Route 60

Part 1

— Woo-oo-oo! Now that’s a body! — a loud whistle rang out from the corner of the roadside café. — Girl, what modeling agency did you escape from?

Mallory turned around, clutching her dark sunglasses. Something twisted inside — irritation? Or shame? She hadn’t decided yet. The tight black shorts were pulling across her ass, and the red tank top, which had seemed fine earlier, now felt way too revealing. The bag’s strap burned her shoulder, and her breasts — the same ones she still didn’t know what the hell to do with — seemed to live their own life, responding to every movement, every stare.

— Hey, sweetheart! I’m talkin’ to you! — the guy at the table kept going, your typical cowboy in a baseball cap, with a giggling brunette next to him, a nose ring glinting. — Don’t take it the wrong way, but I’d marry you right now if you just tell me your name.

Mallory glanced down and saw how tightly the tank clung to her, outlining every curve of her tits like they were painted on. Her nipples were clearly showing through the fabric, and she could already feel the damp air inside the diner teasing their sensitivity. Or maybe it wasn’t the air. Maybe it was her own reaction?

'Fuck,' flashed through her mind as she bit her lip. Not because she wanted to flirt. But because she used to be Mark. And just yesterday she’d been back home in Chicago, lying on the couch in sweats, tearing into a bag of chips, watching Route 60 for the tenth time. Mark just loved that movie — light, a little weird, but full of vibe. And he hadn’t noticed when that tall guy showed up, the one with the smirking monkey-face and a wrench instead of a pipe.

— So, Mark. One wish? — he’d said back then. — Just one. Think carefully. You've always wanted... to be “on the other side,” right?

‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but if we’re wishing, I always wanted to ride down Route 60!’ — Jason blurted out, laughing, once the shock had passed and trying not to spill any secrets.

And in the next second, the stranger vanished, and Mark passed out cold. And when he woke up, he was in a motel on the edge of the highway. With long red hair, a MISS DIOR tank top, bold tattoos, and a woman’s passport with the name Mallory James.

— This is so fucked up… — Mallory whispered, her cheeks flooding with heat, like someone had grabbed her face and shoved it toward the mouth of a volcano.

She spun around sharply, like someone had just called her name. And she saw him.

Across the highway, near an abandoned gas station, he stood. Him. In a greasy jacket, with a monkeyish face and that pipe-wrench-thing in his mouth, twirling it like it was a candy he didn’t want to let go of. O.W. Grant.

She blinked — and he winked. Calm. Cocky. Like everything was going exactly as planned.

— Hey! — the cowboy called from behind. — Where you goin’, gorgeous? I was makin’ you a damn proposal here!

Mallory didn’t answer. She bolted from the roadside café, nearly falling at the exit because of the heels that had somehow appeared on her feet. She didn’t remember putting them on. But now they were just there, as solid and real as her tits.

Part 2

— Fuck! — she gasped, barely catching her balance, then kept running, stumbling awkwardly, swaying and struggling to stay upright. Every step hit her lower back, her tits, her hips. The tank top clung to her sticky back, and her boobs bounced freely, despite being squeezed into an uncomfortable bra.

The roar of a motorcycle echoed from the highway, followed by a whistle, but she didn’t turn around. She was running — toward the gas station, toward him.

— Hey, you! — she shouted, breathless, getting closer and closer. — You bastard! Change it back! That wasn’t a fucking wish!

He stood there like before, with the same calm, mocking expression on his face. His monkeyish pipe rested in his hand with an odd kind of stillness.

— Well, Mallory — he said, shaking his head slightly, like he was scolding her. — Why do you think this isn’t what you wanted?

— I’m not Mallory! — she shouted through clenched teeth, stumbling into the dust right in front of him, barely staying upright on her heels, like the Earth itself had kicked back under her stilettos.

O.W. Grant smirked and gave a slight sniff, like he was inhaling the scent of her new body.

— Maybe you weren’t. But now you are. Didn’t you say you wanted to “ride down Route 60”? I just adjusted the route. You never said whose skin you wanted to do it in.

— You… — She clenched her teeth, a chill running through her as Grant finished his sentence and winked at her. — I didn’t ask… to be this!

She pointed at herself, feeling her finger press into the soft flesh of her boob — then yanked her hand back, almost falling again. Luckily, Grant was right there, catching her hand like some kind of damn gentleman.

— And what the fuck is this?! Why the hell am I in heels?! — Mallory almost screamed, wobbling again as she tried to steady herself on the tiny stilettos. Her legs slid apart like a newborn deer’s, every calf muscle screaming in pain and protest. Her feet felt like they were clamped in a vice — the shoes fit tight, with zero mercy.

Grant just gave a short, dry chuckle, like he’d heard not anger but the drama of a spoiled diva in her voice.

— Hm, interesting question. But, darling, you’re on Route 66. Out here, things show up when they’re needed. Or when you… want them.

— I didn’t want this! — she shrieked, feeling the heel buckle dangerously under her weight. She had to grab his jacket not to fall. — What the fuck did you turn me into a bitch for?!

Another whistle sounded from somewhere down the road — some trucker laid on the horn, tossing her a fresh wave of attention. Mallory flinched, instinctively clenching her thighs.

— What the fuck did you turn me into a bitch for?! — she yelled again, voice cracking into a shrill scream as her heel wobbled once more.

Grant didn’t answer right away. He leaned in slightly, reached out, and held her by the waist. His fingers were surprisingly strong — almost fatherly — but there was something in the way he touched her, like a director adjusting his actress before the shot.

— Shhh… Why so crude, Mallory? — his voice wrapped around her like wine in the heat. — A woman is not a “bitch”. She’s a world of sensation, a world of glances, a world of power… and at the same time — dependence. You didn’t just want to ride the highway, did you? You wanted to feel it. So now you do.

Part 3

Mallory tried to yank her hand away, but instead stumbled again.

— That’s not what I meant! — she rasped, grabbing onto his wrist. — I just… I wanted to leave, to be free. To disappear for a while! Like in a movie. I didn’t ask to be turned into some redheaded fucking cartoon with tits and a passport that says Mallory!

Grant tilted his head, as if pondering her words.

— You didn’t ask? But you wanted it, didn’t you? — Grant nudged her playfully with his elbow, and Mallory nearly fell flat in the dust, flailing her arms like an idiot.

— You seem to be overestimating… what I actually wanted — she exhaled heavily, like after a sprint, trying to find her balance. — I just...

— You know what I’m talking about. Stop running from yourself — his voice softened, almost tender, which only made it sound twice as ominous.

Mallory pressed her lips together, bracing her thigh with one hand, as if that could ease the tension from her constantly straining muscles — her legs burned, her back ached, and her boobs... As Mark, she used to fantasize about things like this, sure, but she never imagined actually being inside those fantasies. On the other side.

— I was just fantasizing, it doesn’t mean anything… — she whispered, looking away, like trying to hide from herself. The air felt thicker, heavier, like the highway itself was breathing through her, filling every cell with this new reality.

— Oh, it never means anything… until you wake up in a red tank top and black shorts, in heels, with tits reacting to every damn breeze — Grant tilted his head slightly, and his pipe bent with him, almost grinning. — Fantasies, Mallory, are road signs. You just didn’t notice where your route was heading.

She froze. Gravel crunched beneath her heels, a bead of sweat slid between her shoulder blades, and a strange sensation trickled down her legs — like her body was adjusting itself into a pose. More feminine. More open.

— And what the hell am I supposed to do now? Drive down this fucking highway? That’s it? That’s how it ends? But I don’t even have… — panic trembled in her voice. — Or do I? Give me a car!

Grant raised an eyebrow and took a slow drag on his pipe. His gaze settled on her trembling knees, then drifted down to the heel of her shoe, twisting outward like it wanted to escape her body.

— A car? — he repeated, like it was a word he was hearing for the first time. — Can you even drive, Mallory?

— What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I can! — Mallory snapped through gritted teeth.

Grant just raised an eyebrow again, silently watching as she stood there gasping, swaying on her heels like she was mounted on springs. Then he said, lazily, like it was nothing:

— You don’t even have a license, Mallory. — Grant’s soft smile tugged at his lips as he watched her ridiculous attempt to look confident.

— Maybe Mallory doesn’t — she barked, bracing her hand against her thigh and squinting against the sun. — But I’ve been driving for fifteen years, got it? I’m Mark. I know how to hit the gas and the brakes. I’m not just some doll on fucking heels!

Grant gave a silent nod, like he hadn’t heard what she said, but what she hadn’t meant to say. His gaze dropped to her legs, then to her face — and then lingered on her tits, rising and falling with heat and fury.

Part 4

— Well then, — he said quietly. — Shall we find out?

Mallory blinked — and in the next second, a flash of light burst in front of her eyes.

The next thing she knew: her hands were gripping the steering wheel.

The smooth, sun-heated rim gleamed under her fingers. In front of her — the hood of that car, red like the fiercest sunset, with the familiar curve she’d seen a hundred times on screen. The golden logo, chrome accents, and that deep engine growl that shook her to the bone. It was her. The BMW convertible from Route 60. And she was flying. Almost flying.

— There you go — Grant exhaled with satisfaction, sprawled out in the passenger seat. — The road’s calling, Mallory. Or do you still prefer "Mark"? Though I’d say that question’s a bit outdated now.

— Shit... — she whispered, squinting against the sharp sun. The world still wobbled slightly, like she’d been ripped out of one reality and slammed into the seat of this red beauty. Which… wasn’t far from the truth.

— Hey, hey... — she breathed, smiling despite herself. — This is... This is it. The one. From the movie. The Beemer!

— Oh, you noticed — Grant smiled just at the corner of his mouth, stretching lazily like this whole show was nothing more than a casual afternoon drive.

— I... — Mallory inhaled deeply. It was still hard to process: her own tits were pressed firmly against the seatbelt, a strand of hair kept sticking to her lips, and her toes, trapped in tight sandals, hadn’t stopped reminding her they were suffocating. But... the wheel. The gas pedal. The open stretch of highway ahead. The car from her favorite film. This was it. It felt like a dream — and yet, like a dream come true. She’d made it.

She pressed the gas.

The car roared and surged forward, smooth and sure. Wind slapped her face, red hair streaming out behind her, and though her eyes stung from the speed, Mallory laughed. Loudly, freely. Not like a woman. Not like a man. Just — like a person catching a moment of pure euphoria.

— How far’s the ride? — she smirked, glancing at Grant. — Or do you not even know?

— Oh, the road knows where it’s going. I’m just a passenger — he replied, chewing on his pipe. — But you, Mallory — you're finally in the driver’s seat.

She nodded, speeding forward. The hot air clung to the asphalt, and her boobs seemed to tremble in sync with the hum of the hood. The bra didn’t help — it only amplified every sensation. Her fingers trembled slightly on the wheel, but overall... she felt in control. Almost like before.

But… something was off.

— Slow down — Grant said suddenly.

— Huh? — She glanced over at him. — Why?

— Just… slow down. Right there. At that turn.

— Yeah, sure.

Mallory’s fingers tightened around the wheel. The confidence that had flared up at the sight of the convertible now began to melt, like ice cream in the sun. She looked ahead — at the curve, rushing toward her faster than she liked. And then her brain got hit with a terrifyingly simple realization:

— Fuck... how do I brake?

Her eyes darted across the dashboard — dozens of buttons, toggles, lights. It all looked familiar… and completely alien.

Part 5

— Where the fuck is the goddamn brake?! — she nearly screamed, looking down. In heels — in these fucking stilettos — none of the pedals felt like the one.

— You said you could drive! — Grant shouted with fake panic in his voice, theatrically clutching the edge of the seat. — Mallory, we're gonna crash!

— I can drive… I could! — she grabbed at the lever on the right, probably the gear shift, but it wouldn’t budge. — God, I don’t even know if this thing’s automatic or stick!

— The handbrake, Mallory! Pull the damn handbrake! — Grant yelled, though his face was lit up with amusement, like he was enjoying the panic way more than the speed.

— Where the fuck is it?! — her nails kept slipping off the handle. — My nails are in the way and these fingers are wrong! They don’t grip!

The car squealed, the rear end swinging to the side, and as if responding to her panic, it veered into a skid. Mallory screamed — sharp, breaking into a high, unfamiliar pitch, like the sound wasn’t fear but her new nature ripping itself out of her throat.

— HANG ON! — she shrieked, trying to catch the wheel, but her hands were shaking, and her tits were bouncing, distracting and throwing her off. The car slid as if the asphalt had just vanished, and Mallory let out a cry — high-pitched, feminine, almost tipping into a whimper.

— AAAAAAH!

Screeching tires, violent shaking, and then — another blinding flash of light.

…

— AAAAAH! — Mallory was still screaming when her heels suddenly felt solid ground again — and instantly slipped on the burning-hot asphalt.

But… the car was gone. No red convertible, no road rushing beneath the wheels. Just the blazing sun above, the dust, the wind… and her trembling legs.

She was standing right back at the café, where she'd talked to Grant not long ago. Next to the chipped old stand with the barely visible word "DRINKS." Her hands were shaking. Her heart pounded like she really had just crashed.

— Um… hey, are you okay? — a girl’s voice sounded nearby.

— Hey! Are you alright? — there she was — tall, lean, in short shorts and a tight white top stretched across firm tits. Her eyebrows rose in surprise as she placed a hand on Mallory’s shoulder. — You don’t look so good.

— I... I’m fine... — Mallory rasped, trying to steady her breath. Sweat ran down her back, the bra dug into her skin, and her legs trembled from the tension. The heels felt like torture devices — not shoes. One foot twisted inward, and Mallory staggered again, grabbing onto the girl’s shoulder.

— Whoa, easy! — the girl laughed, catching her. — You need some flats, not those skyscrapers. Or did you just fall off the runway? Also — what the hell was that scream about, gorgeous?

Mallory swallowed, gasping for air, trying to get her breathing under control. “Gorgeous, yeah fucking right…” she thought bitterly, realizing she was back in this hell she’d woken up in that morning.

— That scream though — the girl smirked. — I seriously thought someone was getting murdered. Or maybe your heels hit you in the brain?

Mallory tried to force a smile, though it felt painfully fake on her face.

— I… just… the sun. Got dizzy — she exhaled, leaning against the stand.

Part 6

— Oh, I get it. I’m Nikki, — the girl held out her hand. Her nails were unnaturally long and covered in glitter, bracelets jingling on her wrist. — Me and Kev are headed to Digon. You need anything? Water, maybe?

Digon… no idea if that was a town or some random village, but it sounded like a chance, Mallory thought. Her throat tightened — not from thirst, but from the idea that maybe she should ask them for a ride.

— I’m actually… um… going too — she forced the words out. — Maybe… if you’ve got space…

But then Kev showed up.

A guy with a jaw like a chopped-off chunk of concrete, wearing a leather vest with no shirt underneath. He looked at Mallory over the rim of his sunglasses — the kind dangling on a string — like she was a piece of meat sealed in a tank top, and he was checking the expiration date. He chewed his gum, slapped Nikki’s ass, and snorted:

— Who’s this bitch? — Kev barked. His eyes dragged up Mallory’s body, from her knees, to her shorts, and finally to her tits — which, of course, were still lightly bouncing from the aftershock of panic.

Mallory instinctively covered herself with her hand, as if that would do anything, and then froze. Her smile vanished, wiped clean like someone had run a wet rag across her face. Her fingers, still trembling, touched her body.

— Chill, Kev — Nikki scoffed, giving him a sideways glance. — She just asked if we could give her a lift.

Kev gave Mallory a once-over, letting his gaze rest on her tits — the tank top already clinging damply, outlining every shape, with two wet spots starting to show around her nipples.

— What, you leave your ride at the strip club? — Kev barked again, cracking his neck like he was warming up for a fight.

Mallory froze. Her heart pounded again — but now not from fear. It was humiliation, the kind that makes you feel stripped bare in public. She didn’t know what to say. Her lips moved, but no sound came. She wasn’t used to being… this.

Nikki giggled and stepped closer.

— Don’t be a dick, Kev. You can see she’s not from around here. We pick up girls like her on the road all the time.

Then she leaned in a bit closer to Mallory, eyes sparkling mischievously:

— He’s just messing with you. He’s a sweetheart, really — Nikki winked playfully and gave Mallory a light nudge on the shoulder.

Mallory tried to force a polite smile, but it came out painfully strained. She swallowed.

— Yeah… maybe — she managed to mutter and stepped back half a step. Her heel wobbled slightly, but her foot stayed straight. Her calves cramped from constant tension, her hips swayed again with every move. But… it was like she was starting to get used to it.

She turned and started walking away.

— H-hey! — Nikki called after her. — What’s up, gorgeous? You change your mind? We were pretty much saying yes…

Mallory didn’t turn around. She just nodded over her shoulder and said:

— Thanks, but… I think I’ll walk a bit.

— Alone, without a car? — Nikki snorted. — Or you just didn’t like Kev?

Mallory paused for a second, inhaled. No answer came. She just kept walking.

Part 7

The asphalt beneath her heels felt scorching, every step in stilettos sent sharp pain up her legs — but it was still better than hearing herself being talked about like fucking merchandise. The tank top clung to her skin, the shorts chafed the inside of her thighs, and her tits were becoming more and more present with every second — heavy, fussy, alien. No… not alien anymore. Hers. Just hated.

Male laughter drifted from a van parked right at the edge of the road. Two guys — one with a beer gut in a wife-beater, the other with a baseball cap for a face — were chewing on burgers and staring straight at her. No, not just staring. Scanning. Like they were deciding how to serve her — with ketchup or mustard.

— Damn, check out that ass — one of them muttered, tossing his wrapper on the ground. — You lost, sweetheart? We got room up front for girls like you.

She picked up the pace. Not running — because even though she was getting used to heels, it would still look ridiculous and only draw more eyes. But she definitely walked faster.

‘Bastards… ugly, stinking pigs,’ she thought, grimacing as one of them even winked.

— Hey, doll — the second guy yelled. — You even know where you’re going? Highway’s long, you’ll wear out those heels!

She didn’t respond. Just clenched her teeth. One thought pulsed in her head: “I need to move. I need to keep going. This hell won’t end if I just stand here pretending everything’s fine.”

A roaring truck passed, and the driver leaned out the window. Greasy cap, a mouth full of ash.

— Need a ride? Gotta give something decent in return! — he shouted, grinning, then raised his thumb and brought it to his lips, making damn sure the “decent exchange” was clear.

Mallory came to a slow stop, like her legs had rooted into the ground. She turned around. The driver was hideous, filthy, with hands that looked like toilet-brushes — and he stared at her with pure hunger.

‘So this is what my trip’s gonna be? Down Route 66 in a body that gives guys like him a hard-on?’

She was almost ready to turn away — but then she heard:

— Hey, buddy, don’t you think your tone’s a bit off?

The voice was calm. Not loud — but clear.

Everyone went quiet all at once, and Mallory turned toward the sound. Her eyes landed on him.

A blond guy. The sun behind him glinted off his hair like it was glowing on its own. He wore a plain white T-shirt, jeans. Nothing flashy. Nothing fake. But in his eyes — there was calm. And in that simplicity — real strength.

— Maybe you shouldn’t be gawking at her like that, huh? — he said, a bit louder, stepping closer.

Mallory opened her mouth, but no words came. He looked at her — but not like them. There was no lust in his eyes, no judgment. He looked at her like a person.

— You alright? — he asked. And that question… sounded like it came from a whole other world.

Mallory blinked, not sure what the hell was happening — or why this guy looked like he was glowing.