Outlaw's Last Race

by Dallas Cole

  You could still get a pretty good house in Kansas City on a truck driver's take, and my granddad had given me a house, a fixer-upper two-bedroom place with enough yard for kids and enough garage to keep a man happy. I pulled into the drive and tried not to think about the look on that man's face when he'd handed me the deed at the wedding.

  "The hell do I need the money for anyway," Granddad Cawley had said, like he didn't care. "Was going to leave it to you in my will, but I don't want no grandson of mine plotting against me. Was going to give it to you sooner, but I didn't want you thinking things in life came much for free, either." That man had been proud, so proud, that all of his years and miles behind the wheel were enough to provide for his family.

  It was a small miracle that Granddad went to his grave before Emily did. He'd never had to know that there weren't going to be kids in that house, that I was never going to get to build a swing set in that yard. What sort of world is it, where your Granddad's death is a small miracle.

  As soon as I cut the engine, the hangover came on, and worse. I made it into the house, turned on the heat. A house should have an engine block, should just warm up from use like a truck. But it doesn’t work that way.

  Inside, I scanned the fridge, but there weren't any eggs. I still had a half a deer in the deep freeze in the garage, but nothing hot I could make fast enough to be worth the effort. No breakfast today, then. Guess I'd drag myself to Price Chopper sooner or later.

  A shower would do me better than cold cereal anyway, and I made it to the bathroom off from the master bedroom. The one I'd been working on when we'd found out Emily was sick, the one I'd never finished remodeling. I stripped, stepped into the hot water. The first half of the shower, I decided I needed a better way to keep Emily off my mind than sleeping with Maggie, because sleeping with Maggie didn't work anyway. The second half, I didn't care that it didn't work, because I didn't care about much anything at all.

  From the time I was seventeen to twenty-three, I'd lived with Emily at my side, in a bliss I didn't know the world had to offer. Now that she was gone, I wasn't prepared to face the world without her. Hell if I knew why I kept on going in the first place. I guess because Emily would hate it if I quit. And if I was honest with myself, I was afraid she might not be waiting for me on the other side if I took my own life. Whether or not I was right with God, no matter how shaken my faith, it just wasn’t a risk I was willing to take.

  The water ran cold all too soon.

  Drying off in the bedroom, I found myself flipping through the stack of proof prints from our wedding, like I did most days.

  I'd memorized every one of them.

  Emily on horseback in her wedding veil, head thrown back in a laugh, me holding the reins from the ground and staring up at her like I’d never seen anything so fine. Another with Emily in her white gown, smirking, leaned against my chipped beige Chevy pretending to aim a slingshot at me while I held back a grin. The two of us sitting on the tailgate, hand in hand, the skyline of our western city silhouetted against the setting sun, mud on both our boots.

  The photographer had charged too much, I used to think. Emily and I'd argued over it, even, in that halting, loving way that was the worst the two of us had ever really argued. She'd been right, of course. She'd always been right.

  It was too overwhelming. I set down the stack of photos, but I could feel her blue eyes follow me across the room. April 15th, when those eyes had shut forever, was a date burned into my brain deeper than September 7th, our wedding, or September 28th, her birthday.

  I threw my clothes back on and left the bedroom.

  My cell phone sat on the butcher block counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. The house was a minefield of memories—I'd built her the countertop as soon as we moved in. I unlocked my phone and saw two missed calls, two voicemails. One from my brother Mike at 10am, the other from my work, at 1pm.

  "Luke," Mike's voice said, impatient. "Wake your ass up. Am I going to see you at church? Ever again? You even alive?"

  I deleted the voicemail before it even finished playing.

  "Hey, so I don't know if you're really into having a job," Warren, my boss, said in his familiar drawl, "but if you are, you can't keep pulling this shit. I got in this morning and the place was a mess. You didn't do the dishes, you didn't close out the register, you didn't wash the mats or take out the trash. I feel like I'm lucky you even remembered to lock up on your way out. I'm sick of cleaning up after you, and I know we're friends but I'm going to find a new guy if you do this to me again. See you at three."

  I had to be at work by three.

  I looked at my phone. Two-thirty, and a thirty-minute drive.

  Without another thought, I went out the door. There was a package on the stoop, about the size of a book from Amazon, but there was no return address. Just my name, Luke Cawley. No postage, no address, just my name.

  I picked it up, tossed it inside the house before I locked up, and ran to my truck.

  Brando

  Check out BRANDO by J.D. Hawkins – complete series, available now!

  My muscles scream, chest on fire, nerve endings twitching like a million thunderbolts across my torso. I can feel the beads of sweat on my forehead running down my tensed neck. I glare at the fluorescent light on the gym ceiling, feel the cold metal of the bar against my chest.

  That twinge in my triceps should worry me. Gotta meet Jax at the club for drinks in a couple hours. Maybe it was a bad idea to do this big a lift at the end of a workout. Last time a lift went wrong I messed up my thigh so bad I was finger-fucking girls for a month.

  Thoughts bear down on me like a load of bricks, pressing down on the ends of the bar, making it even heavier than it really is.

  Don’t think, Brando. Just fucking lift.

  I repeat the words like a mantra. A rhythmic drumbeat that focuses my mind. I exhale as I push, the rush of adrenaline leaving no room for thoughts, the heat burning all doubt out of me.

  Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.

  As I pump the bar up and down it feels like I’m lifting the entire building, like I’m trying to push a planet away from my chest. I feel like I’m calling on strength that doesn’t belong to me, strength that comes from the same deep pit of hell the pain in my muscles comes from. I exhale and my breath comes out with a long, low grunt.

  The pain and the heat and the testosterone and the adrenaline swirl inside of me, and I direct it all against this fucking barbell.

  When my set is finished I have just enough energy to bring the barbell back onto the claws. My fists sting as they let go of it, palms almost melded to the metal. I drop my arms and breathe deeply for a few seconds before sitting upright. My blood pumps, veins throb, and I feel the satisfied ache of a post-workout high seep into my skin.

  “Pretty dangerous, benching that much without anyone spotting you,” a throaty female voice says from behind me.

  I look up. The gym is almost empty except for a guy listening to his headphones as he runs on a treadmill in the corner. I save myself the trouble of turning around to see her and just look at the reflection in the wall-sized mirror in front of me.

  “Looks like you spotted me just fine,” I drawl, eyeing her in the glass.

  Even by gym standards, she’s unbelievable. She’s in tight black spandex pants, with nutcracker thighs and hips that seem custom-made for my hands. Her sports bra is so tight she may as well be naked, and the thought instantaneously sends about a million X-rated images through my mind. Judging by the hungry look in her eyes, I know exactly where this is going—but I’m enjoying the foreplay, so instead of just cutting to the chase and inviting her to suck my dick in the locker room, I grab the barbell and force myself through one more punishing set of reps.

  It takes everything I have to keep my arms steady, my muscles screaming all the while, before slamming the bar back onto the rack and sitting up.

  “Impressive,” she says, eyeing me up and down in the mirror
. “You certainly don’t do things the easy way.”

  “I prefer the hard way,” I tell her, checking out the curve of her breasts like I’m about to paint a portrait of them. It’s all I can do to keep myself from just grabbing her and sitting her down in my lap.

  “So do I,” she purrs, running a hand across my back. She steps closer, standing behind me with the bench between her legs. Then she puts both hands on my shoulders and starts pressing and rubbing.

  “Shit that’s good,” I say, closing my eyes at the deeply sweet touch of her hands – the only thing that could stop me from enjoying the ravenous eye-fucking she’s been giving me in the mirror.

  “It should be,” she says, a tinge of amusement in her voice. “I’m a massage therapist here. With all the time you spend working out, I’m surprised you haven’t stopped in for a session by now.”

  “So you’ve seen me around,” I growl. She rubs harder, massaging a knot next to my shoulder blade until it loosens, and I groan out loud. “Damn. Maybe it is time to see about that session.”

  “Good, because you’re way past due. And I’m not gonna wait any longer.” She leans down toward my ear, her long blonde hair brushing my shoulder, and says in a low whisper, “I teach a yoga class, too.”

  Her words hit me like a shot of adrenaline to the cock. I close my eyes and let her work me some more, lust building with the sensation of her palms kneading the base of my neck and the scent of her as she leans over me. I let out another low moan.

  Looks like Jax might be drinking by himself for a little while tonight. But I’m sure he’ll understand.

  My eyes flicker toward the guy in the corner, still running on the treadmill. The yoga teacher/massage therapist/sportswear siren reads my thoughts as easily as she reads the tension in my back and nods toward a side door.

  “It’s your lucky day,” she smiles. “I’m giving a free massage to the man who can handle it.”

  I stand up, grab my towel and run it over my face.

  “Always good to have a massage after a workout,” I reply. “Keeps the blood flowing.”

  She nods and turns, her body even more erotic in movement. The sway of her ass makes me grit my teeth. My heart thumps like a revved engine, her silhouette magnetizing every muscle in my body. This time I don’t need to push the thoughts away – I couldn’t think straight if I tried.

  I follow her toward the massage room, swaggering with the loose power of muscles after a workout. She looks back over her shoulder just before opening the door, her blonde ponytail flicking over her shoulder, and winks before sliding inside.

  “Close the do—” she starts, but I pounce like a predator spotting its window of attack, nothing but lust, impulse, and nature controlling me now. In a single motion I slam the door shut with one hand, push her up against it front-first, and press my groin hard against her ass. Her surprised gasp turns into a throaty giggle.

  Now that I’ve got her where I want her, I’m as slow as I was quick. I wrap my hands around her waist, brushing my fingers lightly against her exposed midriff. I close my eyes, let the electricity between our skin guide me. I press my face against the side of her head, letting the scent of her drive my body wild, pulling away teasingly after every touch.

  “I like your style, Brando,” she says, turning her head to shoot me a sultry stare.

  “How do you know my name?” I hum into her ear as I slide my hands slowly up her stomach, under her top and between her heaving breasts.

  She puts her palms higher on the door, steadying herself and pressing back into my body.

  “You’ve got a reputation.”

  I taste the nape of her neck, eliciting a deep moan from her that tugs at my balls harder than a magnet.

  “What reputation?”

  She laughs lightly, in between the stuttered sighs and gasps that she responds to my every touch with.

  “Big…bold…brash…Brando.” As I lift her tight top up over her breasts with one hand, my other snakes down her pants to find the wet line of her pussy. “Half the girls in my yoga class want to fuck you…and the other half claim they already have.”

  I run my tongue down her neck, tasting the tender, pale skin. Her nipple hardens under the gentle touch of my fingers, pinching lightly, palm tracing the flawless shape of her breast.

  “You girls really like to talk,” I say, before taking her earlobe between my teeth.

  “I had to see for myself if the rumors are true. This is just research,” she says. I feel a tremble between her thighs as my finger moves slowly over her clit, brushing it until I feel her backing into me with a sharp intake of breath.

  “Then I’ll assist any way I can,” I tell her, giving her clit a firm, steady press with my palm as I slide a thick finger deep into her slick pussy.

  “Fuck,” she moans, leaning into it. I work my finger back and forth inside her, agonizingly slow, until she’s panting heavily and writhing against me. “More,” she begs.

  I spin her around to face me. She tears her top off the rest of the way, breasts bouncing back into firm shape, and eyes me like I’m a three-course meal and she’s fresh off a hunger strike. Then she pulls my mouth onto hers and swirls her tongue aggressively around mine. It’s more like martial arts than making out, but I’m not complaining. I run my hands down the taut skin of her sides, grab her breasts, feeling every curve so thoroughly I could sculpt her. We back and forth with our tongues, pushing and pulling, lashing and biting. Striking the sparks of the oncoming flames.

  “It’s no secret,” I say, pulling her toward me as I back off and sit on the massage table, “that I love women. What else do you need to know?”

  I pull off my shirt, and she spends a full five seconds staring at my chest with her mouth open. I slide my shorts down while she watches, her eyes glazing with lust. “I think I have everything I need right here,” she finally manages. “All that’s left is a little field work.”

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a condom. I put it on while she peels off the second skin of her spandex pants.

  “Welcome to the field,” I say, as she straddles me on the massage table.

  She cups my face in her hands and thrusts her tongue into my mouth, pulling away only to bury her teeth into my neck. I let out a hiss and wrap my lips around her nipple, rolling my tongue around it like it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, teeth biting just enough to make her shake. She moans as she hugs me tight to her chest, rolling her clit up and down the shaft of my cock.

  I lose myself in her curves, hands tracing the arch of her back as her pussy winds up against my cock harder and faster as she starts losing all restraint. She moans in short, sharp bursts, and I feel the hum of her voice as I move my mouth from one breast to another.

  “Slow down, baby,” I tell her. “You gotta let yourself enjoy it.”

  She laughs wildly, looking down at me as I grip her ass tightly and maneuver her over my cock. Her pussy is ready and wet as it presses against me, and I read the expression on her face like a dirty novel, all drugged eyes and strained pleasure. She squeezes the head of my cock between her lips, pulling me into her, but I hold her off, tantalizingly close, but not there yet.

  “Tell me what you want,” I say, when her eyes go pleading.

  “I want—” She gulps deeply, all the playfulness gone out of her now, replaced with fierce need, and speaks between pants. “I want you. Inside me.”

  I let her take a little more, and she releases another low, vibrating moan.

  “Tell me,” I command.

  Her eyes narrow, the pupils dilated. “I want your dick.”

  “Again.”

  “I want your big, hard dick. All of it. Right now.”

  I adjust my grip on her ass to let her take my full length and she slides down onto it, her moans turning into squeals of helpless delight. She bounces like she’s riding a horse, her body taking over, moving up and down on my cock according to the thousands of sweet sensations that emanate from our c
onnection. I let her get her fill for a few minutes and then take charge, grabbing her ponytail in my fist and pulling her head back.

  “Don’t move,” I say. I ease out of her slowly and she whimpers in protest.

  “Wh—”

  With no warning I slam back into her, both of us groaning as I plunge into the depths of her tight, hot sweetness. Then I hold her steady and fuck her with everything I’ve got, turning in a performance worthy of a major award. As we find our rhythm she convulses and sways like a girl possessed, whispering obscenities and encouragement in between her moans. I run my tongue up the tender spots between her breasts, pumping with all the determination of a champion racehorse. I focus on the sensations radiating from my dick, finding a oneness with the zen of the energy building between us. My hands stroke the curve of her thighs as she bucks wildly on me, matching my power with every harder, deeper thrust.

  When she comes there’s no missing it. She throws her body forward onto me with a desperate cry, head over my shoulder, hands clawing against my back as I keep on gliding in and out, relentless, relishing the convulsions shuddering around my cock. Her stomach curves in and out like a booming subwoofer, the orgasm washing over her like sea waves.

  I let myself feel the pressure of her pussy, the softness of her breasts, the tightness of her thighs around my waist, and let go of the tension I’ve been clutching since she first touched me. I cum in a hard, pounding rush as she’s letting out the last, gentle moans of a hard fuck. The long breaths of someone returning to their senses.

  “Did your research find I’m worthy of my reputation?” I ask after a few moments, blinking myself back to reality as the blood returns to my head.

  “That and more.”

  A minute later I’m helping her pull those tight pants up the last few inches of her gut-punchingly good ass. I take my time – it’s good enough to make me consider another round already. She turns around and puts a hand against my cheek.