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crack_van2011-05-18 12:50 pm
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2011-05-18 12:50 pm
Entry tags:
Heart Toward the Highway by valiant (NC-17)
Fandom: SUPERNATURAL
Pairing: John/Jo
Length: 43,000
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
valiant
Author Website: master list
Why this must be read:
This author writes this rare pairing so well, it's dirty and wrong with the sexual tension between John and Jo almost palpable. Road trip stories are some of my absolute favorites, and Heart Toward the Highway is a wonderful example of the genre.
When she wakes up, it's sudden, and the whole room is pitch-dark, and she gasps.
Her bed is shaking.
There's a rough, heavy, totally sloshed husk of a whisper. "Just me."
"John," she grits out, and lets her head fall back onto the pillow.
All at once, she remembers where they are, where she's sleeping. Her bed isn't shaking -- she just got jostled on the flimsy pull-out as John sat down. Her heart is throbbing against her eardrums, and her whole body is burning with the adrenaline of waking up in alarm.
Jo breathes heavy, heart flustered, but John doesn't apologize for scaring her. He's even more stoic when he's been drinking; she knows that now. Jo's been around drunk people so damn much in her life that it doesn't bother her whenever John comes back from a bar and passes out, or if he spends half an hour downing a bottle of Jack Daniels and watching infomercials with the same dead eyes she's seen in guys sitting over mugs of whatever at the Roadhouse, lost in their own sorrows and half-heartedly trying to drown them. She just rolls her eyes and keeps her trap shut. She's cheerfully unsympathetic when he's hung over -- even more so because a couple of times, she's gotten to drive the truck that John's so insanely possessive and anal about. Still, she feels distinctly unsettled, like his weight on the mattress is teetering her off-balance somehow. She's just not used to sharing a bed, she guesses.
She rolls over. Her body drags under the sheet, and it's then she realizes how goddamn hot it is, how uncomfortable her cut-offs are to try and sleep in, how thick this shirt feels. John's untying his boots. She knows the sound of his laces so well. They're thick cords. They whisk noisily against each other. There's a clunk as he gets a boot off.
Jo has no idea what time it is, but it must be the middle of the night. The yellow kitchen light is gone, dead. Moonlight is peeking in through the shutters; everything's gray, blue, black. She doesn't hear any other movements. Bobby's gotta be upstairs, in bed. She sighs and takes a deep breath of warm air that just makes her swelter; waves of heat are rolling off of John just a couple of feet away.
"'S hot," she murmurs, her complaint half smushed into her pillow as she squirms her legs, kicking the sheet off of her.
"Go to sleep," John tells her, like that's any kind of solution. He gets his other boot off after a second of pulling.
"Can't cool down," she replies fitfully, tossing her arms up to see if the huge sleeves of John's shirt will slide up to her shoulders. Her eyes are starting to adjust to the moonlight coming in through the slats of the boarded-up shutters.
"Don't squirm."
"I was fine till you came along."
John sighs, massive and impatient and sluggish, and she can feel and hear the roll-out mattress protest quietly under them as he fights out of his button-up shirt. Jo doesn't even know how he can layer up like he does.
Fuck this, she thinks dimly, just fuck it. She's been sleeping pantsless for weeks and he hasn't said a word about it, so fuck the rivets on her jeans digging into her hipbones and the seams all thick and sweat-damp along the insides of her thighs. She unbuttons her shorts and shoves them down beneath the sheets, pushing them off her ankle with one foot and off the side of the mattress.
The feel of air settling along her bare skin is wicked, the feel of the mattress against her through her cotton panties, over-warm with her own body's heat, weirdly intimate.
But that's nothing, she realizes, compared to when John heavily collapses at her side. All of a sudden she can smell his breath, beer-tangy and familiar due to riding in his passenger seat for months now, but never this close to her, not ever this close to her. She can smell his clothes, a familiar smell now like gas stations and laundromats and gun oil, smell his skin -- cheap soap and sweat on it -- and his hair, as lank and sweaty and blown as hers.
For a minute, she's paralyzed.
His body heat touching her.
His bare arm next to hers.
His silhouette in the darkness, so close; proud nose, grim and defined mouth, untidy hair.
Slowly, selfishly, she turns herself onto her side, facing him completely, and even though she's careful and quiet, practically weightless compared to him, John still exhales distantly at her. "Don't wiggle all night, sweetheart..."
"I can't help it," she whispers, her face so flushed that her nerve endings all tingle painfully. "'S too hot to sleep."
John lets out another long breath into the darkness.
"Just keep still," he says shortly.
I can't, Jo thinks, I can't. You called me sweetheart.
She curls, slow and pathetic with want, her arms both clutching under the small swells of her tits that are all naked under his shirt, that are rising and rebelling and aching with her every breath. Her knees pull up until they brush his side, and her head dips onto his shoulder. He's wearing a wife beater but the bridge of her nose brushes the warm, bare skin of his arm, and she can smell him even better now. His deodorant, his jeans, the smell of the truck all over him.
Didn't I tell you to keep still, she expects him to say. Didn't I say not to squirm.
But he just sighs at her, reaches over with a heavy hand and pushes her away.
No.
No, he doesn't. She waits to feel the shove, but it doesn't come.
Instead he tucks his fingers into her hair, finding bits that are still damp, his palm sort of sweaty and heavy against the heat of her face -- which just worsens exponentially, she's so sunburned and flushed and aroused. It's so sudden, Jo can hardly even process that he's really doing it, touching her hair, fingers threading through to her scalp and cupping the back of her head, the back of her neck.
He's never, not once, touched her like this. He's hauled her out the door before, grabbed shit out of her hands, pushed her back against a wall as a dark shadow passed them by. He helped tug her up from that open grave, huffing openly in amusement. He put an arm protectively, demandingly around her shoulders at a bar once, when the douche bag she'd been playing pool against refused to pay up. She's fake-cried into his chest.
But none of that was like this dream touch, this close fever touch she's burning in. She didn't even think he was capable of touching anyone like this. John, so immune to everything, so unamused by her, so distant -- pressing his chin down into her hair and cradling her neck.
No, she wants to protest when his hand moves away, but then she feels it on her shoulder, sliding loose-fingered and lethargic down her arm. It touches her ribcage, her waist, and John's just silent except for his breaths. They're loud as the wind.
He's drunk, she thinks, or half asleep, or something. He's going to be angry at her in the morning for touching him, for letting him touch her, for the way she slips a tentative arm around his middle and so totally invades his personal space.
But right then he just mutters, all beer-wet breath, "Sweetheart," like he wants that sweet heart of hers to break.
His hand brushes Jo's thigh, finding it bare, and she gasps. It's the hottest thing she's ever felt; his hand is huge, overtakes her thigh, wraps all around it. It seems like he's going to stop at any second, the pause he gives then just heavy enough to send her into overdrive.
Her heart thuds against his side, hard and alarmed, racing and unstoppable. She can feel her tits pressing up against him with their clothes between his skin and hers, can feel her lungs pushing her chest into him with her panting breaths, so hot and close to him but so futile.
"Listen -- you don't know what you're doing," John tells her then, all cracked breath, harsh.
"Yes, I do," she whispers intensely, shuddering with fear and excitement both. "You know I hate it when people say that. Don't treat me like I'm some little kid. You know I'm not."
This is always what it comes down to. You don't get to decide. I decide. You follow orders or I'm putting you on the first bus back to Nebraska. You're not experienced enough. You're not doing that. Shut your mouth before I get mad. Shut down. Overruled. Jo, eager to go, and John, keeping her at heel.
"Oh, fuck," she breathes then, wounded, because his hand's hauled her leg over his lap, splaying her open till she's practically straddling his knee.
Her panties are just ragged, thin cotton -- she can feel the denim of his jeans against her even through them, and the bone of his thigh is hard and unforgiving against her clit, sending a jolt up her belly and making her thighs quiver. She's practically burning through her panties with the heat of her pussy, and he must be able to feel it even through his pants. She might as well be naked.
John's hands catch at her hips, and even sloppy-drunk, he's so strong, so controlled. His fingers curl sternly into fists, dragging the waistband of her panties up till the crotch of them's cutting right up into her folds and making her gasp into his chest for this sharp second. Her panties, pressing near-painfully into her clit -- then he flips her over, pins her heavily.
This is happening. This is really happening.
How long has she been waiting? Does she even want this? It's so real it's scary.
Desperate, she tries to push her hips up into his thigh for more friction, but he's so heavy she can't budge him at all, and then he's rucking her shirt up past her navel and sliding his sweaty hand right into her panties to cup at her, rub at the wisps of her curls and find how wet she is.
The first boy who ever touched her there was an Eagle Scout with an awesome knife collection. They used to shoot cans together out on his farm, lining them up on the fence and taking them down together one by one. He'd gripped her through her jeans while they kissed against the sun-bleached side of his barn and she'd gripped him back, all guts and glory. They'd been friends for a couple of years; they'd never actually dated, but they'd spent lots of time daring each other to do stupid shit. She remembers most vividly the pulling of her stomach in alarm and desire, like an electric shock the second he'd touched her. That was like this -- but this is better. This is worse. This isn't even happening. His hand is so huge on her, covering her heat with his own.
"John," she wheezes into his chest, but it's totally muffled, and it's only then that she remembers where they are, who's upstairs, and her eyes roll back into her head.
Bobby. Bobby can't know.
"Keep quiet," she hears him command, low and deadly, and she tries, oh God, she tries as his fingers open her up, sliding through her folds and pushing her own wetness around in these coaxing circles, the insides of his knuckles rubbing her off.
It's like time doesn't even exist and everything is just hot and crushing; her mind is black, her guts are twisting up, her thighs open around his hand. The smell of his sweat and skin, the scruff of his beard against her cheek for a split second rough and shocking, the slick sounds she's making as he fingers her there on Bobby's couch. He's silent, fucking stony silent, so she can only hear her own breaths ripping out of her and struggling against the ribbed fabric of his wife beater, which is all damp and warmed through where her mouth is pressed open.
She doesn't even remember the last time she got off -- probably months ago, alone in the dark in a motel, racing against his return -- so it's a crazed building in her guts that she can feel, like she's getting shoved there, jerked taut in his hand, ready to explode in an instant. She goes off like he pulls a trigger, the breath she pulls in pained and shaking, her muscles all clenching fiercely, repeatedly, against his fingertips as they rub her. Oh, God, he can feel her coming all over his hand, feel every pulse of it in her, feel the leak of heated juices against his fingertips. It smears beneath them till she's sickeningly wet, but he doesn't stop.
He still doesn't stop.
As if curious, he cocks his wrist, slides a finger up into Jo's cunt, and she contracts around him -- God, his finger's so wet, and weirdly huge, at least compared to her own, and she's squeezing him from the inside. Scarcely able to breathe, she suppresses a squeak, even though she wants to beg, Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, John --
She tries to hunch her hips, driving herself at his finger, her panties siding over his hand as she moves and he moves with her. Now she can feel him breathing, the rhythm and depth of his breaths pressing into her face, and she's just so needy, muscles all flexing to move herself against him, around him, on him, begging silently for it deeper, harder. His palm brushes her clit every time she moves and it drives her on recklessly -- then, suddenly, he's cleaving another finger into her, and she can feel his knuckles crammed up against her. He's stuffing her full of his middle and ring fingers, and tighter, oh, God, more.
It isn't until he jams her with them that she realizes she's making the fucking roll-out mattress creak like hell. Abruptly, Jo falls still, heat clamoring all around her like an oven as she does, and John takes over for her completely, rocking his fingers into her, fucking her with them in tight, slick thrusts, this thumb rubbing naturally with the motion right in her folds, right up against her clit.
She comes on him again and this time, he feels it inside her, feels her clamping around his fingers and wetting them in floods, and she hears him mutter, "That's right..."
Jo buries a strangled sob into his sternum.
She loses track of everything after that. God, it's never-ending; she somehow gets her arms up around him, gets an iron grip all around the massive weight of his chest, and she remembers him rubbing his fingers, all wet from her pussy, against the inside of her own thigh, dragging them and leaving her slimy. She feels him coming back to rub her through her panties, push them around over her skin, sliding them through and against her -- feels him thumbing them aside and pressing fingers into her again that way, the squish of her own come against his knuckles. She knows she comes again when he grasps at her hair with his other hand, pulls her face up out of his chest, and their breaths hit each other's faces, brash and hot. She doesn't groan and kiss him like she desperately wants to, just gasps, "Oh," from the idea of it and shakes apart, smelling the tang of beer on him and her own pussy smeared on his skin, and burns alive in his hands.
Heart Toward the Highway
Pairing: John/Jo
Length: 43,000
Author on LJ:
valiantAuthor Website: master list
Why this must be read:
This author writes this rare pairing so well, it's dirty and wrong with the sexual tension between John and Jo almost palpable. Road trip stories are some of my absolute favorites, and Heart Toward the Highway is a wonderful example of the genre.
When she wakes up, it's sudden, and the whole room is pitch-dark, and she gasps.
Her bed is shaking.
There's a rough, heavy, totally sloshed husk of a whisper. "Just me."
"John," she grits out, and lets her head fall back onto the pillow.
All at once, she remembers where they are, where she's sleeping. Her bed isn't shaking -- she just got jostled on the flimsy pull-out as John sat down. Her heart is throbbing against her eardrums, and her whole body is burning with the adrenaline of waking up in alarm.
Jo breathes heavy, heart flustered, but John doesn't apologize for scaring her. He's even more stoic when he's been drinking; she knows that now. Jo's been around drunk people so damn much in her life that it doesn't bother her whenever John comes back from a bar and passes out, or if he spends half an hour downing a bottle of Jack Daniels and watching infomercials with the same dead eyes she's seen in guys sitting over mugs of whatever at the Roadhouse, lost in their own sorrows and half-heartedly trying to drown them. She just rolls her eyes and keeps her trap shut. She's cheerfully unsympathetic when he's hung over -- even more so because a couple of times, she's gotten to drive the truck that John's so insanely possessive and anal about. Still, she feels distinctly unsettled, like his weight on the mattress is teetering her off-balance somehow. She's just not used to sharing a bed, she guesses.
She rolls over. Her body drags under the sheet, and it's then she realizes how goddamn hot it is, how uncomfortable her cut-offs are to try and sleep in, how thick this shirt feels. John's untying his boots. She knows the sound of his laces so well. They're thick cords. They whisk noisily against each other. There's a clunk as he gets a boot off.
Jo has no idea what time it is, but it must be the middle of the night. The yellow kitchen light is gone, dead. Moonlight is peeking in through the shutters; everything's gray, blue, black. She doesn't hear any other movements. Bobby's gotta be upstairs, in bed. She sighs and takes a deep breath of warm air that just makes her swelter; waves of heat are rolling off of John just a couple of feet away.
"'S hot," she murmurs, her complaint half smushed into her pillow as she squirms her legs, kicking the sheet off of her.
"Go to sleep," John tells her, like that's any kind of solution. He gets his other boot off after a second of pulling.
"Can't cool down," she replies fitfully, tossing her arms up to see if the huge sleeves of John's shirt will slide up to her shoulders. Her eyes are starting to adjust to the moonlight coming in through the slats of the boarded-up shutters.
"Don't squirm."
"I was fine till you came along."
John sighs, massive and impatient and sluggish, and she can feel and hear the roll-out mattress protest quietly under them as he fights out of his button-up shirt. Jo doesn't even know how he can layer up like he does.
Fuck this, she thinks dimly, just fuck it. She's been sleeping pantsless for weeks and he hasn't said a word about it, so fuck the rivets on her jeans digging into her hipbones and the seams all thick and sweat-damp along the insides of her thighs. She unbuttons her shorts and shoves them down beneath the sheets, pushing them off her ankle with one foot and off the side of the mattress.
The feel of air settling along her bare skin is wicked, the feel of the mattress against her through her cotton panties, over-warm with her own body's heat, weirdly intimate.
But that's nothing, she realizes, compared to when John heavily collapses at her side. All of a sudden she can smell his breath, beer-tangy and familiar due to riding in his passenger seat for months now, but never this close to her, not ever this close to her. She can smell his clothes, a familiar smell now like gas stations and laundromats and gun oil, smell his skin -- cheap soap and sweat on it -- and his hair, as lank and sweaty and blown as hers.
For a minute, she's paralyzed.
His body heat touching her.
His bare arm next to hers.
His silhouette in the darkness, so close; proud nose, grim and defined mouth, untidy hair.
Slowly, selfishly, she turns herself onto her side, facing him completely, and even though she's careful and quiet, practically weightless compared to him, John still exhales distantly at her. "Don't wiggle all night, sweetheart..."
"I can't help it," she whispers, her face so flushed that her nerve endings all tingle painfully. "'S too hot to sleep."
John lets out another long breath into the darkness.
"Just keep still," he says shortly.
I can't, Jo thinks, I can't. You called me sweetheart.
She curls, slow and pathetic with want, her arms both clutching under the small swells of her tits that are all naked under his shirt, that are rising and rebelling and aching with her every breath. Her knees pull up until they brush his side, and her head dips onto his shoulder. He's wearing a wife beater but the bridge of her nose brushes the warm, bare skin of his arm, and she can smell him even better now. His deodorant, his jeans, the smell of the truck all over him.
Didn't I tell you to keep still, she expects him to say. Didn't I say not to squirm.
But he just sighs at her, reaches over with a heavy hand and pushes her away.
No.
No, he doesn't. She waits to feel the shove, but it doesn't come.
Instead he tucks his fingers into her hair, finding bits that are still damp, his palm sort of sweaty and heavy against the heat of her face -- which just worsens exponentially, she's so sunburned and flushed and aroused. It's so sudden, Jo can hardly even process that he's really doing it, touching her hair, fingers threading through to her scalp and cupping the back of her head, the back of her neck.
He's never, not once, touched her like this. He's hauled her out the door before, grabbed shit out of her hands, pushed her back against a wall as a dark shadow passed them by. He helped tug her up from that open grave, huffing openly in amusement. He put an arm protectively, demandingly around her shoulders at a bar once, when the douche bag she'd been playing pool against refused to pay up. She's fake-cried into his chest.
But none of that was like this dream touch, this close fever touch she's burning in. She didn't even think he was capable of touching anyone like this. John, so immune to everything, so unamused by her, so distant -- pressing his chin down into her hair and cradling her neck.
No, she wants to protest when his hand moves away, but then she feels it on her shoulder, sliding loose-fingered and lethargic down her arm. It touches her ribcage, her waist, and John's just silent except for his breaths. They're loud as the wind.
He's drunk, she thinks, or half asleep, or something. He's going to be angry at her in the morning for touching him, for letting him touch her, for the way she slips a tentative arm around his middle and so totally invades his personal space.
But right then he just mutters, all beer-wet breath, "Sweetheart," like he wants that sweet heart of hers to break.
His hand brushes Jo's thigh, finding it bare, and she gasps. It's the hottest thing she's ever felt; his hand is huge, overtakes her thigh, wraps all around it. It seems like he's going to stop at any second, the pause he gives then just heavy enough to send her into overdrive.
Her heart thuds against his side, hard and alarmed, racing and unstoppable. She can feel her tits pressing up against him with their clothes between his skin and hers, can feel her lungs pushing her chest into him with her panting breaths, so hot and close to him but so futile.
"Listen -- you don't know what you're doing," John tells her then, all cracked breath, harsh.
"Yes, I do," she whispers intensely, shuddering with fear and excitement both. "You know I hate it when people say that. Don't treat me like I'm some little kid. You know I'm not."
This is always what it comes down to. You don't get to decide. I decide. You follow orders or I'm putting you on the first bus back to Nebraska. You're not experienced enough. You're not doing that. Shut your mouth before I get mad. Shut down. Overruled. Jo, eager to go, and John, keeping her at heel.
"Oh, fuck," she breathes then, wounded, because his hand's hauled her leg over his lap, splaying her open till she's practically straddling his knee.
Her panties are just ragged, thin cotton -- she can feel the denim of his jeans against her even through them, and the bone of his thigh is hard and unforgiving against her clit, sending a jolt up her belly and making her thighs quiver. She's practically burning through her panties with the heat of her pussy, and he must be able to feel it even through his pants. She might as well be naked.
John's hands catch at her hips, and even sloppy-drunk, he's so strong, so controlled. His fingers curl sternly into fists, dragging the waistband of her panties up till the crotch of them's cutting right up into her folds and making her gasp into his chest for this sharp second. Her panties, pressing near-painfully into her clit -- then he flips her over, pins her heavily.
This is happening. This is really happening.
How long has she been waiting? Does she even want this? It's so real it's scary.
Desperate, she tries to push her hips up into his thigh for more friction, but he's so heavy she can't budge him at all, and then he's rucking her shirt up past her navel and sliding his sweaty hand right into her panties to cup at her, rub at the wisps of her curls and find how wet she is.
The first boy who ever touched her there was an Eagle Scout with an awesome knife collection. They used to shoot cans together out on his farm, lining them up on the fence and taking them down together one by one. He'd gripped her through her jeans while they kissed against the sun-bleached side of his barn and she'd gripped him back, all guts and glory. They'd been friends for a couple of years; they'd never actually dated, but they'd spent lots of time daring each other to do stupid shit. She remembers most vividly the pulling of her stomach in alarm and desire, like an electric shock the second he'd touched her. That was like this -- but this is better. This is worse. This isn't even happening. His hand is so huge on her, covering her heat with his own.
"John," she wheezes into his chest, but it's totally muffled, and it's only then that she remembers where they are, who's upstairs, and her eyes roll back into her head.
Bobby. Bobby can't know.
"Keep quiet," she hears him command, low and deadly, and she tries, oh God, she tries as his fingers open her up, sliding through her folds and pushing her own wetness around in these coaxing circles, the insides of his knuckles rubbing her off.
It's like time doesn't even exist and everything is just hot and crushing; her mind is black, her guts are twisting up, her thighs open around his hand. The smell of his sweat and skin, the scruff of his beard against her cheek for a split second rough and shocking, the slick sounds she's making as he fingers her there on Bobby's couch. He's silent, fucking stony silent, so she can only hear her own breaths ripping out of her and struggling against the ribbed fabric of his wife beater, which is all damp and warmed through where her mouth is pressed open.
She doesn't even remember the last time she got off -- probably months ago, alone in the dark in a motel, racing against his return -- so it's a crazed building in her guts that she can feel, like she's getting shoved there, jerked taut in his hand, ready to explode in an instant. She goes off like he pulls a trigger, the breath she pulls in pained and shaking, her muscles all clenching fiercely, repeatedly, against his fingertips as they rub her. Oh, God, he can feel her coming all over his hand, feel every pulse of it in her, feel the leak of heated juices against his fingertips. It smears beneath them till she's sickeningly wet, but he doesn't stop.
He still doesn't stop.
As if curious, he cocks his wrist, slides a finger up into Jo's cunt, and she contracts around him -- God, his finger's so wet, and weirdly huge, at least compared to her own, and she's squeezing him from the inside. Scarcely able to breathe, she suppresses a squeak, even though she wants to beg, Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, John --
She tries to hunch her hips, driving herself at his finger, her panties siding over his hand as she moves and he moves with her. Now she can feel him breathing, the rhythm and depth of his breaths pressing into her face, and she's just so needy, muscles all flexing to move herself against him, around him, on him, begging silently for it deeper, harder. His palm brushes her clit every time she moves and it drives her on recklessly -- then, suddenly, he's cleaving another finger into her, and she can feel his knuckles crammed up against her. He's stuffing her full of his middle and ring fingers, and tighter, oh, God, more.
It isn't until he jams her with them that she realizes she's making the fucking roll-out mattress creak like hell. Abruptly, Jo falls still, heat clamoring all around her like an oven as she does, and John takes over for her completely, rocking his fingers into her, fucking her with them in tight, slick thrusts, this thumb rubbing naturally with the motion right in her folds, right up against her clit.
She comes on him again and this time, he feels it inside her, feels her clamping around his fingers and wetting them in floods, and she hears him mutter, "That's right..."
Jo buries a strangled sob into his sternum.
She loses track of everything after that. God, it's never-ending; she somehow gets her arms up around him, gets an iron grip all around the massive weight of his chest, and she remembers him rubbing his fingers, all wet from her pussy, against the inside of her own thigh, dragging them and leaving her slimy. She feels him coming back to rub her through her panties, push them around over her skin, sliding them through and against her -- feels him thumbing them aside and pressing fingers into her again that way, the squish of her own come against his knuckles. She knows she comes again when he grasps at her hair with his other hand, pulls her face up out of his chest, and their breaths hit each other's faces, brash and hot. She doesn't groan and kiss him like she desperately wants to, just gasps, "Oh," from the idea of it and shakes apart, smelling the tang of beer on him and her own pussy smeared on his skin, and burns alive in his hands.
Heart Toward the Highway
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