truly ugly ceramic frog she'd found in a collector's shop. Brent would love it. Good thing too, because there hadn't been much time for shopping.

          She'd gotten as far as Santa Fe, New Mexico last night, picked up a load of bathroom fixtures, and delivered them this morning. After a little sleep, she'd hit the interstate and was back in Colorado half a day ahead of schedule. Remarkable time. Amazing what good weather and the promise of a romantic evening can do for a trucker. Swearing at inconsiderate drivers from behind the wheel was not what Andrea Burke had in mind for a Saturday evening.

          Since landing this job as a trucker, the traditional Saturday "date night" had taken a detour, but at 29, life was good. She'd begun driving a year ago and was happy to have a gig that got the bills paid and still gave her enough solid green to support her music habit, as she called it. Andi Burke was a professional trombone player-a damn good one, and that's where the "music habit" crack came from. Steady gigs for a trombone player were scare, yet she wasn't about to give up music altogether. So, like many musicians, she got a "day gig" to supplement her income. Driving an 18-wheeler might be a bit more than a day gig, but it afforded her the opportunity to keep her nocturnal music schedule. And even if the general public wasn't always interested in the hot blues licks that had become her trademark, the deer seemed to sit up and take notice when she practiced by the side of the road on long hauls.

          Her fingers glided through her sassy, short blond hair as she weaved her way through the trucks parked on the lot of the Sutter-Bows Trucking Company. At 5'9", Andi had a casual kind of beauty. "Incredibly cute" was usually how people described her.

           As she passed one semi, a pair of black lace panties flew into the air. Legs thrashed about and the cab began to sway from side to side. Nothing like a little R & R to take the edge off.

           Past the barbershop and restaurant, she unlocked her own car in the employee parking lot, placing Froggie and his tissue paper on the front seat. Her fiancé, Brent Loweman, had this thing for goofy-looking frogs. This one was a ceramic pea-green thing with dirt-brown splashes across its back. Big bloodshot eyes protruded--adorable in an ugly sort of way. It was perfect.

           Frog collection or not, it was hard to believe she was engaged at all, especially to Brent, the 35-year-old owner and CPA (chief-pain-in-the-ass) of Racy Rags, a successful group of "adult" magazines. Brent's publishing empire began back in high school when he shot his first semi-nude cheerleader pictures through a tiny hole carved in the gym dressing room wall. Amazingly, other boys were willing to pay outlandish prices for such sophisticated art work, so he upgraded to better cameras, and bustier models. Now his adult magazines were commercially successful across the globe. Acceptable enough to be considered "mainstream," and he was careful to keep his photos just above the smut line that might get them exiled to the back room of the adult bookstores. His magazines now stood boldly next to Ladies Home Journal on every newsstand in the country. Racy Rags, a company developed from the bottom up. So to speak.

           She sped out of the lot. The sun was halfway down in the orange sky and the whole romantic night lay ahead.

          Andi turned the key in the front door of Brent's house, actually her house now, since he had insisted she move in right after they set the wedding date. He'd come home one night with a rock the size of Santa Monica and proposed. She'd felt her head swim, the earth literally shift under her feet. Believing it to be an omen instead of a rush from the cigar she'd just smoked, she blurted, "Yes! Of course!"

           The house was a custom-design; he'd bought and remodeled it before they met. Andi marveled at his elegant taste. There were Parquet floors with a high-gloss finish, dark painted exposed wood beams with steel brackets, and an open-hearth metal fireplace with flagstone that reached to the spacious second-floor. Logs smoldered in the fireplace as she slipped through the room.

           "Brent?" No answer.

           Past the pool table, she started for the spiral wrought-iron staircase. Halfway up, she heard the splash of water in the bathroom. He was probably in the tub reading the financial page, she thought. Perfect; he'll really be surprised. She pulled Froggie out of its tissue paper and tiptoed across the hall, pressing a finger on the door that was partially ajar. She eased inside.

           Soapsuds sloshed about. Brent made a low growl as he imitated a speedboat on the open lake. His laughter filled the room along with the air-popped giggle of a fluffy-headed woman named Lucky whose breasts seemed to float above the bubbles. Lucky saw Andi first. Her eyes shot open. Her goo goo's came to a dead stop.

           Still looking the other way, Brent floored his make-believe motor boat and crashed it between Lucky's ample mounds.

          Lucky had turned into an ice statue. Brent's eyes followed hers and went over his shoulder. At the sight of his fiancée, his engine flooded.

           "Brrrmmm … brrrmmm … br … Andi …!"

           Andi stared, her limbs stiff, as if they'd been infused with starch. Her stomach curled into an acidic knot.

           "You're, uh … you're back early," Brent choked out. "It's only Saturday. You said--"

           "I said probably Sunday." She was paralyzed. The man she'd pledged to love forever couldn't wait one more day?

           Now what? Was she supposed to stand here and be … civil?

           Nausea swept over her. She fought to keep it back.

           Brent's hairdryer lay next to the sink, the cord still attached to the wall. Filmy movements played out in Andi's mind. A quick flip to the on position, the hairdryer slips from her hand, the frothy bubbles are charred a golden color …

           Fortunately for the soggy couple, Andi's anger took a different path.

           She was only 29. She'd probably get life for killing these two dipsticks and clearly they weren't worth that! Besides, death was too quick for them. Better to leave them squirming, always wondering if she was capable of dislodging that little chunk in the brain that controlled rational thinking …

           She couldn't think. Her eyes connected with Brent's. All they had shared together raced suddenly across the viewing screen in her mind. She wondered if she'd simply fooled herself. That was one of life's little kickbacks; she'd never know for sure.

           Without warning, her stomach did its final lurch. In a knee-jerk reaction, she stepped up to the tub and spewed vomit over Brent's face and hair. While she was at it, she dropped a good coating over Lucky's buoyant boobs.

           She stepped back, pausing to take in their shocked expressions. "Hmm. That's better."

           She looked again at the hairdryer, decided against it, tossed Froggie into the water instead and walked out.

To be continued …