As I watched him swaggering out through the silhouette of the doorway – like John Wayne in The Searchers – I couldn’t help but look forward to the thought of curling my arms around him, on the ride up to Fresno.
A moment later he was gone, and Sherry slapped me hard on my bare ass-cheek.
“Well, aren’t you a lucky little slut,” she snorted, poking me in the ribs. Kaityln and I have been trying to ride that cowboy ever since he cozied up with Coyle, but you’re the only bitch round here he’s even looked at twice.
My cheeks burned as she said that – but I also felt a little rush of pride as well.
“You’d better find your pants, young lady,” Sherry teased me, “because if you’re not ready when he comes back, I’ll take him up on his offer instead.”
I glanced around the disheveled mess of our shared motel room – bras handing off the light fixture, beer cans rolling across the floor, and towels and blankets strewn everywhere…
I had no idea where my old, worn Levi 715s were… But you can be damn sure I was going to find them before Sherry stole my ride…
***
Ten minutes later, after guzzling a half gallon of water from the bathroom tap, and brushing my teeth, I staggered out into the morning sunshine and shielded my eyes from the glare.
I’d barely staggered off the porch when I heard a grumbling “dug-dug-dug” from across the street – and as I looked up, I saw Mason rolling his enormous Twin-Cam Knucklehead across the asphalt.
All Harley Davidsons are big bikes – that’s kind of their distinguishing characteristic – but even still, Mason’s gunmetal ‘hog’ was pretty impressive. It reminded me of that old Bon Jovi song, Wanted Dead or Alive, when he sings “I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride…”
Dust rose from the big tires as Mason coasted to a halt in front of the motel, and he slapped down the kickstand with one cowboy-booted foot. There was suddenly silence as he cut the engine.
“Mornin’,” Mason purred, pulling off his Stock II helmet and running fingers through his tousled chestnut hair.
I felt my pussy throb a little as I watched that. He looked like a modern-day James Dean, astride that big bike.
But as sexy as James Dean was, the one thing that Rebel Without a Cause never did was bring me breakfast – so Mason had one up on him as he unstrapped a cardboard box from the back seat, and carted over foil-wrapped sandwiches and Styrofoam cups of coffee, which were already sloshing over the lids crammed on top.
I eagerly accepted the coffee and sandwich he handed me, and I’d torn off a massive bite even before the handsome biker had made it into the motel room to deliver the rest of them to Kaitlyn, Sherry and Rose.
A moment later, he rejoined me outside – leaning against one of the porch columns, as I blissfully chowed down on the sandwich.
Man, I’d forgotten how delicious an egg sandwich could be when you were hungover. And this sandwich wasn’t even that great.
“We ride out in five, okay?” Mason looked me up and down, as he leaned against the post. Again, he looked like a character from a movie like that – with his long legs stretched out, and his broad shoulders filling out the cotton of his Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt. “You got much stuff?”
My mouth was too full of sandwich to talk, but I grunted and nodded towards my small, strappy backpack on the porch.
Coyle had one of his guys roll that big, Airstream trailer of his from site to site – and it was pulled by an old wood-paneled, 80s station wagon, right out of National Lampoon’s Vacation. Bertha let us girls stow our larger essentials in there – so when I hit the road, it was normally with not much more than makeup, a change of underwear, and my pocketbook.
As I gulped down my mouthful, I looked up at Mason and smiled: “So when you said you’d ask Coyle if I could ride with you, I wasn’t sure if you meant it, or not.”
I’ve had a lot of guys promise me a lot of shit, hoping it’ll get them into my panties.
“Well, actually he asked me,” Mason admitted, lifting himself up from against the column, “but I meant what I said about looking forward to it.”
I raised an eyebrow. After all this time riding with the Knuckleheads, it felt weird to listen to one of them sound vaguely sweet.
“I was thinking of taking the backroads through Bitterwater Creek. Sound good?”
I nodded, pretending I even knew enough to have an opinion.
“You’ve got a helmet, right?”
Bundling up the now empty foil wrapper of my sandwich, I laughed, and told him: “I don’t wear a helmet.”
It was California state law to wear a motorcycle helmet – but only a handful of the Knuckleheads did. It seemed rather against the point of being rebellious outlaws if we abided by highway code.
But Mason narrowed his eyes, and frostily told me: “You’ll wear one on my bike, okay?”
I laughed again. Was he for real?
But, apparently, he was.
“It’ll muss up my hair,” I complained, running my fingers through my tousled curls. “And it’s so damn hot.”
Mason shook his head.
His cowboy boots crunched on the dirt as he crossed to his bike, and unstrapped a second Stock II slim-profile helmet from the back.
“Three tours I was in Iraq,” he told me, as he passed it over. “Got to 120 degrees some days – but I never took my helmet off. Not once.”
Mason visibly shuddered for a second.
“I remember some grunt who did… And what was left of him when an IED flipped his Humvee.”
The look that crossed Mason’s face, as he remembered that moment, inspired me to quit arguing, and wear the damned helmet.
A moment later, it was strapped on, and we were good to go. Mason threw one of his long, jean-clad legs over the back of his bike, and patted the leather seat behind him.
I awkwardly clambered on, wrapping my arms around his narrow waist.
A moment later, that big engine roared into life, and between my thighs I felt the rumbling vibrations of that 82 cubic inch V-twin engine.
I shivered a little as I did so. Ask any girl who’s ridden with a biker gang, and they’ll tell you there are collateral benefits to long-haul bike rides. Hell, I climaxed twice on the ride up from Los Angeles.
With a rumbling “dug-dug-dug” the engine purred, and Mason let in the clutch. A moment later the bike was lurching off towards the highway, and I clung desperately to Mason’s back to avoid falling off.
It was different to other trips I’d taken – normally riding behind some bigger biker, like Rooker or even Coyle himself. Some of those guys had bellies so big, I could barely fit my arms around them – and they stank of body odor and cigarettes.
But not Mason. As the bike picked up speed, and I pressed my face against the cool leather of his jacket, I realized Mason’s waist was taut, lean, and I could barely feel an ounce of fat on it.
No wonder Sherry had been playfully teasing me about stealing ‘Recon’ for herself – the guy was jacked.
With that thought in mind, and the rumbling vibrations of the big Harley between my legs, I closed my eyes, and nuzzled my face between Mason’s shoulder blades.
It was a long ride to Fresno – and I intended to enjoy every minute of it.
Chapter Ten
Mason
Normally, I like to ride alone. Shit, since I shipped back from Fallujah, I liked to do everything alone…
But I’ll admit, as I guided my powerful Harley through the winding roads of California, it felt kind of nice to have a girl’s arms wrapped tightly around my waist, and feel her resting her cheek against my back.
Shit, for a moment – as we purred through the mountains and hillsides – you could almost forget that she and I were part of a biker gang, and we could have been girlfriend and boyfriend – out enjoying a weekend ride, like so many suburban moms and pops do on their store-bought, dealership maintained Harley cruisers.
But that was never going to be my life –
and as fascinating as I found her, the girl clinging to me as I rode was never going to be mine either.
That’s what Coyle had warned – and as tough and mean as that murderous bastard was, he’d never been anything but level with me.
Nevertheless, I took the time to enjoy this sensation – to feel Christi squeeze her thighs against my hips, and for this beautiful girl to hold on for dear life as we rumbled through the curves and bends of these back-county roads.
What did I find so fascinating about her? The previous night I’d watched her get roughly fucked, in front of a room full of people, and no doubt the same experience awaited her the moment Coyle and Bertha dragged her back to their bedroom…
But there was something about this girl; and I literally felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as she squeezed her arms around me.
***
After two hours ride, it was time to take a break. My thighs ached, my butt was sore, and I’d picked up more than a few bugs between my teeth over the last hundred miles or so.
By this point, we were rolling over the hills of the Big Creek, overlooking miles and miles of California scrubland below. There was a nice little layby coming up, with a sign marked “Photo Opportunity” and that seemed as good a place to take a pause as any.
Squeezing on the brakes, I rolled the big bike off the highway, and the gravel crunched under the huge wheels as we stopped.
I cut the engine...
…and damn.
Even after all these years of riding, nothing prepares you for the silence after a couple of hours of biking.
When you’re on the road, you’ve got the wind whooshing past your ears, and the big twin-cam engine going “dug-dug-dug” between your legs, and you really can’t hear much of anything else.
And then you cut the motor – and the subsequent silence is literally deafening.
For a moment, I just stood astride my bike, drinking in the stillness. Then, I felt Christi stir behind me, so I thumped the kickstand out with the toe of my boot, and let the heavy hog slump slightly to the right.
With a groan, I lifted my leg over the saddle, and finally stood up. Pins and needles shot through my legs.
Christi looked up at me and extended her arms, and I clocked her unspoken instructions effortlessly. I picked her up like she was a doll, and lifted her off the back of my Harley.
“Oh, wow,” she laughed, as I set her down onto her unsteady legs. “I feel like jello.”
“Yeah,” kicking each leg in turn, to get circulation back into them, I nodded: “Figured we needed a breather.”
And what a place to take one.
As we waited for the blood to start flowing again, I looked up at the gravel loop we’d pulled to a halt in.
A rickety wooden fence extended across a sheer cliff, which dropped down towards miles and miles of scrub and hillside. It was a truly impressive view – and the sign that had promised a “photo opportunity” hadn’t been lying.
Presumably to cater for all those shutterbugs, the parks and rec service had set up a bunch of picnic tables along the fence line, and Christi and I stiffly limped over to the closest one and slumped down onto the warped, faded benches.
For a moment we just sat there, looking out across the amazing view. I had to admit, for all the downsides to riding with a motorcycle gang, there were the highlights, like this. All across America, there were schmucks stuck in office jobs, or tending a cash register, while only a lucky few had the freedom to hit the road, head out into the middle of nowhere, and drink in views like this.
Christi seemed to appreciate the view too – but eventually she turned to me, and let out a heady sigh.
I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow.
“So, what do you want?” The beautiful blond asked me, glancing around the rest stop to ensure it was deserted. “A blowjob?”
I blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
Without batting an eyelid, Christi repeated what she’d just said.
“What do you want?” She asked matter-of-factly. “A blowjob?” Christi pursed her lips. “I mean, you can fuck me if you want – you just have to pull out.” With a cynical little laugh, she confessed: “I don’t want to have you leaking out of me for the next two hours of highway time.”
I blinked again, and that’s when Christi saw that I clearly wasn’t on the same page as she was.
Her beautiful cheeks burned pink.
“I… I…” With a dry gulp, she explained: “I just figured… That was why you pulled over, right?” Christi bit her lip. “Listen, I know the deal when Coyle asks one of you guys to give a girl a ride. There’s normally a payment expected.”
“Woah,” I held up my hands. “I just pulled over because I couldn’t feel my butt anymore.” As she stared at me blankly, I reassured her: “I don’t expect anything from you except company.”
That didn’t seem to help. Her cheeks just burned redder.
“Oh, geeze,” she took a deep breath. “You must think I’m a whore.” With a gulp, she explained: “It’s just… you know how it is.”
Christi couldn’t look me in the eye any more. She turned away, and confessed:
“Maybe I am a whore.”
I didn’t know what to tell her.
I mean, shit, I couldn’t say I was exactly happy about seeing her tag-teamed like a ragdoll last night, or thinking about all the other rest stops she’d presumably pulled to a halt in, with all those other Knucklehead bikers – who’d presumably not been so reticent to take Christi up on her matter-of-fact offer.
But she’d answered her own question earlier. I did know how it was for girls riding with gangs like ours.
They were property. Pets. Only a rare few got to stride around with anything close to equality. In all my months riding with the gang, only Bertha had ever seemed to have reached that level of respect.
So I reiterated: “I don’t want anything from you except company.”
Then I reached up to brush a waft of dirty blond hair from her face, and added: “…and I don’t think you’re a whore.”
Christi sniffled, and gave me a quick, embarrassed glance.
“Listen, I volunteered to ride you up to Fresno because I like you,” I explained. “Because there’s something about you I want to get to know better.”
Christi met my eyes for another second, and then turned away again.
“How can you say that?” She gulped. “I am just a whore. I let Coyle pass me around like a piece of meat.” She sniffled again. “How can anybody want to get to know me? Any part of me except my ass, that is.”
I couldn’t answer that.
For another moment, we sat in silence. Then, finally, Christi turned to face me – and I could see her eyes were wet with tears.
I finally found the answer to her question.
“There’s something about you,” I repeated. “I noticed it the moment I saw you – before I’d even spoken to you.” As she listened, I admitted: “That look in your eyes. Like you know you don’t belong here. You’re just playing along.”
Christi snorted.
“It’s funny,” she confessed. “I thought that same thing about you, the moment I saw you. All these other bikers are in it for the lifestyle. The drink, the drugs, the sex…”
She allowed the corner of her mouth to curl.
“You almost treat it like a job.”
She was right, of course – and I thought the same thing about her.
All the other women I’d met while living the biker lifestyle had been in it for the ride – to score drugs, to experience the wild abandon of the open road. Women like Sherry would talk about their gangbangs and orgies with something akin to pride – stories they’d tell their grandkids about (when their grandkids were over 18, of course.)
But Christi? As much as she’d disassociated herself from what she’d indulged in – and as much as I’d seen her writhe and moan in genuine orgasm the previous night – there was an air about her t
hat told me she wasn’t fucking the likes of Rooker or Bowser because she wanted to. It’s because it was a price she had to pay to be here.
But why? That’s what I wanted to know.
“Okay, so level with me,” I looked Christi straight in her big, hazel eyes, and demanded: “Why are you riding with the Knuckleheads? Because you don’t look like the type out looking for a thrill, and the hardest drug I’ve seen you take is a puff of weed.”
She said nothing – just studied me, like a cat measuring up another predator.
“You said last night that riding with the Knuckleheads was the safest place you could be right now.” I reached over and placed my hand over hers. “So, what are you running from?”
Christi turned away.
“I told you last night, that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“You said that’s all you’re going to say about it… for now.” I flashed a smirk at her. “Well, that was last night, and it’s not now any longer.”
I could see she was trying to resist the temptation – but even she couldn’t resist smiling at my cheeky retort.
“Well played, handsome,” she confessed. “But even that’s not good enough.” Turning from me, Christi gazed out wistfully at the beautiful view, and explained: “If I told you why I was here – any details at all – this place wouldn’t be safe anymore.”
Taking a deep breath, she admitted: “I came out here to get lost. I don’t need some tall, dark, handsome stranger trying to find me.”
I laughed bitterly, and she turned to me – those beautiful eyes flashing with anger.
“What are you laughing at?”
“You,” I teased. “It’s not as easy to get lost as you think it is.” I gave her an appraising view, up and down, and warned her: “You’re not as invisible as you think you are.”
“I am with the Knuckleheads,” she growled back. “When all they see is a nice bit of ass, they don’t bother looking at the rest of you.”
Sniffing haughtily, Christi explained: “That’s why I did what I do – those unspeakable things – because as long as I’m treated like a piece of meat, they won’t think of me as anything else.”
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