Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (7 page)

He added a second finger and stroked slow and long, allowing the heel of his hand to press hard against her clit with every movement. Her kisses were more frantic now, and he was waiting for her to break the honor bondage position in which he’d placed her.
Just another minute or two
, he thought, and then smiled when he felt her fingers run through his hair and down his back.

He froze in place, quickly pulling his fingers out of her and his mouth off her breast. “Baby, I told you to leave your fucking hands where I put them,” he snarled at her, forcing himself not to smile when she quickly put her hands back up against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” was her breathless reply. “I wanted to touch you.”

He nodded, putting his mouth back down beside her nipple, saying, “I know.” He took her breast back into his mouth as he pushed three fingers deep into her cunt. She seemed open and trainable, and if he was going to be around here for any time, it would be good to have someone who was willing.

***

Andy fell over onto his back, breathing heavily. He reached down casually and stripped off the condom, tied a knot in it, and dropped it onto the floor beside the bed. He closed his eyes, forcing his breath into regular rhythms, bringing his racing heart rate down. Sighing, he jumped when he felt fingernails trailing up the inside of his thigh. “Jen, baby,” he used an intentionally discouraging tone, “I’m done for now.”

He refused to let his lips twitch when he felt the hand remove itself hastily. He had a private policy of no cuddling after fucking; it kept the emotional bullshit to a minimum. No cuddling included those slow, sensual touches that women liked after sex. He didn’t like to be touched period outside of actual fucking; it made him feel too vulnerable and he couldn’t afford that, ever. Look what vulnerable had done to his mother, for fuck’s sake.

Opening his eyes, he looked around the efficiency apartment and scoffed at himself. Efficiency was a stretch, because what it really meant was a weekly-rated, one-roomed hole with a hotplate. The bathroom was down the hall, shared with nine other apartments. It was still better than camping out in the field behind the truck stop, with a side bonus of keeping the truck stop hooker visits to a minimum. Once the lot lizards found out he was the one with the tent, they kept him awake almost every night trying to crawl into his sleeping bag.

He’d been gone from home for months now, but when he talked to GeeMa a couple days ago, it sounded like Benny was still doing okay. Andy sent home as much money as he could every month, and she had said that everything she didn’t spend on Ben was going into a savings account. Andy wondered to himself if she was simply socking everything away, but he couldn’t
make
her spend the money, at least, not from here.

Unloading trucks was hard, physical labor, but it paid well. Unfortunately, it wasn’t steady work, and was only available as long as there were trucks that needed unloading. He could manage five or six loads a day, and depending on the piece count and the weight, he could make between fifty and a hundred dollars per load. Working like this had kept his body in shape, and his arms and back were better defined than ever in his life; he silently flexed his arms as he laced his fingers together behind his head.

The apartment cost seventy-five a week, but he felt that a locking door and sleeping surface that wasn’t covered by rocks or sticks was worth it.
For now
, he thought, and acknowledged he was starting to itch for the road again. It was that way every time; he’d find something that seemed semi-permanent, and then he’d want the wind in his face and new sights to see.

He’d need to change the oil in the Indian, and pack his pannier bags with some food and water. If he headed into southern Colorado, it wouldn’t do to get caught without water. Maybe he’d go west from here, into the mountains proper. He’d like to see the scenery, and imagined the roads would be perfect for a bike. Musing, he thought he should pick up some kind of map so he could figure out his gas stops.

Might as well get it over with
, he realized. The way his mind was leaning, he’d be leaving in the morning, and he didn’t want Jen to look for him. He wasn’t a total dick; at least, he hoped he wasn’t. “Baby, we’ve had a fun time,” he started, “but I’m headed west in the morning.” He rolled onto his side to face her in time to see relief wash across her face, and thought,
what the fuck
?

She swallowed. “Okay, Andy, be careful.” She sat up on the edge of the bed, reaching down for her panties and skirt.

“Jen, what the fuck? Am I an asshole or something?” he asked. Breaking his own rule, he raised his hand to trail his fingers down her back, watching as the shivers and goose bumps hit her at the same time. “Huh? Am I?” he prodded.

She took a deep breath before standing to pull her clothes on. “No, Andy, you aren’t an asshole. You are a capable lover, but—”

“Fuck me...
capable
?” he interrupted her. “Capable? Is that right? How many times did you come today, Jen? Was it three, or four times?”

She looked down at him as she continued dressing. “Oh, you are an exceptional fuck, Andy, but you aren’t ever here emotionally. As a lover, there is a lack of connection. Orgasms are great—don’t get me wrong—I like a good, big O like the next woman, but I also want the tactile sensations of running my hands over my lover’s body, during and after sex.”

She shrugged, amused at his open-mouthed surprise. “I don’t mind a little dominance in bed, but there should be some give and take. I want to know my lover is thinking of me, not counting my orgasms in order to notch some stick.” She leaned over the bed, kissing his forehead. “Sometimes, it needs to be about the build, you know? It should be about the back and forth of the journey, not just the final destination. If life is only ever about the ultimate result, then it can be exhausting instead of invigorating.” She touched his cheek, cupping his jaw in her hand to kiss his lips briefly, chastely. “Be safe, Andy.” Then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, getting up to lock the door. Shaking his head, he flopped back on the bed, but tossed and turned for a time before sleep rose to claim him. His dreams were filled with unending roads, trees casting shadows and letting light through in turns, with something always just out of sight around the next bend.

Getting up the next morning, he was ready in minutes, letting the front desk know he was leaving. He gassed and serviced the Indian, making one final stop prior to hitting the road. He pulled into the parking lot at the tattoo place and took a deep breath before walking inside. He’d wanted a tattoo for a while, but had been afraid he’d wimp out. Several hours later, he walked out with plastic adhered to his shoulder and his ribs, feeling pretty good about his decision to leave Colorado Springs, and also his choice to permanently remember the most important lessons he’d learned so far in life.

Pulling up his shirt, he looked at the block-lettered wor
ds on the ribs on his left side,
The journey is the reward,
in stark black. He thought for a second about going by the truck stop and showing Jen, but then laughed viciously at himself, remembering she had been relieved he was leaving. He’d take her lesson to heart, and the tat would always remind him there was more to learn, and he needed to slow down and take it all in.

Dropping the hem of his shirt, he pulled up his left sleeve, seeing the angel with the bowed head, naked sword in one hand, gun in the other, arms and body flexed and tense. Wrapped tightly in its own gossamer wings, the sentinel was looking down at the words under its feet, which were supporting it,
My Brother’s Keeper
.

Andy nodded to himself, pulling his sleeve down and shrugging on his jacket. Slinging a leg over the bike, he quickly took stock and decided he was as ready as he could get—late start or not, he was headed for Durango.

***

Three months later, Andy pushed a bar rag across a tabletop in Las Cruces, picking up the coasters and stacking them back into the middle of the empty table. He stood, rolling his shoulders to work tension out of his neck and looked around the bar, thinking,
Thank God, only a couple diehards are still here for last call on a Tuesday night
.

Walking behind the bar, he picked up his water bottle and took a long drink, running through his closing checklist in his head. He needed to stage the next kegs of draft for the day shift gal, pre-chilling them and making it easy for her to tap them when needed.

Then, there was the cleaning. Bathroom cleaning was a fucking constant when you worked in a bar. He swore if he never had to clean up man-puke again, he would be fucking
ecstatic
. Chicks nearly always hit the toilet with their vomit, but men simply spewed where they stood…and they didn’t fucking chew their food
. Fuck
. He’d finally begged Arlon, the owner, to buy a long-handled brush to scrub the back of the toilet tank. It was too hard to clean otherwise, but he couldn’t stand the smell if he left the puke back there.

Okay, back on track
—
kegs, bathroom, chairs on tables to make it easier on the cleaning crew, stock the well bottles, cut up fruit garnishes for the day gal, stack the empty liquor bottles for inventory, fill up condiment bottles, run the dishes, do a load of bar rags, and finish wiping down the tables. Easy breezy.

With his hands busy with the work he had outlined in his head, he let his mind drift to the last conversation he’d had with Ben. It was his fifteenth birthday, and Andy was pretty sure the kid was drunk when they were talking on the phone. He was still seeing that Owens girl, and GeeMa said nineteen-year-old Benita gave Ben a car to drive. Kid wasn’t old enough to get his license, but he was driving a loaned car around town.
Fuck.

GeeMa’d cried on the phone, telling Andy about the langua
ge Ben used when talking to her and it seriously pissed him off. Physically, Ben might be a young man, but he was turning into a dick to his grandmother. They’d decided months ago that she needed to stop giving Ben money, which would prod him to find a job, because they thought working would probably help him mature. But, he hadn’t gotten a job; he hadn’t even looked for one from how it sounded. Instead, Benita simply gave him more money when he asked for it.

GeeMa had asked Andy to come home, but he was in southern New Mexico now; the bar job was good, steady work, and in air conditioning. He made decent tips, and was able to live off those pretty much exclusively, sending nearly all his paychecks home. He explained to her that he’d have to take a week off work to come visit; it would be three days up and back, leaving only one day to be in Enoch. She seemed to understand, and stopped asking him.

With only fifteen minutes until last call, he looked up, startled when the door banged open and saw nearly a half-dozen men stroll in. Bikers, they had on leather vests with back patches showing the American flag, staged with empty boots and a rifle. These were Southern Soldiers; he’d seen them around town some.

Andy’d gotten used to chatting with bikers wherever he went. It seemed like simply owning and riding a bike made him a small part of a large brotherhood. He loved the low, underhand waves and two-fingered gestures bikers gave each other as they passed on the road. More than once, he had ridden alongside strangers for long miles, never stopping and meeting, just waving goodbye as their ways parted, brothers in spirit.

These men looked the room over, and the man in front made a motion to the bar, so they all pulled up stools instead of going to a table. Good, that would be easier on him, because it meant he could keep working on his list in-between serving them.

Wiping his hands on a bar rag, he approached them. “What can I getcha? Fair warning, we’re only fifteen minutes from last call, so you need to order heavy and fast.” He grinned at them, seeing a white smile parting the leader’s dark beard in return.

“Shot of Jack and a draft,” he said.

“All around?” Andy asked, his hands already pulling up iced mugs for the beer and a stack of shot glasses for the whiskey.

Nodding, the tall biker slapped a fifty onto the bar and Andy acknowledged it with a return nod. He set up a mug under the tap, starting it on the tilted side of the glass first to reduce the head, and then picked up a bottle of Jack, pouring it up and down the sides of the stacked shot glasses, getting an overflow start on filling them. Alternating between the beer and the shots, he served the men quickly, taking the money and returning the change to the bar in front of the dark-haired man.

Walking away from the group, he cleared empty glasses and bottles from the rest of the bar, realizing the remaining patrons had vacated while he was serving the bikers. At least everyone had already cashed out their tab, and several of them had left tips. He collected those along with the empties, and pushed the money into the jar on the bar back. The jukebox did its random thing, and started playing
Ladies and Gentlemen
by Saliva. Andy grinned down at the tabletop he was wiping; that song was an anthem for his life recently.

“Whose Indian is that out back?” The question came from down the bar and Andy looked up, wiping down the inside of the ice bucket.

“She’s mine,” he smiled proudly.

“Nice ride, man,” came from the man closest to him, a blond beast with a nonexistent neck.