Stay outside and talk with Ritter

There's probably nothing left worth taking from the partially-torched gas station store. You decide it would be better to have two pairs of eyes keeping watch while the van slowly draws fuel from the ground tank. Ritter whistles a tune and paces. You lean against the side of the van, watching the bodies you left in the street for any sign of movement.

You watch Ritter move. Powerful, confident. His muscled upper body is covered in tattoos. Names, gothic text, nudes splayed out on his bicep.

"What were you in for?" You ask him.

"Huh?" He turns around, squinting at the sun that has broken through the gray clouds.

"Prison," you say and gesture at his tattoos.

"****," he says and judges your reaction. "I was innocent."

"Isn't everyone in prison?" You scoff.

Ritter steps closer. Eyeing you.

"I took the fall for a friend," he says. "I plead guilty. I got no problem with doing the time for my friend. But some people fucked with me inside, so I ended up doing an extra six years."

He steps closer, within arm's reach. You study his muscled body, his cruel lips, and his dark eyes. You can sense the lust steaming from him.

"Are you and Dorothy a thing?" You ask, your voice sounding husky.

"A thing?" He chuckles. "Are you and the jarhead a thing?"

"No," you quickly reply.

"There's your answer," he smiles and steps closer.

You look up at him. He leans both hands on the van and smiles. You know what's coming. The worst place. The worst time. But you can feel it, burning in both of you. This tattooed thug and you, an educated girl, a good girl. Lust, raw and real.