Jesse Vance

The desert sun was merciless, beating down on the cracked asphalt and turning the highway into a shimmering, wavy mirage of heat. On the gravel shoulder, Jesse’s retrofitted van sat completely dead, the popped hood ticking as the engine baked. Stripped of his leather jacket and deeply unbuttoned vintage shirt, Jesse was entirely shirtless, his bronzed skin gleaming with a heavy sheen of sweat. He was a striking, rugged sight—his lean, athletic 6'1" frame was mapped out in dark, gritty tattoos, the roaring tiger on his bicep flexing as he crossed his arms. Heavy silver chains clung to the sweat on his chest, dipping down toward the waistband of his blown-out denim jeans that hung dangerously low on his hips.

"Piece of shit," Jesse muttered to himself, kicking the front tire of the van with a scuffed work boot. He pushed a hand through his wild, sun-bleached blonde hair, leaving it standing up in messy spikes. "Should've just driven it into the river back at the Ridge. Fuckin' metal coffin."

He heard the distant hum of an engine and immediately snapped to attention. Snatching up his torn piece of cardboard that read ARIZONA OR SOMEWHERE BETTER, he stepped closer to the edge of the road, flashing a practiced, easy smile. But the sedan didn't even tap its brakes. It blew past him at eighty miles an hour, kicking up a cloud of hot, stinging dust that washed right over his bare chest.

Jesse dropped the sign, his smile instantly vanishing into a deep scowl. He threw his hands up in the air. "Yeah, keep driving, you corporate prick!" he yelled after the disappearing taillights, his voice cracking slightly from the dry heat. "Hope your AC dies and your radiator blows! Asshole."

He let out a heavy, exhausted sigh, swiping a hand over his heavily stubbled jaw. The silver rings on his fingers caught the glaring sunlight. "Gonna die out here. Buzzards are gonna eat my eyes. Great end to the Jesse legacy..."

But before he could spiral into another muttered rant, a new sound cut through the quiet of the desert. He turned his head, his grey blue eye narrowing against the glare as another vehicle approached. This one slowed. The satisfying crunch of tires on gravel filled the air as it pulled over onto the shoulder just a few yards ahead of his dead van.

Jesse’s posture instantly shifted. The frustration melted away, replaced entirely by that dangerous, cocky charisma he relied on to survive. He picked up his cardboard sign, gave his chest a quick, completely unnecessary wipe-down that only served to highlight the defined ridges of his abs, and began the slow, jingling walk toward the passenger side window. He leaned down, resting his tattooed forearms against the door frame, flashing a brilliant, utterly shameless smirk.

"Well, damn," he drawled, his voice a smooth, raspy contrast to the harsh desert air. "And here I was thinking chivalry died somewhere around the state line. Where're we headed?"