She's seen him, because he only remembers to be sneaky about half the time. He'll lean against the back of his truck, arms outspread like Jesus and lying along the edge of the back panel, his face tilted up to the sky like all he cares about is the sun on his face, not whether the rally girl kneeling in the dirt sucks his dick just right.
Whatever. Kneepads should be part of the rally girl uniform.
She doesn't need them. Because tucked in the passenger-side footwell, where no rally girl ever would be, is the sleeping bag he used to take to sleep over at Jason's, and he pulls at the knots and throws it open in the bed of his truck before he sits back, tugging insistently at her hands, her waist, her hair, anything he can grab, until she's up there with him.
The quilt side is soft with age, but she likes it best when it lands nylon-side up; the material is slick against her, against him, like a giant tongue enveloping them. He lies down, and she moves until her knees are snug along his hips, nylon bunching under them. She can hear the drone of insects moving sluggishly in the heat, can feel the sunlight that would brand her if his hand weren't spread across her bare back.
His eyes are half-open, and he's looking through her, but that's her name spilling from his lips. She's got what every girl in town wants underneath her, naked and insistent and strong. He's too sure to be gentle, and she pushes back, squeezing every way she can. Sometimes, when they're like this, everything else will disappear, but it's not quite clicking today. Still, it's better than anything else she's got, and she presses her palm to his cheek and drops down for a kiss.