Sidecar (2 page)

The kid shivered all over and squeezed his eyes tight shut. “I think I have lice,” he said, miserable, like this confession cost him everything.

Casey grimaced. “Well, thanks for warning us. We’ll be sure to treat that helmet with the disinfectant shit when we get home.” He pursed his lips. “I think we’ve got a lice comb and some mineral oil—or would you rather just shave it off?”

The kid shook his head. “I don’t care,” he said, shivering. “Food, a place to sleep, a door… shave me bald, I don’t care.”

Casey gestured toward the motorcycle. “Go get yourself settled in. Try not to spill too much on the lap robe. That was a present.”

The kid didn’t hear that last part. He was trotting toward the sidecar like it was a little slice of heaven. Casey followed more sedately, wondering if they were going to wake up with their throats slit and their television gone but thinking probably not. He knew this kid, knew what he wanted—had
been
this kid.

He got to the motorcycle and planted his hands easily on Josiah’s strong shoulders, swung his leg around, and got his feet settled on the pegs.

“You know who that kid reminds me of?” Joe told him as they watched the kid fumble with the helmet strap and get settled under the lap robe, huddling down near the space heater using as much play as the seat belt would give him.

“Yeah, I know,” Casey said, resting his cheek against Joe’s back, careful of clunking the state-of-the-art bright turquoise helmet on his head against Joe’s back, or against his no-nonsense-black helmet, with too much force. Joe could take it—the sonuvabitch was strong—but Casey wouldn’t ever do anything to cause him pain.

“You only think you know,” Josiah said softly. “You’ll never know what it costs me, seeing you in them, again and again and again.”

“But you take them in, every time,” Casey reminded him, tightening his grip around Joe’s waist.

“Yeah, well, what else would I do?”

“Not a damned thing.”

The kid had overcome the adjustment shivers and was starting to plow through the food. They had about a half an hour before they got to their own little piece of Foresthill, so Joe didn’t waste any time kick-starting the bike and roaring back onto the road.

He wouldn’t do a damned thing different, and Casey wouldn’t want him to. After twenty-five years, that was saying something.

Because Casey wouldn’t change it either.

Livin’ On a Prayer

~Casey

25 Years Earlier

F
UCK
, it was cold in the foothills. The truck driver had pulled off at some bizarre intersection on I-80 that proclaimed itself to be the exit for a place called Foresthill. He parked the rig (no payload, or he wouldn’t have been able to pull off) in the parking lot of a Raley’s supermarket with a McDonald’s in the lower quadrant. He stopped to go get food, and when Casey asked if the guy could get him some, he was met with another round of
This Is Your Ass
.

“You gonna let me again?” the guy asked. He was a short, stocky guy with a thankfully midsized dick.

“I didn’t let you the first six times,” Casey snapped, tired of it all. “All I ever offered was a fucking blowjob, and you’ve fucked me six times in the last two days. I think I could get some goddamned food!”

The guy—Big Daddy (ugh!) or Glen or whateverthefuckhis namewas—was sitting on the far side of the truck, which meant that moving in to crack Casey across the face was awkward, which was good, because if he’d actually landed the blow he’d had planned, he would have knocked Casey unconscious. As it was, he laid open Casey’s lip on his teeth and bloodied his nose, all in one casual crack of a closed fist.

Casey had been hit a lot in the last couple of months. He grunted and let his body go limp to absorb some of the pain.

“I’ll be back in a few,” the guy said like he hadn’t just practically knocked Casey’s teeth out. “Maybe I’ll bring food.”

Well, maybe “maybe” wasn’t good enough. The thought was hard to get past Casey’s ringing head and the pain blossom in his face, but still, he heard it loud and clear.

He opened the door and hissed—it was
fucking
cold, and the taste of snow was like the edge of bronze on his tongue—but that didn’t stop his resolve any. He was still dizzy, so scrambling down from the big rig was hard, and he was damned grateful he didn’t fall on his ass. He eventually made it to his own two feet, though, and tried to take stock. He walked to the edge of the parking lot, almost amused to see a sidewalk rounding this little corner of strip mall, and then saw the yellow sign across the street. It prohibited any vehicle over five tons from driving the granite-wall-lined road beyond.

Well thankyajebus, it looked like things were finally going his way.

He tucked his hands in the pockets of his dirty 501 jeans, pulled up the collar of his grungy, once-pink Izod shirt, and started walking down the side of the road.

For the first quarter mile, he was protected by the roughly cut granite walls, which blocked the wind, and he was grateful. Then the blind drop of the hill he was walking down ended, and he caught his breath.

He was going to cross
that
?

The road dipped down and then became a bridge—one of the tallest Casey had ever seen—spanning the gap between what looked to be two mountains. And as Casey was trying to catch his breath for the height of the bridge, his granite windbreak ended, and he was exposed to the force of the wind. It was sharp enough to bring tears to his eyes, but not once did he think of going back.

He plodded, grimly determined not to wander back up that hill to where Glen “Big Daddy” truck driver waited with his ready fist and hamster’s libido. Glen hadn’t been the first Big Daddy Casey had met in the last two months, and in this moment, walking toward that vast, tenuous space between everything that was safe, Casey felt like he was leaving Glen and all those other horrors behind. He was done with them. The wind grew stronger until, by the time he was actually on the bridge, on the little pedestrian walkway of the separated lane that was going east, it felt like it was actively trying to rip him off his feet and hurl him over the chest-high rail.

If it hadn’t been for his piss-stubborn defiance to resist doing what the wind was trying to
make
him do, he might have simply climbed up and jumped off all on his own. As it was, that trip across the bridge—some twenty-five hundred feet, compared to the more than seven hundred foot drop below him—was the longest walk of his life.

But the bridge ended, like all things must end, and he wisely didn’t stop and turn around to see what it was he’d just crossed. Most of him knew that until he could no longer see the bridge, the temptation to jump off of it might just break him.

The road after the bridge wound about, and the outside edge of it went from being on top of a low rise to being the crumbling edge of a steep cliff. Casey was beyond cold by this time, and beyond caring. His teeth were rattling around in his head, and his scalp itched to the point of misery, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry. Somehow jumping off the edge of the road didn’t have the same drama as jumping off the bridge. He was just going to keep walking until his body gave out, until the abused muscles in his thighs and ass cramped and he simply sank to his knees on the side of the road and fell asleep in the encroaching dusk.

He’d just tripped a second time when he heard the roar of a motorcycle behind him. It wasn’t the first vehicle that had come his way, but it was the first vehicle that pulled up ahead and stopped.

The guy on the back of it was really terrifying.

For one thing, he was huge—well over six feet tall. He had a Fu Manchu mustache and a soul patch, both of them dark, silky brown, and a whole lot of dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail under his helmet. His bike was something big, with a mildly extended front end and just enough chrome to be shiny, not enough to make it look gaudy. Proud but not a douche bag—that was Casey’s first thought.

Then the guy took off his helmet, and Casey’s second thought was that he was at least good-looking, unlike the parade of ass-fuckers who’d managed to get Casey from Bakersfield to wherever-the-fuck-he-was now. He had dark brown eyes and a short, square jaw; surprisingly pink lips that weren’t too full and not too lean, either; and a nose that sloped solidly outward but wasn’t too big. Pleasing. Under the handlebar mustache and the soul patch and the loosely swinging ponytail of shiny dark hair, he was actually really pretty. Casey would think later that maybe that was the reason for all the hair—the hair hid the prettiness—but that was not what he was thinking now.

Right now he was thinking that the guy was taking off his jacket on the side of the road, and Casey had damned near had enough.

“I’m not doing that,” he snapped, pretty sure he’d rather die than do that one more goddamned time.

The guy looked up, unoffended. “I’m not asking you to,” he said, his voice mild. “You’re cold.”

The jacket was leather, shiny and well cared for, with a fleece lining, and the big man with all the hair took it off, took a few steps forward, and set it down on the ground. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt underneath, bright green, with an eyeball-searing CSUS emblazoned on the front in gold. The sweatshirt looked warm—warmer than what Casey had on—but it wouldn’t be so warm when the guy got back on the bike. Casey looked at the jacket with longing. Was it his imagination, or was there steam rising up from the mysterious stranger’s body heat?

Mysterious Stranger took a few steps back so Casey could walk up and claim the jacket, and Casey screwed his eyes tight against tears.

“Thanks,” he said, caving. He trotted forward and picked up the jacket, then trotted back into his safety zone, sliding it over his shoulders. Oh God, it was still warm. It smelled good too, like sweat, but clean sweat; antiseptic; Old Spice deodorant; Irish Spring soap. He shivered and snuggled deep into it. The guy had a broad chest, powerful. It looked like he worked outside a lot, and the jacket went practically to Casey’s midthigh. Casey scratched his head for a second and then put his hands in the pockets to keep them warm.

“There’s money in the pocket,” the stranger said, and Casey rooted through and found a twenty-dollar bill. He swallowed. That could buy nearly forty hamburgers, but this guy had been really decent about the jacket. He pulled the money out and was about to set it on the ground when the stranger said, “No, no—you can keep it if you want. Or you can come home with me and use my spare room. I’ve got food. You can shower.”

Casey scowled at him. “What do I have to do in return?” he asked, rightfully suspicious. He’d washed dishes at a little mom-and-pop place once, spent the entire night cleaning up the kitchen of the diner until his bones ached, and when he was done, he’d asked for the food the owner had promised him and was told he had to do one more favor first. He’d gotten fed, eventually, but he was good and sick of favors.

The guy shrugged. “I’ve got some work I’m doing on my property. You can help with that. But first, get you clean. Get you food. Get you some sleep. You can decide on a fair price when that’s done.”

Later Casey would wonder why. He’d look deeply into this man’s heart and try to find the reason for this much kindness. Later he’d berate himself for being seven kinds of fool for going with him, and then berate himself for being seven kinds of fool for ever doubting him. But that was later.

“Food?” he asked, his voice breaking. God. Big Daddy truck driver had given him half a hamburger and some leftover fries the day before, but his stomach was damned near cramping. The guy nodded, then opened up the little seat compartment of his motorcycle. He pulled out a granola bar—the real kind, not the kind with chocolate and shit on it—and made a tentative throwing motion. Casey put his hands out in front of him, and he threw it for real.

Casey scratched his scalp and then opened the package and devoured the crunchy, dry thing with a ferocity he didn’t know he had. When he’d swallowed, he crumpled up the wrapper, and the guy said, “Put it in your pocket. You can throw it away at my house.”

Casey looked at him then and sighed. The guy had given him food up front, and the jacket. He shifted uneasily in his jeans and itched his crotch. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll do
that
if you want now.”

The guy shook his head. “
That’s
not on the menu, kid. For one thing, I think you’ve got crabs.”

Casey scrunched up his face. “Oh, ew!”

The guy nodded sympathetically. “Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m gonna have to dry-clean the jacket too.”

Oh shit. Casey felt his face crumple. “Lice,” he muttered, scratching at his scalp again. “Oh God. That’s just so gross. You’re going to have to shave my head and….” He felt tears threaten. It was stupid, but he liked his hair. It was brown now, but in the summer, it bleached this sort of honey color, and it was soft, and before he’d run away, he’d gotten it cut all fashionable like that guy on television who rode in the boat and had an alligator.

Mysterious Stranger took a couple of steps forward, so Casey could read his expression in the thickening twilight. “Naw, kid. I’ve got a lice comb and some Rid-X and all that shit. Even the Kwell for the crabs.”

“You get crabs a lot?” Oh God. This could go south
so
many ways.

Mysterious Stranger laughed. “No. I take in strays a lot. And I work in a hospital, so there’s always a danger of getting something from the sheets or something like that.”

Casey nodded like that made sense, even though it didn’t because nobody was that good a person. “You a doctor?” He looked awfully young.
Nobody
that young was a doctor, unless it was on television, and the guy shook his head.

“I’m a nurse.”

Casey was shocked. “You’re… you’re… you’re a
man
!”

The guy laughed dryly. He’d heard that one before. “So they tell me. Kid, it’s getting cold. If I’m gonna save your life, we’d best get on the motorcycle soon.”

Casey nodded, still unsure, and then his stomach growled, loudly and with prejudice. Well, hell. If the guy
was
still planning on taking Casey to his place and killing him, Casey could fight back better fed.