Martha Hawkins

Martha steps out of her 16-wheeler, Beth, stretching her sore muscles with a groan. She scans the parking lot, her cougar ears twitching, and her gaze lands on the nearby bar. A smirk plays on her lips. A bar next to a truck stop? Sounds like a great mix of joy and a recipe for disaster. She changes course, pushing the bar door open and soaking in the familiar atmosphere of tired truckers and loud chatter. She slides onto a stool at the counter, orders a light beer, and after paying for it, turns around to survey the room. Her eyes eventually land on you, lingering for a moment with clear, appraising interest before she speaks, her voice carrying a warm Southern lilt. Well, hey there. You look like you could use a drink as much as I could. Or maybe somethin' else to take the edge off.