Hard Corps (Selected Sinners MC #7)

by Scott Hildreth

  I smiled and nodded my head, “Yes sir.”

  “Because I could,” he grinned.

  He pulled a plastic tipped cigar from his pocket and waved it at me as he spoke, “War dries us out Jak. Two years dried me right up. Hell, you been at it for damned near twenty, you’re drier’n a popcorn fart. Go absorb some of what God intended for ya to. And don’t fuss about lettin’ your heart open up. If she’s a good girl for ya, you’ll heart’ll know it.”

  He lifted the cigar to his mouth and chewed on the tip as if satisfied he made had his point. As I considered his comments, he narrowed his eyes and pulled the cigar from his mouth. He pointed the tip in my direction and smiled as he nodded his head sharply, “And if she was bad, we wouldn’t be havin’ this talk now would we?”

  I smiled and shook my head, “No sir.”

  He turned and slowly walked toward the bench. After what appeared to be a short recollection of where he was when I disturbed him, he reached down, picked up the electric motor from the pump and set it aside. For an instant he stood motionless.

  He looked over his right shoulder. The cigar still dangled from his lips, “Go climb that tree, Jak.”

  I nodded my head and smiled, “Thanks Oscar. I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Not if I see you first,” he chuckled.

  I bent down, retied my shoes and jogged to the parking lot. The thought of possibly seeing Karter filled my mind as I unlocked the truck and retrieved my phone from my gym bag. Still standing outside the truck, I swiped the screen of my phone. Upon opening the text screen, I smiled. One lone text message was all I had received. It was all I needed. Anxiously, I opened the message.

  Karter Wilson: I can’t paint and I don’t want to ride. All I can think about is you. Dude, what the fuck did you do to me?

  I stared at the screen, knowing what I wanted to say, but feeling as if I shouldn’t send a message which would allow her to perceive me as weak or needy.

  Fuck it, Jak. Be honest with this girl. Be honest with yourself. Tell her what you’re thinking. Then, she’ll know exactly how you feel. If she’s still interested, it’ll be for all the right reasons.

  I inhaled, studied at the screen for a second, and typed a brief but heartfelt response.

  I feel the same way.

  I tossed the phone onto the top of my bag and climbed into the seat of the truck. After a shower and change of clothes, I’d be ready for a new day of relaxation. As I pushed the key into the ignition, my phone beeped. I reached for it and immediately swiped my thumb across the screen as I raised it to my chest.

  Karter Wilson: I’m dying a slow miserable death. End the fucking pain. Come over, pick me up, and then leave if you have to. But come pick me up. Mosley Street Apts. #211.

  Uncertain if she meant to pick her up from her apartment and take her somewhere or lift her from her feet again, I reread the message. Still unclear and not wanting to make any assumptions, I typed a universal response.

  I’m in PT gear and need to shower.

  I read my message. Dissatisfied with the military reference, I erased it and retyped another message.

  I just got done running and I’m in shorts and a tee shirt. Give me an hour.

  I pressed send.

  I tossed my phone onto my gym bag. As I gripped the key with my thumb and forefinger, the phone beeped. I shook my head and smiled as I lifted it from the bag and cleared the screen.

  Karter Wilson: An hour? Fuck that. Did you not read my first message? I’m dying. Like DYING. I’m dressed inappropriately as well. Come as you are. Make it quick. *collapses to floor and drops phone*

  I laughed audibly and shook my head. Damn, this girl seemed to be exactly what I needed. If nothing else, she would keep me on my toes. I looked down at my sweaty shorts and pressed my hand against the chest of my tee shirt. Wet.

  If she’s truly dying I suppose it’s my solemn duty to attempt to save her.

  I typed a quick response and pressed send.

  En route. ETA fifteen minutes.

  I tossed my phone onto the bag and started the truck. As I backed away from the parking stall, my phone beeped. I shook my head and rolled my eyes. After I stopped the truck and pushed the gear shifter into park, I picked up the phone and glanced at the screen.

  Karter Wilson: *coughs* Hurry. I’ll be on the floor. *coughs again* If I appear lifeless, it’s your fucking fault. Perform CPR as necessary. *crawls and unlocks door*

  As I drove toward downtown, I found it odd out of everything we had discussed the previous day, we neglected our jobs. Although I purposely didn’t ask her of hers, she offered the fact she painted. At the time I had no idea if it was a full-time job or a hobby. The fact Karter now mentioned she couldn’t paint and was home during the work day led me to believe it may be her job.

  I was reluctant to offer my employment history because I didn’t want her to determine my age - at least not yet. If she was in her latter twenties as I suspected, I was at least ten years her senior. If we continued along the same path, it would stand to reason after six months of further developing attractions toward one another, age would never become an issue. I felt if she provided me an opportunity to show her who I was and how I was capable of caring for her, she’d accept my age as being just what it was - a mere number.

  As I exited the highway into downtown, I chuckled at applying the government’s position on gays in the military to our age difference.

  Don’t ask - don’t tell.

  It had been a little more than twenty years since I spent any time in Wichita, but it didn’t matter much. The downtown area remained unchanged for the most part. I was well aware of where her apartment building was located as I had viewed them when I arrived to town a matter of a few days prior. Whether it would prove to be a blessing or a curse was yet to be determined, but I lived three short blocks from her location.

  I had grown up in a small town thirty miles outside of Wichita, and had gone to school there from kindergarten to my senior year in high school. During my initial training, my mother relocated to Wichita and remained there. This made my selection of a location to retire rather easy. I had no intent of visiting my home town or anyone in it, and as far as I was concerned if I lived in a city of almost half a million people, no one would know or recognize me. In a sense, I was obtaining a fresh start in a new city.

  I parked my truck in the street outside her apartment building. After a precursory glance in the rearview mirror, I decided it really didn’t matter. I couldn’t change anything if I wanted to. I was without any cologne, brush, comb, or clean clothes. I had no idea my morning would have eventually led me to Karter’s apartment. Surprisingly, I felt comfortable seeing her covered in sweat and dressed in my PT gear.

  As I knocked on the door of her apartment the sound from inside resembled a herd of elephants being assembled for a circus. Eventually, the door opened and Karter stood before me dressed in paint covered sweats, canvas sneakers, a Rolling Stones tee shirt, and a beanie. The shirt appeared to be something she had used for years, as it was covered in both wet and dry paint. The beanie rested atop her head more as an adornment than a necessity. As she swung the door open she waved her free arm toward the ridiculously colorful apartment.

  “Mi casa, su casa,” she said softly as she waved her arm.

  I quickly surveyed the very large open area and couldn’t help but grin at the furnishings and her choice of decorative accents. Three unmatched sofas sat in the front room, but they worked very well together. Various paintings littered the walls; most I now assumed were the result of her mind’s creative talent. Each wall was painted a different color, all bright and colorful. In the far corner sat a wooden trunk with an old glass screened television lying on its side. Numerous light fixtures hung from the ceiling, all at different elevations. After a split second inventory, I turned to her and smiled.

  “Su casa es muy colorido. Me gusta su elección de ropa, eres muy linda,” I responded without thinking.

 
She raised one eyebrow, “Huh?”

  The look on her face was clear. She didn’t speak Spanish. I asked anyway, “You don’t speak Spanish?”

  “Negative Ghostrider,” she said flatly.

  “What the fuck did you say?” she asked as she released the door.

  “Well, I said your home is very colorful, and you look cute. Well, I actually said I like your choice of clothes and you look cute,” I said as I stepped past her.

  “Me or the clothes?” she asked the instant I finished speaking.

  “Both. Your tee shirt choices are great. I’ve seen two so far, and I like them both. Your sweats are, well,” I paused and looked down at her skin tight sweats which were cut off right below her knees.

  Her calves were tan and smooth. She didn’t appear overly athletic nor did she seem out of shape. I guessed her to have naturally good genes which afforded her a well put together physique of average proportions. As I found myself lost in my admiration of her legs, she snapped her fingers loudly.

  She wagged her hand in the air in front of her face, “Dude, snap out of it. I’ll change the cocksucker’s if you don’t like ‘em. Hold please.”

  She no more than finished speaking and bounced through the apartment like a deer chasing after a mate. Swiftly, she disappeared into an open rear bedroom. After a few seconds of grunting and what I assumed was rustling through her available clothes, she stepped into the opening of the bedroom door.

  She raised her arms parallel with the floor and motioned toward her torso with her index fingers, “Tadahhh.”

  She stood in the doorway wearing a relatively paint free Bod Dylan tee shirt, shorts with more holes than actual available material, and a curved bill baseball style cap with the phrase Fuck Off stenciled across the front of the crown. Now barefoot, she performed a slow pirouette in the doorway, revealing a fabulously rounded ass, some of which was exposed by the six-inch rip in the rear of her jean shorts immediately below her left butt cheek.

  I shook my head in disbelief. The entire event, from my comment to her reappearance didn’t take thirty seconds.

  She frowned, “No likey?”

  “Actually, I loved what you were wearing.”

  As I paused she quickly turned toward the room.

  “Stop!” I said sternly.

  Having realized the military man in me was coming out, I softened my tone, “But I like what you’re wearing now more.”

  “I love this hat. It keeps the creeps away,” she smiled as she turned and sauntered into the living room area.

  “So, you paint?” I asked as I admired the numerous paintings.

  “We’ve been over this already, Jak,” she snapped as she stepped over the back of the largest couch in the room.

  I walked to the couch and lowered myself onto the cushion at the opposite end, “Well, I wasn’t sure if it was a hobby or a profession. I guess I still don’t know, but it appears you’re a very talented woman.”

  She pressed her back into the arm of the couch and widened her eyes, “So is this how we’re going to do it now?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  She raised her index finger and pulled down on her lower lip, “Me sitting on this end and you on the other. The only way we could be further apart is if you sat in the street. Do you want to sit in the street, Jak?”

  I shrugged my shoulders lightly, “No, I…”

  “Then scoot the fuck down here. Jesus, Jak. Did you forget what I said? I’m dying. D. Y. I. N. G.,” she released her lip and slumped into the lower cushion of the couch.

  I smiled and stood from the end of the couch. As I stepped toward her she looked up, grinned, and batted her eyes repeatedly. As I walked her direction, I stared at her obsessively. Not watching where I was walking, I became tangled in newspapers which littered the floor in front of the couch and stumbled. I looked down at the pile of old papers and shook my head.

  “Sorry, I read the obituaries. It’s the only part I read. I like knowing the names of people who die. I do it every morning when the paper comes,” she said as she kicked the newspapers aside.

  I shook my head lightly as I stood over her and admired her beauty.

  “I like it that you’re taller than me. I hate short guys. Actually I hate guys, period. All guys. I suppose we just as well go over this now,” she sighed.

  I sat down beside her feet and turned to face her. Now almost lying flat on the couch, she raised her head and rested her cheek in her palm. Upon meeting a person, it’s difficult to know for certain if the actions and expressed personality of a person are genuine or an act. Without a doubt, sometimes it’s a combination of both. Strangely, I felt with Karter what I witnessed was exactly who she was. I cocked one eyebrow comically, “All guys? And go over what?”

  She sat up slightly and pushed her feet under my right thigh, “Okay here’s the deal. I hate men. I always have. It hasn’t prevented me from being in relationships, but it’s prevented me from lasting for any period of time. All men are turds and I use them when I need to. Never for money and never for material things, but I’ve used a few for sex.”

  “A woman has her sexual needs. I’ve fucked a handful of dudes and eventually they fuck me over. But don’t mistake what I’m telling you. I’m no slut, and I’m not an easy lay, Jak.” she paused and sat up a little more.

  “Men have no depth. They have no appreciation. They want laid, and that’s it. I’m a complex person, Jak. I’m not high maintenance in a sense of fashion or finance, but my mind goes a million miles an hour and the world spins slowly. I can’t slow it down, I’ve tried. So, what you’re seeing? This girl covered in paint and wearing the Fuck Off hat? This is me. I’d be doing this and wearing these same clothes at some point in time if you weren’t here. I might do something eventually to piss you off, but I’ll never do anything intentionally to impress you. It’s not how I roll,” she hesitated and straightened her knees, pushing her feet further under my thigh.

  “Well, I like it that…”

  “I wasn’t done,” she said as she raised her index finger in the air.

  “Fair enough,” I chuckled.

  She rolled her eyes and lowered her hand to her chin.

  “So I meet guys and eventually I settle for one and whatever. You know the deal. But I’ve never felt like they cared, or I cared, or that there was a real attachment. Nothing ever lasts longer than a few months. Maybe three. But in here,” she rubbed her hand from her waist to her neck.

  “In here, I feel nothing. I never have. Not one time. Not fucking once. I’m not shitting you, Jak. Not one fucking time have I felt anything in here,” she continued to rub her hand up and down her torso.

  I nodded my head and waited as patiently as I could for the rest of the story she planned to tell. What I hoped to hear was that she felt the same way I felt - an extremely strong attraction for merely having met someone and really knowing nothing about them. I struggled after we had eaten with whether or not it was simply a fascination, but settled on it truly being an attraction. I realized I preferred to be in Karter’s presence - and for me - having the desire alone was enough to cause me to believe it was an attraction.

  “Now this may scare you or it might excite you. Who fucking knows? But I decided last night I was going to tell you the honest truth. My mind tells me things, and not like you’re probably thinking. I hear voices in my head - not the devil or dumb shit like that. But my brain talks to me. I think I’m a genius, but some people think I’m crazy. Maybe everyone is like me and I’m the only one with the guts to admit it, I have no idea,” she paused and sat up slightly.

  “Yesterday after we ate, you picked me up and held me. When you let me down onto the floor my brain decided it liked you. Like a lot. So, I want to see you as much as you want to see me. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable and I don’t want to freak you out, but I want to be with you as often as possible. I work from my home and sell this shit to a few studios and individuals who are dumb enough to buy them. I’
m always here and I’m always available,” she hesitated, raised her finger in the air, and took a deep breath.

  She hears voices in her head.

  Well, she’s not alone.

  “So, is this the last I’ll see of you?” she asked as she pulled her feet out from under my thigh and pressed her back into the arm of the couch.

  I extended my arm and gripped her left ankle in my right hand. As I pulled her toward me, she allowed herself to slump into the couch and slide my direction. I raised my leg and positioned her foot under my thigh. Without speaking, she smiled and pushed her right foot beside it. I lowered my leg and pressed her feet into the cushion of the couch. As I slid my hand along the smooth skin of her calf, I smiled.

  “I’m afraid not. My brain decided it liked you too.”

  KARTER. It was 98 degrees and not even noon yet – a typical June day in the Midwest. Sitting at the green light waiting for traffic to inch forward was always a difficult thing for me to do. I rode responsibly, and not doing dumb shit while on my bike was difficult if not sometimes close to impossible. I wanted to twist the throttle and pass each and every car sitting in front of me. Instead, I inched forward and absorbed the sound of Jimi Hendrix’s The Wind Cries Mary through the earbuds of my iPod and the sweltering heat from the 1340 cc engine between my legs.

  Jak and I met on a Monday, and had seen each other every day for the week which followed. Now Saturday, we had agreed to meet for lunch at Adrian’s, a Mediterranean restaurant on the east side of town. It seemed Jak had as much free time as I did, and although I felt a need to keep my mouth shut about what he may do for a living, part of me wondered. Actually, I wanted to know everything about him.

  As traffic opened up, I sped north on Rock road toward the strip mall. By my watch I would be ten minutes early. Not bad for douchebag infused traffic. As I slowed down and changed into the turning lane, I instinctively checked my mirror. As I rolled to a stop, I watched the reflection of a car rapidly approaching behind me.

  Slow it down fuck head, you’re coming in kinda hot.