Ellie’s Filthy Truck Threesome Under the Moon

It was a muggy Thursday night in late June, the air thick with heat that pressed against my skin like a second layer. I’d just finished a tense dinner with my parents — small talk over meatloaf that couldn’t mask the undercurrent of old family wounds — when my brother, Nate, suggested we ditch the house for a drink. We were both restless, trapped in that summer limbo where nothing feels enough, so I grabbed my purse and followed him out the door.

We took his rusty old Jeep to a roadhouse just beyond the city limits, a weathered joint that had become the go-to spot for anyone looking to escape. The gravel lot crunched under our tires as we parked, and Nate spotted some guys he knew from his construction crew lingering by the door, their laughter cutting through the cicada hum. He told me to head in — he’d catch up after a quick chat. I wasn’t in the mood to hear about drywall and overtime, so I gave him a nod and slipped inside.

The place was a dim cocoon of flickering bulbs and stale beer, the kind of dive where the jukebox played too loud and the walls held decades of secrets. I moved through it with a quiet confidence — not quite at home, but not lost either. My auburn hair hung in loose curls past my collarbone, catching the light as I walked, and the denim skirt I wore clung to my thighs, paired with a thin white tank top that showed just enough to feel reckless.

The bar was alive but not suffocating — clusters of people at tables, some shooting pool with lazy precision, others staring into their drinks like they might find salvation there. I claimed a stool at the counter, ordered a whiskey sour, and let the chaos of voices and clinking glass settle around me like a familiar song. That’s when I saw him.

He stood at the other end of the bar, one hip against the edge, waiting for the bartender. His dark hair was tousled, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times, and a shadow of stubble traced his jaw. He wore a navy flannel, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, and his fingers toyed with a Zippo lighter, flipping it open and shut with a metallic click. When our eyes locked, it was brief but electric — enough to make me look away, pretending my drink needed stirring, though my pulse betrayed me.

“Anyone sitting here?” His voice cut through the din, deep and edged with a grin I could hear before I saw it. He was beside me now, a bottle of IPA in hand, his presence warm and unapologetic.

I glanced up, letting a beat pass, then smirked. “Not unless you’re claiming it.”

He laughed — a low, rolling sound that hit me square in the chest — and slid onto the stool. “I’m Ryan. Not here to cause trouble, scout’s honor.”

“Doubt you were ever a scout,” I said, tilting my head. “I’m Ellie.”

Ryan leaned closer, just enough that I caught the scent of cedar and hops on him, his hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “Ellie, huh? What’s a girl like you doing in a dump like this?”

“Chasing something,” I said, holding his gaze. No use pretending otherwise—not tonight.

Conversation with him was like a current, pulling me in with every sharp quip and easy smile. He had a way of making the room shrink, like it was just us and the hum of the bar. I caught Nate heading our way and flicked my hand to shoo him off. He smirked, reading me like he always could, and settled at the far end with his beer, giving me space.

“What’s the real story?” Ryan asked, his voice dropping, eyes searching mine. “You don’t strike me as the type to just wander in.”

I sipped my drink, the whiskey biting my tongue before I answered. “Needed to shake things up. This place looked like it might deliver.”

“It’s got its charms,” he said, propping an elbow on the bar. “But it’s better with a co-pilot. My rig’s out back — no rush to head home.”

The words hung there, bold and tempting, a spark igniting in my gut. I’d brushed off lines before, but Ryan’s came with a weight — his steady stare, the way he didn’t flinch. It stirred something wild in me, a hunger I hadn’t named until now.

But doubts crept in, sharp and insistent. Could I trust this guy, all charm and rough edges? And what about Nate? We’d been tangled up in something dark and unspoken for months — late nights, stolen touches, a secret we buried under sibling banter. Then there was my boyfriend, Cole, who’d joined us once in a fevered, reckless threesome that blurred every line. Cole was away on a work trip, and after days of just Nate’s familiar heat, I was unraveling, craving a jolt from outside our twisted little world.

“You’re not here for small talk,” I said, voice low, testing him.

Ryan’s grin sharpened. “Neither are you.”

I nodded toward Nate, playing the game. “That guy over there hit on me earlier. Decent, but solo’s not cutting it tonight — I want chaos.”

Ryan’s laugh boomed, unrestrained. “I’ve got buddies here who’d step up, but I’m betting you’d pick him and me.”

“Both,” I said, unflinching.

He didn’t hesitate, just nodded like it was a done deal. I slid off the stool, crossed to Nate, and pitched the plan. He tensed — jealousy flickering—but my insistence wore him down. We’d act like strangers for Ryan’s sake, keep the truth locked tight.