“A couple of years ago, a friend told me about a book called, How to Interpret Your Own Dreams. When I read it, I discovered that anxiety, and the trauma of losing my parents, were most likely the cause of my nightmares. After I identified the nature of my problems, the nightmares became less frequent. Finally, they stopped.” She smiled contentedly. “I haven’t had one in years. The good news is now I dream, beautiful dreams. Sometimes they’re in color, sometimes black and white, but always vivid.”
“That sounds incredible, but do you think it can help me, your book? If I understand my nightmare, will it stop?”
“Absolutely!”
“I feel like I have two lives, and it’s not good. For the past year, I’ve had my daytime life where I didn’t do my share of the work. I was hung over and miserable. Then, there was my other life. I was drinking in some bar, starting early every afternoon, sometimes at lunch, and eventually I was drinking Jack for breakfast.
“My memory of that year is blurred. I was out there doing God-only-knows-what. I can’t imagine, and I remember almost nothing. The thing that separated my two lives was my nightmare.
“One of my father’s favorite scriptures was, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her. I’m a sinner; I’m just unsure of the extent.”
“Deacon, together we can overcome anything. You’ll see. Very soon everything will be perfect, absolutely perfect.” She pulled him close and kissed him.
Deacon put his faith, absolute childlike faith, in Estrella. She became his guiding light. Every day was hers to direct, hers to fashion. The nightmares continued. She was always there, always comforting.
When he pleaded with her to make love with him, her answer was always the same. “Oh, doll, to give myself to you, to any man, is such a big step. I need to wait. I want to be absolutely sure.”
“But, I am committed,” he protested. “We are committed, aren’t we?”
TEN
The late afternoon July sun beat down. Widowmaker roared. Deacon searched his mind for the right words. The throaty bark of the V-Twin engine echoed against the houses, which lined the street. People on the sidewalk turned to watch him pass. He leaned back in the saddle; he felt good. They must think me quite a sight. He thought noting their curious faces.
He stroked the blue over gold gas tank. “Good girl. Estrella will never take your place. She only adds to our family.” He affectionately reassured the inanimate object.
A smile crawled across Deacon’s countenance as he made the last turn at the intersection. The red Camaro was in his driveway. Good, she’s already here. A rich smell of simmering spaghetti met him at the door. Estrella followed with open arms, her face gleamed. “Welcome home, doll.” She kissed him deeply.
Deacon felt the familiar sensation in his jeans. Waiting for consummation was taking its toll. Maybe tonight will be the night. He told himself hopefully. Maybe tonight she will really be ready to make love to me.
“Come with me, doll.” She said in a wanton voice. She caught his shirt collar between two fingers and led him to the sofa. She dropped to her knees, and unbuttoned his pants.
Deacon gasped; his eyes rolled in their sockets. “Oh, baby,” was all he could say. Her long blonde hair draped down her chest and disappeared between luscious breasts. “Oh, baby,” he said again as her hand closed upon him.
Estrella relaxed her grip and skillfully dragged her fingernails up and down Deacon’s penis. “That’s it, doll,” she whispered, “close your eyes, and let me take your worries away.”
In the blackness of his own consciousness, he felt each individual fingernail. Corresponding tremors racked his being. “Oh, baby, let me make love to you!” He begged desperately. “I want to be inside of you. We’ve waited long enough. I love you. Please, make love with me.”
“In time, doll, it will all come in due time.” She said plainly with no interruption in her strokes. “I want it to be special, to be forever. Be patient, doll, you will get what you deserve. If you love me, you will wait.” She pressed him with the familiar admonition. “I won’t let you suffer. We can do plenty. Don’t I always take care of you?” She asked.
Her hands stopped. He opened his eyes and looked into her insistent face. “Yes, you always take care of me.” He whispered. “I don’t mean to pressure you. I just want you so badly.”
“I’ll give you the next best thing.” She resumed the delicate strokes.
Deacon watched through clouded eyes. Long slender fingers encircled him; her mouth opened. He gasped. Warmth, from deep inside her mouth encompassed him. He shivered violently, and felt her swallow hard.
“Isn’t that better?” she asked. “You only want what you can’t have.”
“Guess what?” He asked chasing a mouthful of spaghetti with a sip of red wine.
“What?”
“One of the Sons, Blade, has cancelled his trip to Sturgis.” He said repeating the words he had so thoughtfully rehearsed. “You must know him. I saw you talkin’ to him last Saturday at the party.”
“No,” she answered flatly. “I don’t know him. Anyway, what does this Blade’s trip plan, have to do with you?”
“Not just with me, with us,” he said excitedly. “He has a motel reservation for Sturgis. The big rally in South Dakota I was telling you about. Anyway, someone put sugar in the gas tank of his bike. He’s so pissed he isn’t goin’.”
“Okay, so—” She put both palms flat on the table, and gave Deacon an impatient look.
“I bought his reservation!” He almost shouted. “I want to take you to Sturgis. It’ll be our first ride. I want you to understand how special it is to sit in the wind, and Sturgis is incredible. There will likely be a half-million bikers there. Gettin’ a reservation is a big deal. You have to make them, and pay a deposit, at least a year in advance. We’ll leave in two weeks. Please, baby, let’s go. Let’s get away from here—just you and me, out on the road.”
“I don’t know, doll.” She answered with a reluctant tone. “What about my job? I’ve never ridden with you for more than a couple of hours.” Her protests lacked conviction. “I don’t know if I’m ready for a road trip. Besides, your bike’s a chopper, a hard-tail you say. In case you haven’t noticed, so am I,” she touched her firm buttocks. In my book, two hard-tails might make a sore-tail, and that’d be mine. Anyway, there’s no room to pack anything.”
“I’ve got it all figured out. I’ve already called your boss; she agreed to give you the week off. Last month we took a Harley Low Rider in on trade. It has saddlebags and a sissy bar. You’ll love it. I promise. You’ll be comfortable.”
Estrella scooted her chair back. She cupped Deacon’s face in her palms. “If this is what you want, doll, I’ll go.”
“You’re gonna love it!” He exploded with joy. “Too bad for Blade though, he needs a complete overhaul. It’s gonna be expensive. Why would anybody put sugar in a guy’s gas tank?”
The corners of her mouth lifted. She kissed him. “Yeah, why would anyone do that?”
*****
Estrella pressed her lips against his ear. “Deacon, my butt is killing me, and I have to pee.” She peered over his shoulder, only 100 miles registered on the Harley’s trip odometer. She had counted the miles all day, and knew he wouldn’t even begin to look for gas until they had ridden at least 130 miles.
“Okay,” he shouted back, his voice carried away by the wind. “We’ll find a room in Sioux Falls.”
Dim light crept in beneath heavy curtains. The rusty air conditioner in the rented room growled as it labored against the Sunday morning August heat.
Estrella peered out through the condensation-fogged window. “Shit!” She said loudly.
Deacon’s eyes snapped open. “What, what’s wrong?”
“It’s raining.” She answered disgustedly. “It’s fucking raining. Do we have to ride in this shit?”
Deacon crawled off the hard bed and crossed the room. He used the curtain to wipe away the moistur
e. Rain, from a dreary sky, pelted the glass. Bikers, fully clad in rain gear, were streaming out of the parking lot. “We don’t have a lot of choice.” He said apologetically. “It’s either ride in the rain, or sit here all day hoping it’ll clear. Let’s go to the Harley store, buy some rain suits, and make the best of it. We only have another four hundred miles or so. If you sit close to me, I’ll block most of the rain. It won’t be so bad.”
*****
Westbound Interstate 90 was crowded, mostly with motorcycles. Deacon stayed in the right lane, and held his speed at a steady 60 miles per hour. A strong, left-quartering crosswind whipped across the asphalt; he compensated with backpressure on the right handlebar of the Harley, and leaned into the wind. Passing tractor-trailer rigs showered them with a wall of water as they passed.
The right shoulder of the roadway, beneath every overpass, served as temporary shelter. Every one was crowded with bikers sharing their storm stories, watching the western sky, and trying to dry out.
After eleven miserable hours on the rain soaked, red asphalt of South Dakota, they rolled down the last exit into Sturgis. Deacon found the motel, near the bottom of the ramp, on the outskirts of town. Leather clad bikers and road-grimy bikes streamed everywhere like army ants. The high decibel din of the engines was relentless. Giant tents, a multi-colored patchwork of vinyl and canvas, lined the streets and spotted the surrounding hills.
Deacon coaxed the metal key into the lock of the motel room door, then dragged the rain soaked T-Bag inside. Estrella, her arms piled high with dripping road gear, followed. Even with the door securely closed, the constant, muffled beat of the engines throbbed. The road weary travelers collapsed on the bed.
Monday morning they awoke to the persistent hammering of rain against the window. “Man, am I glad we’re not out on the road today.” Deacon said. He rolled over and drew invisible circles on Estrella’s bare arm. “One hard day in the rain will do me for a while.”
Estrella stirred. With both hands, she carefully massaged her still-closed eyes. Her fingers followed a distinct path around her eyelids like a doctor performing a procedure.
With her eyes barely open, she slipped off the bed and into the bathroom. “I thought you said this was going to be fun?” She called back. “A road trip, you said, with beautiful scenery. The Black Hills were black all right, so black you couldn’t fuckin’ see them. The only thing I saw all day was rain dripping off your fuckin’ hair, which was in my face.”
“I know, sweetie, I’m sorry. I guess it’s just a bad weather pattern. Listen to it, it’s pouring. Let’s not let this ruin our vacation.” Deacon crawled out of bed and pulled on his jeans. “I’ve been here before when it rained, and it doesn’t affect the party. Come on. Let’s get breakfast. You’ll see.”
It rained every day, but the convivial mob ebbed and surged in sync with the downpours. Sturgis, South Dakota, a normally non-descript cow town, was drowning in leather.
The television weatherman forecast clearing skies across the state on Thursday. Deacon and Estrella agreed that would be the day to head for home.
“I want to see her again,” Deacon enthusiastically remarked, “I want to watch Sam Morgan ride her Indian in the Motordrome one more time. Today’s our last chance.”
“Don’t you think twice is enough?” Estrella asked shaking her head. “What’s the appeal of watching some broad ride an antique in a barrel?”
“I can’t explain it. It’s just an amazing thing, that’s all. People call her the queen of the Wall of Death. Please, just go with me. You have to see. When they ride the Wall, they defy the laws of physics and nature. I’m worried it’s a dying sport.”
“I can see why,” she said sarcastically.
“Oh, come on, sweetie, it won’t kill you. It’s a twenty-minute show. You’ve already shopped every vendor’s booth, and we’ve tasted every ethnic food imaginable. I really want to go once more, but with you this time.”
In the bottom of the giant, machine-cluttered wooden barrel, the lanky blonde effortlessly side-cranked the 500-pound 1936 Indian Scout. It popped, and started, on the first kick. Blue smoke belched out of the exhaust and swirled up to the sparse audience.
Perched on a narrow platform atop the exoskeletal structure, they were separated from the rider by a solitary braided-steel cable. The Reverend took me once. Deacon remembered as he drank in every detail of the scene below. It must have been at the state fair in Sedalia. He chuckled. If he was trying to scare me, his plan backfired.
Samantha Morgan threw her leg over the sixty-year-old Indian, and in one seamless motion began to circle and climb the vertical walls. She held her arms high above her head. Curly blonde hair, accented by a thin braid on each side of her face, whipped in the wind. At 60 miles per hour, the red, white, and blue machine screamed. It carried its fearless rider within inches of the safety cable, and 10 meters above the machine-strewn floor.
Deacon shouted excitedly into Estrella’s ear. “My father brought me once to see this show!” His words nearly lost against the high-pitched whine of the engine. “It was incredible!”
“He probably meant to throw you in!” She shouted back. A look of loathing distorted her face. “Let’s go to Jack’s and get a drink.”
Every waking hour of the rally, One Eyed Jacks brimmed with rowdy bikers. Wednesday noon, with the mob driven inside by the rain, the bar was packed.
“Let’s drink beer,” Estrella insisted. “Come on, Deac, you promised me a good time.”
By four o’clock, after eight bottles of beer, Deacon had enough of the hard wooden barstool. He pressed his lips against Estrella’s ear. “Baby, let’s go.” His voice diluted by blasting music and the shouting mass.
“Just one more,” she shouted back, “let’s try one of those naval shots.” She put her hands on his biceps and held him at arm’s length. Her erect nipples pushed against the silk tank top.
He drank her in with his eyes. “Damn.” He held up a twenty-dollar bill, folded lengthwise, for the bartender to see.
The crowd hooted and howled. Estrella climbed confidently from barstool to bar top. A tantalizing Amazon balanced on high-heeled boots. She opened her arms to her audience. With a rubber band, she secured her hair in a tight yellow ponytail, and lay flat on her back.
On tiptoes, the bartender wildly waved her arms; her panties peeked out from beneath her miniskirt. The mob howled. Deftly, with the tequila bottle held high above Estrella, she filled her naval. Whipped cream blasted from a can and surrounded the tiny pool. She positioned a cherry at the peek of the unstable white mound. The crowd roared. “Drink it, drink it…” they shouted in unison.
Deacon pressed tight against the bar. Using the wooden rail as a step, he lifted himself up and buried his face in Estrella’s belly. He sucked up most of the tequila and a modicum of whipped cream. He raised his head and swallowed hard. Whipped cream dripped from his face.
The crowd clapped and chanted, “Cherry, cherry...”
Deacon leaned back into her stomach and caught the stem between his teeth on the first try.
Estrella propped herself on her elbows. In one fluid movement, using only her teeth, she snatched the fruit from his mouth and swallowed it whole. The horde erupted.
Deacon sat alone on a barstool. Through a drunken haze, he checked his watch. The hands showed straight up eight o’clock. He scanned the expansive bar searching for Estrella. Surrounded by the clamoring crowd, two brunette bartenders, dressed as prostitutes-in-prison, frantically poured drinks.
He shook his head as though it would clear his vision, and tried to focus, still no Estrella. On his third visual pass around the room, he found her twenty feet away lying on the bar top.
A tall, square-jawed woman with closely cropped copper hair, bent over Estrella. A long stemmed maraschino cherry hung from the woman’s mouth. Whipped cream dripped from her cheeks to Estrella’s face. She released the cherry, and it disappeared into Estrella’s eager mouth, followed by a long, so
ulful kiss.
Deacon blinked in amazement. The woman pulled Estrella to a sitting position; then lifted her from the bar. They kissed again. The woman put something in Estrella’s hand, and said goodbye with a languorous French kiss.
Estrella squeezed in beside Deacon and snaked her arm through his. “You doin’ okay, doll?” she shouted. “Let’s have another round.” She dropped a crumpled hundred-dollar bill on the bar.
A little after midnight, Estrella led Deacon toward the exit. “Let’s go, doll.” She said in a seductive voice. “I have a surprise for you.”
Deacon started down the wooden stairs. A tall man forced his way through the crowd and up the stairs, nearly knocking Deacon off his feet. Deacon caught himself and glanced up at the man. Stringy coal-black hair surrounded an acne pocked face. Deacon did a double take. Short white horns protruded from greasy hair.
The giant stared down. “What are ya lookin’ at, bud?” The menacing voice boomed. His eyes took Deacon by surprise. He shook his head, and looked again. Swollen black pupils floated in a pool of solid red.
Deacon caught up with Estrella, threading her way through the haphazardly flowing throng. He squeezed her elbow. “Did you see that big guy? Back there on the steps. Did you see his eyes? He looks like Satan.”
“Yeah, I saw him,” she answered unimpressed. “It takes all kinds. He’s wearin’ theatrical contacts. People use them all the time to change their eye color.”
Artificially cooled air blasted from the noisy box under the window. Peeling his tee shirt off with one hand, Estrella led Deacon across the room. She turned him around and pushed him to the bed. She struggled with his boots; then effortlessly removed his jeans and boxers. She caressed his hairy legs and smiled. “Tonight is your night, lover.”
She slipped out of her jeans, straddled his waist, and stripped off her tank top. Moisture from curly rain-soaked blonde hair dripped on bare shoulders. Traces of whipped cream spotted the inside of her naval. She hunched over, and devoured his mouth. “This is what you’ve been waiting for, doll.”
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