Diesel Therapy (Selena Book 2)

by Greg Barth

  “Like a decent...? What? Honey, do you know who you’re sitting next to? Decent human being? Apologize?”

  “I want you to apologize for killing Henry. He was a good man. And for shooting me. I’m a... good woman.”

  “I only apologize for things that I’m sorry for,” he said.

  “Well thank you for, you know, trying to spring me from jail.”

  “Hey, I’m helping you here,” he said. “Let’s not forget that.”

  “Give me a cigarette,” I said.

  He lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I smoked as he drove in silence.

  “This place got a liquor cabinet?” I said.

  “Well stocked,” he said. “I’ve got a bag of stuff for you in the back. Clothes and things. We have food. We can lay low in comfort until this all blows over.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we go see Pete. He’s got something lined up for you to get you back on your feet.”

  “There’s somewhere I want to go first. Something I need to do.”

  “Get it out of your head. We’re not going there and you’re not doing that.”

  “You don’t even know what it is.”

  “I don’t care what it is. It’s not in Pete’s plans, so you’re not doing it.”

  “It involves my family. I need to check on something.”

  “Were you born stupid, or did you just develop that over the years? Family? You think they won’t be looking for you there? You’re on the run. The first thing they expect you to do is contact somebody you know for help. Honey, if you get anywhere near your family, they’ll catch you, and I can’t help you then.”

  “Ragus, look at me.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Look at me.” He took his eyes off the road and met mine. “I have to do this. I have to stop something.”

  He nodded. “Born stupid,” he said. He looked back to the road and made a turn. He drove us down a dark country road. The safe house was in the middle of nowhere at the end of a long driveway that passed between hay fields on either side, then went up and over a hill, and down into a copse of trees. The house was in the midst of the trees. You’d never know it was there.

  We sat in the car a few minutes. I waited on him to move. He reached over and took the guard’s pants. He went through the pockets. “No cell phone. That’s good.” He found the wallet and went through it. He took the ring of keys out of the pocket and sorted through them. “Here,” he said.

  I held my hands out. He removed the cuffs. I sat there looking at my hands. I held them apart. It felt strange to be able to move them independently of one another. A tear trickled down my cheek.

  Ragus rubbed the tear away with his thumb. “You’re going to be okay,” he said.

  “I have things I have to deal with before I’m going to be okay.”

  “So how did you get out of that van?” he said.

  “Guard was horny.”

  He laughed. “Did he get any?”

  I held up the nightstick. “He got his ass kicked.”

  “So you didn’t get any either.”

  “I’ve been chaste for so long, I’ve already forgotten how.”

  “No conjugal visits, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  “Didn’t do any favors for the CO’s?”

  “They wish.”

  “No butch cellies?”

  “I honestly don’t think anybody was getting any inside there. I was totally let down on the expectations set by Caged Heat.”

  “You poor thing.”

  “I know, right?” I laughed. “I actually thought about doing the guy in the van, then breaking free.”

  He chuckled at this. “What? He didn’t measure up?”

  “He was a throat-fucker. I just wasn’t down for that. Fuck him.”

  “That’s no way to treat a pretty little lady.”

  “Pretty? Shit. I look like fucking hell.”

  “I can see right through it. I remember what you used to look like. It’s all still there. You just need some rest. I’ve thought about you a lot actually. Just memories. And those weren’t happy times. But there was always something about you. Whatever it was, you’ve still got it.”

  Whatever he was drawn to, it had to be deeper than my physical appearance. “I won’t feel pretty again until I’ve had a bath, a bottle of bourbon, and put some real clothes on.”

  Ragus grinned. He pushed the button on the dash to pop the trunk. “I’ll get your stuff.” He got out of the car and came around and opened my door. He held his hand out.

  I took his hand and stepped out. “Thank you,” I said.

  The man was a giant. He stood there looking down at me. “A bath and a bottle of bourbon?” he said. “That’s all you need?” He reached out his hand and curled his fingers around the front of the waistband of my khakis. He pulled them, and I stepped up close to him. He leaned down and kissed me. Good thing he didn’t know where my mouth had been. I put my thin arms up over his strong, hard shoulders and around his neck. I opened my mouth to him and his probing tongue.

  It was a cool night. Cool but not cold. The moon was out, shining down through the trees. I could feel spring in the air.

  He broke away and turned me around. He pushed my pelvis up against the front fender of the car and pushed himself against my bottom. I could feel him rock hard against my ass cheek. He put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me down flat, pressing my chest and stomach against the hood of the car. He slid his hands down my back. He pulled my pants and underwear down. I heard him unzip and drop his pants. Then he was pressing against me. I gasped.

  He was a big man. He entered me all at once. I bit my lip to keep from squealing in surprise.

  “Remind me to teach you how to fuck someday,” I said.

  “Shut up. I’m just doing this for you.”

  He thrust against me hard, squishing my ass between his thrusts and the fender of the car.

  I began to feel more comfortable with him in me. He slipped a hand up under my shirt and caressed my breast.

  “Bullshit, ‘you’re doing this for me.’ Twenty dollars says you get off first,” I said.

  “You’re on. I just hope you’re not one of those screamers.”

  He pinched my nipple hard.

  He put his other hand on my hip and pulled me back to him as he pushed forward. His body smacked against my ass. He picked up pace with his thrusts. He pushed so hard against me, my feet left the ground and I was suspended between him and the car, the only thing holding me up his pelvis slapping against my bare ass.

  I tried to speak, but my words bounced in my mouth as he slammed against me. What came out sounded like, “Fu-uu-uu-uu-uu-ck me-ee-ee.”

  And so he did.

  ***

  Ragus lit us each a cigarette then walked over to a tree. He turned his back to me and I heard the sound of him pissing in the grass.

  “By my count that’s forty dollars you owe me.”

  I stood there next to the car, smoking my cigarette while his semen ran down the inside of my thighs. It was more like sixty dollars, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

  “First time I’ve ever paid for it,” I said.

  He laughed. “You got a bargain,” he said.

  “So, I like it rough and all, but I sure hope you know more tricks than that.”

  He zipped his pants and turned back to me. “Honey, I know all the tricks.”

  “I still hate you,” I said.

  “I still hate you too. With all my heart,” he said.

  “So where’s that liquor cabinet?”

  “Inside. Let me get your stuff. Hope everything I got you fits. You’ve lost weight.”

  “What did you get me?”

  “Halloween costumes mostly. They were on sale.”

  “Fuck off.” I flipped my cigarette away.

  I’d lived wild for the last fifteen of my thirty years. Wilder than most people would believe even possible. I’d been with far more men tha
n I could remember. I didn’t think I’d ever forget Ragus.

  T WENTY-SIX

  Selena

  THE SAFE HOUSE was pleasant. Anything would be nice compared to my recent accommodations.

  It had the well-supplied liquor cabinet that Ragus mentioned, and I took a thorough tour of the various distilled spirits it contained. My first two days there were spent either in a state of numbed drunkenness or in the bathtub with suds up to my chin and a paperback in hand. I couldn’t get over that I could soak in warm water as long as I wanted.

  All the clothes Ragus brought for me fit. He had odd taste. I had jeans, cowboy boots, cotton blouses, a long, thick cable-knit cardigan sweater (gray), a hairclip with a big red bow, and assorted socks and underwear.

  I unpacked everything and said, “Um, nice try and all, but you can have the hairclip.” I handed it to him. “Too big and gaudy for me, and you’ll need to pick me up some running shoes. Nice, expensive, comfortable running shoes.”

  “You run?”

  “No. And I also don’t put my feet in stirrups and ride horses.”

  “I like the boots,” he said.

  “You can have them.”

  “They’re women’s boots.”

  “I don’t judge. You wear what you like,” I said.

  “That’s not what I meant, Selena.”

  “I know. You meant you’ll get me some nice running shoes, right?”

  The long gray sweater was hideous, but I wore it almost all the time. It was warm and soft.

  Ragus was a lousy cook, and I’m the least domestic person on the planet. So each day he went out for food and we ate one good meal. We snacked on leftovers or something from a box the rest of the day. There was a decent Chinese place that he found, and an Italian joint that was okay. We were in the sticks, so he had a long drive to get anywhere. It kept him out of the house a good bit, and I didn’t mind.

  So far he had proven himself good at one thing only. And we did a good bit of that too, mostly out of boredom. There was nothing even remotely romantic about it. Just the sheer lust and appreciation that two alphas had for each other. But damn, that man could fuck.

  The house had three bedrooms, two baths, dining room, kitchen, and den all on one floor. It had a fully built-out basement underneath that could serve for a couple more bedrooms and bathroom. We didn’t spend any time down there.

  We had electricity and water, but there was no cable TV, so I wasn’t distracted by media coverage of what I imagined to be a massive manhunt for me. I didn’t worry about it. I’d fought to get out, but if they caught me, they caught me. As long as they didn’t put me back on the bus for weeks on end, I figured I could stand going back down.

  Without TV and with me having to lay low and stay on the property, things got kinda boring. Ragus brought me the things I needed, mostly bourbons that were either untried or my favorites, cigarettes, and bubble bath. He brought me paperbacks by the dozen. “If it looks like two people about to have sex on the cover, I’ll like it,” I told him. He never questioned my taste in literature. As the days wore on, I told him to find a good pot or coke dealer, preferably both. “Find me some of that Ghost Train Haze,” I told him.

  He didn’t have a cell phone at the house. He never made calls to Pete, not even on a burner. Any calls to Pete traced from anywhere could be followed, he said. So he was taking no chances.

  If he kept up with the news about the manhunt during his trips to town, or encountered any Wanted: Dead or Alive posters with my picture on them, he didn’t tell me. Occasionally he’d say, “We can’t leave yet,” and that was the extent of it.

  We drank. We talked some. I told him what it was like in a federal corrections facility. We’d both done some county time, and he’d pulled fifteen months in state prison, but I was the only one who spent any time in federal prison.

  These conversations were especially good after a few drinks.

  “So that Marshal in the van?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You took his pants, his weapon, everything, and locked his ass in the back?”

  I laughed. “I did. Poor fucker. Just imagine when they found him.”

  “Jeez, kid. You’re hardcore.”

  “He had it coming.”

  We read. We got high. We fucked. Got to the point that we fucked a lot. We were each perfectly willing to do the things the other person liked, and we were comfortable with each other’s boundaries. So we got on well in that area. He was particularly fond of my ass—and I don’t mean anal sex (yikes!), he just liked my shape—and he didn’t mind my scars. He even seemed fascinated with the scars that he’d put on me. He’d touch them sometimes when he was getting off. Other times he’d just pull my hair. Either way, I was okay with it as long as he got me off too. We’d go naked all morning most days, going at it like rabbits whenever the mood struck. One day I went the entire day without wearing a stitch of clothes except those stupid fucking cowboy boots. What can I say? I was a little high.

  Ragus had lived a wild life too, but he never did coke before. It’s a far less common drug these days unless you liked to smoke rock. I took care of that pretty quick. He was a wine drinker, and he tried to get me into it. I’d get a mouthful and do the whole sniffing and swirling sommelier stuff. I think it offended him. The wine was okay, but I like what I like.

  I never forgave him for killing Henry. Henry was a kind and decent man. Ragus was neither of these.

  The day came when we were both relatively sober, and Ragus said, “We need to talk about what happens next with you.”

  I took a deep breath. I knew this would be a fight, but it would be a fight I’d win. And it was a fight he didn’t yet know he’d lose.

  “Okay, let’s start with your version,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Tell me.”

  “First thing we need to do is change your appearance. Now, here’s what I am thinking. We cut your hair short and go punk with it.”

  Not at all what I expected. “I’m sorry. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Your hair is too dark to go very light. Your roots would be insane. A short, punk style is our best bet.”

  “No. Just... no.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, first, because I’m a girl. Second, who’d do it?”

  “I would.”

  “You’re going to style my hair?”

  “I told you about my time in state prison.”

  “Um, you told me you did fifteen months for some drug thing. I guess I just didn’t make the connection?”

  “I learned how to style hair in prison. They taught me. I thought about getting a license once.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah. Holy shit. Then we get you settled in. Not back to Johnson City. You can’t go back there. But Pete will get you some papers. You’ve just got to be careful with fingerprints and that shit, and we get you to work.”

  “Work?”

  “Pete’s got a thing lined up for you.”

  “Mm hmm,” I said.

  “We’ll get moving in a few days.”

  “Okay, but remember I’m doing my thing back home first. I’m not finished with my diesel therapy yet.”

  “You won’t make it,” he said.

  “I know a way. It’ll work.”

  He got up and left the room.

  Men.

  I watched as he went into the dining room. He sat at the table and cut a thin line of coke on the table surface, snorted it up one nostril. He learned fast. I’d have him tamed in no time.

  I started making a mental list of things I’d need for my trip home.

  Had I known the trip home would cost Ragus so much in the end, I would have slipped off in the middle of the night alone to spare him the suffering.

  T WENTY-SEVEN

  Old Man Carson

  TOM CARSON CONSIDERED the pistol on the coffee table. A .22 caliber revolver. A single-action wheel gun with a six-inch barrel. It was loaded, and the hamm
er rested at half cock.

  He could pick up the pistol, cock it, and shoot himself. It would only take about three or four seconds. He didn’t know if the wound would be instantly fatal. The .22 was a small caliber. But he figured any pain and suffering that happened before he passed was well deserved. Part of him needed to suffer.

  He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he opted for the bottle of whisky beside it. He removed the cap, turned up the bottle, and drank several gulps. Until he had the backbone to kill himself the fast way, he’d keep doing it the slow way.

  His daughter was a runaway at the age of fourteen. She’d survived as a stripper and a prostitute. Recently she murdered god only knew how many people, and now she was in federal prison.

  Tom figured it was high time that he admit to himself he was a horrible father.

  He hadn’t visited her in prison yet. He’d thought about it many times, hell, he hadn’t thought of much else. But he knew he was the last person she’d want to see. And what would he say to her? Sorry for fucking up your entire life?

  It was too hard to face. He knew the pistol was the answer, but, weak man that he was, he chose the bottle.

  Tom had sold his hounds to a coonhunter a few weeks back, so he was startled when he heard the knock at the door. Visitors were rare, and this was the first time the dogs hadn’t alerted him to someone’s presence long before they had a chance to knock.

  He got up and went to the door. His trailer was so old, the soft wood that made up the door frame was swollen and rotten from moisture. The light aluminum door wouldn’t keep an intruder out, but Tom had nothing worth stealing.

  He turned the knob and opened to whoever was outside.

  “Deputy Bostic,” Tom said. “What brings you out?”

  “Hello, Mr. Carson. A couple of things, actually. You mind if I come in?”

  Tom stepped aside. “Come on. You’re lettin’ the flies out.”

  Bostic chuckled, stepped inside.

  “Have a seat.” Tom gestured to the frayed vinyl sofa.

  Bostic sat. “How you doing with things?”

  “You mean since my little girl done growed up and went off to prison?”