“Truck should be here any minute, Andy,” said a pretty, blonde cashier, looking him up and down while twirling her hair around her finger, “but I can think of ways we can pass the time.”
“Hey, Carlee. Thanks, but I need to front some shelves while I’m waiting.” He pushed through the swinging doors that separated the warehouse area from the customers’ domain. God, he regretted sleeping with her now. He’d held out against her for months, but she’d brushed up against him one too many times. Three weeks ago, he’d followed her home. Her tits were nice, but her mouth...he couldn’t stand her talking. She’d been excruciatingly flirty since, but it wasn’t in his nature to sleep with that again. He’d yet to find a piece of tail he wanted seconds from.
This one had laid there like a lump, not joining in at all. He’d about exhausted himself trying to make it good for her. After a half-hour of absolutely nothing, he’d simply taken care of things and rolled off her, snagging his jeans as he walked to the bathroom to flush the condom. Probably made him a dick…he probably didn’t care.
He worked quickly and efficiently up and down the aisles, straightening and making note of items that needed restocking later tonight. Eventually, the call came over the intercom that the truck had arrived, and he made his way back to the dock. He and the driver had become friendly, and they cheerily chatted while they worked together to unload the store’s order from the back of the truck.
Pulling the last half-pallet from the trailer with the pallet jack, Andy parked it along the wall. He used the interoffice phone and called the manager to come verify the order before the driver left for his next stop. Leaning against the wall as he waited, Andy saw a cute brunette walk past outside, more than likely using the parking lot as a shortcut.
He stuck his head out to get a better look, and when he scanned the parking lot, his eyes stopped on a familiar car parked along the back row. Closing his eyes for a second in disbelief, he opened them and then really looked at the car, noting the steamy windows and the single silhouette in the passenger’s seat. Jumping down from the dock, he called over his shoulder at the driver, “Mitch, tell Mr. Hawthorn I’ll be right back, okay?”
Stalking up to the driver’s side of the car, he pounded on the window, using what he thought of as a ‘cop knock’ to get the attention of the couple in the car. The window rolled down a couple of inches at first, and then all the way, as he heard, “Andy, fuck, you scared the shit out of me.”
Andy sniffed and then made a face, smelling the sweet smoke wafting from the car’s interior. “Mom, what are you doing sitting in the parking lot where I work?”
She looked at him, her lips puffy and red, with her lipstick smeared across her chin. In the passenger seat, the man was trying to stuff his still-hard dick back into his pants. “Andy, I didn’t think—” she started, but he cut her off.
“No, you never think, do you? Never once do you think how this makes me feel, finding my mother giving some random guy a blowjob in the parking lot where I work. Oh, and smoking a joint too. You don’t think, Mom. You never have. You simply do what you want, without regard for how it impacts other people, even your own fucking kids. What would Daddy think, Mom, huh? What would he say if he could see you now?”
He ran both hands through his hair, shaking his head frantically back and forth. “I’m done. You’re on your own from here on out. Time to be the grownup for a change.” Leaning down to the car window, he yelled at her, “I am done cleaning up your shit, Susan Jones.”
Turning on his heel, he walked back to the dock, pausing for a moment as he saw the faces turned his way. He suspected the entire thing had been witnessed by his boss and co-workers. Great, just great. Course, it’s not like they didn’t already know what kind of mother he had, but this was the cherry on top of his shit sundae today. Using the ICC bar on the trailer to get a step up onto the dock, he looked his boss in the face, daring him to say anything about what he’d just watched. “Mr. Hawthorn, is the order okay to sort out and put away?”
“Yes, Andy, everything’s in order.” Holding out the paperwork towards him, Hawthorn said, “Here’s the list. Let me know if you need anything, okay? Anything.”
Anguished, Andy stared him in the face, “Will do, Mr. Hawthorn. I got this.”
It was nearly midnight, and he was exhausted by the time he finally had everything put away on shelves or in storage. The last one in the store, he headed out the backdoor and used his key to lock the employee entrance.
Walking towards his truck, he saw a couple of kids standing next to it and narrowed his eyes in a hard squint. What were those punks doing next to his truck? One of them looked up to see him coming and took off running, slapping the arm of his friend in alarm. The second boy waited a moment too long, and Andy’s hand wrapped around his arm, holding him in place. The kid squealed, “Mr. Jones, I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”
Looking at the side of his truck, he saw words spray-painted on the fender. “What the fuck did you do?” he asked, leaning closer. “Does that say whore on my fucking truck, kid? Does it?” Kicking his tire in frustration, he turned to face the boy he was holding onto tightly. “You wrote whore on my fucking truck? Who’s your daddy, kid? We’re going to go have a chat with him.”
Pulling him into the truck cab, he shoved him across the seat and then sat there, still holding his arm, waiting for him to begin talking. Looking at the boy, Andy realized he was about the same age as Ben, probably only ten or eleven. That made him angrier, because now he suspected that Ben had to deal with this kind of shit too. “Fuck me. Who’s your daddy, kid? Or, I can take you to the courthouse…and we can talk to the sheriff. I’m good either way.”
He rattled off a name that Andy recognized, a local businessman who’d been known to frequent the bars where his mom hung out. He was also known to have a painfully free nature with his hands when it came to his family. “Fuck me,” he muttered, dropping his head back and thumping the window a couple of times, thinking. “Son, you ever do anything like this before?”
In his eagerness to answer, the kid stuttered over his words, “Nuh-uh, no, Mr. Jones. N-never.”
“You know my little brother?”
Less stressed now, he got a clearer answer from the boy. “Yes, sir, I know Ben.”
“You ever grief him about this shit? Don’t lie to me; I’ll ask him.” Andy waited for his answer.
“No, sir, Ben’s nice.”
“Fuck. Am I not nice? So I’m not nice, and I deserve to have my truck painted up like this?” It had been a rhetorical question, and the kid seemed to know that, staying quiet. “Your daddy hit you?” As far as Andy was concerned, this was the most important question tonight.
Ducking his head, the boy answered, “Not often.”
“Not often still says sometimes, kiddo, right?” Andy probed.
“Yes, sir,” came the quiet response.
Andy took in a deep breath, he didn’t want to be the reason this boy had any more pain in his life than he already did. “Who was that with you?” Without additional prompting, the boy offered up his accomplice in crime, whose father was another jerk of a guy who Andy knew from the mill. “All right, if I let you go, you gotta promise me something,” Andy said, still leaning his head against the back glass of the truck.
“Yes, sir, anything,” and that response was genuinely eager.
“You gotta be nice to Ben. He don’t deserve the momma he got, like you don’t deserve your daddy. Be his friend, if you can.” Picking his head up, he looked the kid in the face as he let his arm go.
Sitting for a second, the boy nodded his head vigorously up and down. “Yes, sir. I need friends, too.”
Leaning across him, Andy pushed the door open. He waggled his fingers at him. “Go on, get. Go call your friend and let him know the deal. If I find out you’ve gone back on your word…I will come get ya.” He watched with a little grin as the kid skedaddled out of the lot and into the trees, headed home in the dark as fast as he could run.
Andy got out of the truck, and went back into the store for some paint thinner and rags to clean the still-wet paint off his truck. He came back out with a weary sigh and squatted down to start the job that would take up most of his sleeping time. Work at the feed mill would start at seven in the morning, but it wasn’t the first time he’d worked a shift with no sleep. He was wrong earlier—this was the chocolate drizzle on top of the cherry sittin’ on his shit sundae this week.
4 -
Motorcycle
Eleven years ago
Standing across the street from the Harley Davidson showroom in Cheyenne, Andy was almost drooling at the sight of the motorcycles lined up across the front of the store. He wanted a bike in the worst way, and he could almost feel the wind on his face just looking at them. Things in Enoch had gotten hard, with lots of changes over the years. Work at the feed mill had dried up months ago, because it was cheaper for them to make the products in Mexico somewhere. He’d quit the grocery store last week when Mr. Hawthorn told him that the store was being sold.
Thank God, he’d been saving his money for years now, in two bank accounts. Every penny went into one of those two accounts, if it wasn’t spent on bills, food, or clothes for him or Ben.
The first account was for Ben’s college, and it was finally reaching a respectable balance. Andy worked with an investment manager at the bank to get the money into a high-return account, which would mature right when Ben’d need it for school. His grandparents knew about the money, and were proud of what Andy had done to provide for his brother in only a handful of years.
Andy’s living arrangements had been back and forth for a while, between his grandparents and his mom, and then he’d moved out on his own several years ago. Recently, he’d taken a job at a ranch, taking care of their windmill equipment, and part of the pay was room and board. It was an ideal arrangement, since it meant he didn’t have any rent to pay, which was especially important now since he wasn’t working anywhere else.
That second bank account was nearly as healthy as Ben’s college fund, and it had long been earmarked for a motorcycle for Andy. When he was thirteen, his dad had driven the two of them down to Cheyenne for Frontier Days, while his mom and three-year-old Ben stayed home. His dad had run into some old friends, and one of them had taken Andy on a couple of short rides on a bike. And, just as simple as that, he was hooked.
Not long after that, his dad bought him a cheap dirt bike, and Andy rode it all over the ranch. It had freed him, and fed his imagination too. On the bike, he had pretended he was a famous daredevil jumping river canyons, a Hollywood actor living the bad-boy life, or a lawman hunting criminals. He could be anything, and everything.
Asking himself again why he wanted a bike so badly, he leaned back against his truck fender. He knew the answer, of course, but it was a mental exercise he felt the need to complete again. He wanted a bike, because in the truck—even driving a hundred miles an hour—he felt caged. Only on a bike did he really feel free, and the carefree lifestyle of riding the road appealed to him. He’d been the responsible one for so much of his life, holding everything together with willpower alone; he couldn’t imagine if all that pressure was simply gone...poof.
He loved his GeeMa and GeePa, and God knew he loved Benny. He even loved his mom, but he didn’t like her. He loved these people in his life, but he wanted to be more than...anything he’d been so far, more than they expected.
He’d stood in this spot at least once a year for the past three years, and every time he’d talked himself out of the purchase, because in his heart, he knew that it was more than purely buying a motorcycle. He’d also be buying himself a departure, an exit strategy. Once he bought a bike, he knew he wouldn’t want to stick around Enoch any longer, especially now, when there was hardly anything holding him here.
Looking both ways for traffic, he strode across the road, pausing for a second to look at the bikes parked in a line in front of the building again. These were all owned by employees or customers, and it was amazing to see the many different kinds people rode. He’d been promising himself a Harley and had saved enough to pay cash for a used one, which was saying—he’d saved a lot.
Stepping into the store, he was straightaway at ease; the smells and sounds were like coming home. He listened to the rumble of pipes from the garage behind the counter, taking note of the singing from a bike being revved. Strolling towards the counter, he caught the eye of an older man with a full beard and the required black Harley t-shirt. The old guy came over and stuck out his hand, introducing himself, “Harddrive, man,” and they shook. “What brings you in today?”
“Andy,” he replied, “and I think I want to buy a bike today.”
Harddrive shook with laughter. “Kid, you’ve walked into the wrong candy store.” He chortled some more. “These aren’t cheap, man.”
Andy nodded. “I know, but I want to see what’s available today before I go to the bank.”
Harddrive scrutinized his face for a minute, then nodded and threw back his head, roaring, “Man wants to see some fucking bikes. We got bikes, motherfuckers?”
There were answering shouts in the affirmative from workers and customers alike, and Harddrive put his arm around Andy’s shoulders. Steering him outside, they made their way to the end of the row of bikes parked out front. One by one, he patiently explained about each one: what the engine was capable of, what the style felt like when taking an extended ride versus a short one, the history of the make or model, the climate needs of some bikes, and a dozen other facts that came so fast it was hard for Andy to process.
Walking through the building to the back, they looked at used bikes for sale, and Harddrive continued the commentary, telling him about every one they looked at. Andy saw there was a pretty red and white number coming up, and he was looking forward to learning about that one, but listening to Harddrive explain about an inline shifter on one of the bikes, Andy realized he’d skipped the one he liked.
“Um...what about that one there, the red and white one?” he asked, barely stopping himself from saying the bike was pretty.
“That’s an Indian, and a pain in the ass to fix,” Harddrive explained. “It’s a nice bike, good for both town and touring, beautiful, classic style with large fairings on the wheels to capture or deflect rain or dirt. The seat’s comfortable, nice and wide, with a brace to keep your ass from sliding off. Pain to repair, though.” He moved on to the next bike in the row.
“Who makes the Indian?” Andy asked, and his tour guide guffawed at his naivety.
“Indian makes the Indian. That, son, is a Roadmaster, an Indian Chief Roadmaster.”
Andy kicked the gravel for a minute, and then asked, “Is that one...is it...is she for sale?”
Harddrive focused on him. “She speakin’ to you, son? Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that’s a pretty bike. It looks like it has enough heft to feel comfortable going up and down mountain roads, but not so heavy as to bog down on a high hill. It looks like someone needs to take care of her.” Andy cut his eyes over to the old man. “I’d like to hear her run, see what she feels like. Is she for sale?”
Harddrive nodded slowly, “She’s a good bike, man. Let’s get the key.”
5 -
Good news
Driving back to Enoch, Andy couldn’t keep his eyes off the rearview mirror. He was looking at the beautiful red and white motorcycle strapped into the bed of his truck. Harddrive had helped him load the bike, and showed him the best way to secure it so it wouldn’t wobble or dump over on turns or bumps.
He’d been in love with the Indian since he caught sight of it, half-hidden behind all the used Harleys at the shop. The distinctive lines of the bike were arresting; it looked hardcore and sexy as hell, and the look of the fringe on the seat was the topper. Harddrive had thrown in a pair of saddlebags for the bike; he said it was the least he could do, since Andy’s new bike would be a bitch to repair if she broke down in a
remote place.
Andy’d been surprised at the price; it was less than half what he had expected to spend, so when Harddrive told him the figure, he had jumped into his truck to go to the bank right away. The guys in the store had laughed when Harddrive had to drag him back out of the truck in order to take the bike on a test drive. But man, he’d been glad that old guy was so stubborn, because when he rode her, it was amazing.
Getting on the Indian was nothing like his dirt bike, it was much heavier and harder to hold upright. Bigger between his thighs, there was no mistaking the potential for power in the size of the engine. Turning on the key and kicking it to life, that was a thrill he wouldn’t soon forget, and the sweet rumble of the pipes up through the soft leather seat had him rock-hard in seconds. She was definitely his new baby.
Driving out of the parking lot on the bike was exhilarating as he turned up the highway and let the throttle out a little, listening to the motor. She was smooth as glass, and he only went about five miles before he pulled a U-turn to head back. Back at the shop, he’d really wanted to be cagey and bargain the price down, but honestly, he’d been so excited he didn’t think he could stand the wait and had agreed to the first price Harddrive wrote down.
When he got back from the bank, he paid in cash and Harddrive handed over the slip for the bike. He also talked Andy into a pair of leather chaps like some of the people in the store were wearing, along with a durable leather jacket. If he could have, Andy would have left the truck there and ridden the bike home, but he knew he would need the truck for a couple more weeks anyway. So here he was, nearly home with the bike in the back of the truck.
Pulling up in front of the house he’d shared with his grandparents and little brother in past years, Andy climbed out of the truck, stretching his lean form’s tight and sore muscles. GeeMa came to the door, and seeing it was him, she raised a hand with a smile, turning back into the house. Andy tipped his head, glaring at his boot toes for a minute, kicking the dry dirt of the driveway. He hated thinking about leaving Ben, but he couldn’t contribute without working, and jobs had dried up here.
Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Page 3