Sometimes, in the rare moments when Vicki Donovan is sober and sane, she realizes how fucked up she is to keep going back to him; because even when he is sober and sane, he is just as fucked up as she is. (And if there's one thing she knows, it is that two fuck ups don't cancel each other out.) Even knowing this, whenever he calls, she picks up.

He's never sober when they're alone together. A smart girl would realize that a guy who only needs you when he's drunk or high isn't worth the trouble, but Vicki Donovan is too happy being needed to give a damn. So when he picks Tyler up in his truck, she takes the joint from his hands and joins him on his high. He laughs and leans over to kiss her and she sighs.

As he leaves her driveway, Tyler has one hand on the steering wheel and one inching up her left leg. She laughs as she feels the goose bumps rise on her legs and arms but otherwise ignores his roaming hand. She reaches for the volume control and turns it up as far as it can go.

They're halfway to the Falls when his hand makes its way under her skirt. She often wears skirts for him because he claims he likes them. (The reason, she suspects, is a lot less flattering than what she has convinced herself.)

She glances over to him, keeping her head straight ahead as if not even paying attention, even though he has all of her attention. There is a small smirk playing on his face as he keeps focus on the now dirt road ahead of them.

Vicki takes another puff of the joint as she turns to look out the passenger side window. She watches the endless parade of trees as she fights not to react to Tyler's fingers now toying with her panties. She groans as she finishes the joint and leans back in the seat.

Tyler laughs mockingly at her as his fingers slip under her panties and finds her wet for him. As she always is.

Then the car stops and he turns the music off. The sound of rushing water hits her immediately, heightening her awareness.

"Backseat," he says, his tone commanding and full of something she cannot place.

Nevertheless, she listens, climbing into the backseat of the truck.

"Pull your skirt up," he instructs as he does the same.

She stares at the ceiling of the truck, as she waits. One hand positioned behind her, against the door, and the other had long since replaced his hand under her panties. She moans as she listens to the sound of the condom wrapper.

His hand joins hers, shoving her panties to the side just enough for him to shove himself into her and he grunts at the contact.

"Ty," she moans as he moves within her, the feeling as addictive in that moment as she often convinces herself it is.

The sound of the rushing water below them guides her to completion before him (always before, for he never tries after) and she relaxes beneath him as his labored breathing controls her own.

Later, when he pulls out, she straightens her panties and pulls down her skirt before accepting another joint.