Budget Female Traveler's Revenge

My name is Ethan Roland. After high school, I bounced between dead-end jobs, barely keeping my head above water. Instead of saving up, I dug myself into a $20,000 hole—half of it from sketchy online loans. The collectors hounded me nonstop, calling at all hours until I couldn't take it anymore. So I ran—straight to my family's old house in the middle of nowhere, praying they wouldn't find me.

Then, one day, there was a knock at the door.

Not a debt collector.

My uncle, Vincent Roscente—a trucker with years of hauling freight through Yunnan. He wasn't exactly rolling in cash, so when he offered me a job promising to wipe out my debt in one run—plus "extra perks"—I was skeptical. But desperate? Absolutely.

I took the deal.

A few days later, after endless winding roads through the mountains, Vincent nudged me. "Check her out."

Up ahead, a girl stood by the roadside—tight clothes, backpack, holding a sign:

"Need a ride."

Vincent pulled over. She climbed in like it was nothing.

Too easy.

And then I saw her—really saw her. Through the rearview, I caught every curve, every shift of her body. My grip on the wheel tightened.

"Now, or later?" Vincent asked out of nowhere.

"Your call," she answered.

Before I could blink, Vincent was in the backseat, yanking her clothes off. She didn't fight him—hell, she helped him.

I nearly choked.

Years of grinding through life, and I'd never even touched a woman like that.

"Quit gawking. Drive," Vincent barked.

I swallowed hard and did as I was told.

The next half hour was a blur of moans and heavy breathing behind me. I kept my eyes locked on the road, knuckles white on the wheel.

When it was over, Vincent motioned for me to stop at the base of a mountain. The girl dressed fast, grabbed her bag, and disappeared without a word.

I opened my mouth—

"I know what you're thinking," Vincent cut in. "Backpackers trade rides for fun. Standard deal. Want one? I'll set you up next time."

My pulse kicked up. A job that paid my debt and came with women? No way I was walking away from that.

Not long after, we found two more.

One was curvy, mid-forties, confident. The other—Sophia Lowell—was younger, delicate, her hands shaking as she climbed in.

"The older one's mine. The kid's yours," Vincent said.

My stomach twisted. "But they didn't even have signs—"