I hadn’t made out with anyone since I was in high school but kissing her became the only thing that seemed to matter. The pressure on my brain was obviously creating far more problems than headaches. The tumor was reducing me to a hopeless romantic.
Hoping to disguise my desires, I pursed my lips and offered my hand. “Ghost. Porter,” I stammered. “Porter.”
She squinted. “Did you say Ghost Porter-Porter?”
“Ghost’s a nickname,” I said dismissively. “Call me Porter.”
She set her purse between us. “That’s a pretty awesome nickname.”
Being in the presence of strangers troubled me. Apart from the men in the motorcycle club, I trusted very few people. I felt uneasy sitting next to her, but for different reasons. I wanted to touch her.
Everywhere.
I wanted to taste her. To run my fingers the length of her naked body, pausing at the dimples I was sure that existed just above the small of her back. To run my fingers through her hair while I pressed my naked chest to hers.
I shook my head, hoping to clear it of the odd thoughts that were quickly filling it. She wasn’t the type of woman I typically associated with. As a means of self-preservation, I preferred one-night stands, strippers, and women who idolized bikers. She looked like an actress from a Covergirl commercial and smelled like a spring rain shower.
I swallowed heavily. “What did you say your name was?”
“Abby. Like the Beatles album, Abby Road.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a small weathered notepad. “Is this your first meeting?”
“It is,” I admitted.
“It’s weird,” she said, flipping through the pages as she spoke. “Before you come through that door, you feel helpless and alone. You push it open and walk in, hoping for answers. To find someone that you can hold accountable. Then, you find out all that’s available is a roomful of compassion, a little experience, and a lot of understanding. You know what, though?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s all we need.” She handed me the notepad. “Look at number thirty-two.”
I smiled again, even though I told myself not to. Her energy was undeniable. I glanced at the small sheet of paper. Eight hand-written items were on the page, seven of which had been crossed out. The one that remained, take a ride on a motorcycle with a real biker, was number thirty-two.
She extended her arm, holding her open hand over my lap. I glanced down, and in doing so, checked the status of my stiff dick. Relieved that I wasn’t going to embarrass myself, I gave her the notepad.
“What is it?” I asked. “A bucket list?”
“It’s a to-do list,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’ve hand it since I was thirteen. I’ve added things to it over the years.”
I tilted my head toward the notebook. “How many things are in there?”
She folded it closed and then dropped it into her purse. “Hundreds.”
I was fascinated. I wanted to know things about her. Everything. Why her skin was so pale. If her lips were natural, or if she’d had them injected with collagen. Why she wore sneakers with a dress. Why she had two four-inch squares of gauze taped to her legs. What the other one hundred and ninety-nine items on her list were.
“How many have you completed?”
She beamed with pride. “All but six.”
I wondered if I took the time to make such a list what it may include. The thought of it satisfied and scared me at the same time.
She leaned close enough to kiss, and then looked me in the eyes. “Are you a real biker?”
Her outspoken nature would normally cause me tremendous grief. For some reason, however, I found it intriguing. The problem with my dick slowly began to resurface.
“Who says I’m a biker?”
“I heard one pull up earlier. I know the sisters didn’t ride it, and I’m pretty sure Larry didn’t, either. That leaves you and me. The bike I rode had pedals and didn’t have an exhaust so loud it shook the windows.”
“Yes,” I said, quickly going back to thoughts of her dress being hiked over her hips. “I’m a real biker.”
She leaned against the arm of the loveseat, crossed her legs, and then looked me up and down. When she did, her hair fell into her face. “So, Ghost Porter-Porter.” She swept her hair behind her ear. “When do you want to go for that ride?”
I chuckled. “Are you always so blunt?”
Her eyebrows raised. “I haven’t got time to be anything but blunt. I’ve got a busy schedule and beating around the bush is dumb.”
Taking women for rides on my motorcycle wasn’t on my to-do list, and it never had been. Considering the circumstances, I decided to make a minor adjustment to my standard policy.
“How about after the meeting?” I asked.
“Sounds great,” she said with a smile. “If you want to ride to Borrego Springs, we can cross another thing off my list.”
If things like going to Borrego Springs were on her list, it made taking a ride with a real biker seem like not that big of a deal. Suddenly, I felt unimportant and easily replaced.
“A trip to Borrego Springs? That is on your list?”
“Not Borrego Springs, specifically,” she said. “But holding a live rattlesnake is, and that’s the closest desert.”
I chuckled at the thought of her hunting rattlesnakes in sneakers and a dress that came to mid-thigh. “You’re going to hunt rattlesnakes bare-legged?” I asked, stifling a laugh. “That’s a good way to get bitten.”
“We’re all going to die sooner or later,” she said. “I’d rather it happened while I was having fun than when I was asleep.”
One week earlier, I was at a strip joint in Oceanside without a care in the world. Now, I was mentally planning my death and preparing to go rattlesnake hunting with a fearless Covergirl makeup model.
I’d always wondered what life would be like if I could truly throw caution to the wind.
Without warning, she lifted my hand and looked at my watch.
“Crap,” she said as she released my wrist. “I’ve got to get this meeting started.”
She stood and brushed the wrinkles from her dress. “Hi, I’m Abby, and I’m a survivor.”
“Hi, Abby,” everyone chimed.
Everyone but me.
I wondered what being a survivor meant.
If the doctor’s diagnosis was accurate, I’d have twelve months to find out.
85
ABBY
I had two major concerns if I chose to exclude hunting for a live rattlesnake from the equation.
My first worry was the motorcycle ride.
Riding on the back of Porter’s motorcycle was eye-opening. The trip to Borrego Springs was not at all what I expected. I anticipated being thrilled, scared, and excited. Those feelings were present during the two-hour journey but summarizing the experience could only be done with one word.
Liberating.
I had no idea I lived with constraints until I felt the freedom riding offered. We’d been parked for thirty minutes, and I yearned to get back on and go somewhere.
Anywhere.
It was going to be an issue of epic proportion if he wouldn’t give me a ride at least once a week. My mind was reeling with the notion of finding another real-life biker – in the event Porter chose to tell me to get lost after the rattlesnake hunting adventure.
The thought of Porter permanently ridding himself of me brought me face-to-face with concern number two.
Porter.
I was thirty years old and didn’t look a day over twenty-four. By my own admission, I was attractive. According to the masses, I was drop-dead gorgeous. I sided more with my belief that I was simply good-looking, choosing to dismiss the social media outbursts from frat boys with a hard-on for anyone with pouty lips and blood pumping through her veins. Nonetheless, my self-esteem cup was half-full, and it allowed me to see myself as mildly attractive.
I’d been single since I was really twent
y-four. It wasn’t a conscious decision I made. It was a direct result of my inability to find someone that was attracted to me for all the right reasons.
My lack of interest in men could have been a result of the volume of dick pictures that filled my inbox daily. If that was not enough of an eye roll moment, the chiseled ab pictures (that generally followed the dick pictures) caused me to skate through life attached to the belief that my righteously-minded male counterpart simply didn’t exist.
Dicks were ugly and only served one purpose as far as I was concerned. Using them as a greeting card was a surefire way for the sender to end up stacked in the ever-growing pile of men I graciously labeled as pigs.
I told myself when the day arrived that I truly found interest in someone, I’d open my eyes, close my mouth, and pay attention.
Without announcement, warning, or my permission, that day may have arrived. And, it brought an intriguing two-hundred-pound hunk of motorcycle riding man with it as proof.
The man of interest was standing at my side with his eyes locked on the base of a Crucifixion Thorn because he saw something. His left hand dangled loosely at his side and his right held a three-foot-long stick he’d picked up from the desert floor.
Porter walked – strutted was more like it – as if San Diego County owed him something and he was on a mission to get it. I was convinced if I sliced open his wrist that blood would not drip from his veins.
Confidence would.
He smelled like leather that had been sprinkled with a spritz of cologne twenty-four hours prior to his arrival. There was enough of a hint of the unidentifiable scent to do more than pique my interest. In fact, I wanted to inhale his aroma and somehow memorize it, recalling it at will any time I felt a desire to be aroused beyond comprehension.
His scent, manliness, and sheer presence had me an uncomfortable mess. Despite the dry desert’s one-hundred-and-eight-degree temperature, I was uncomfortably wet.
I was sure that most would find Porter intimidating. His muscular structure and massive size. The chiseled facial features. His high cheekbones, angular jaw, and the light scruff peppering his cheeks topped off his imposing presence.
I found him intoxicating.
His hazel eyes weren’t piercing or menacing. They were quite the opposite. If anything, they revealed all too much about him. When I peered into them, something unmistakable stared back at me.
Fear.
Seeing it let me know he was vulnerable. In my self-written guide to all things men, vulnerability was right up there with having a sense of humor, honesty, chiseled abdominal muscles, and a big ugly dick. Hot men who were vulnerable were exponentially hotter.
Therefore, Ghost Porter-Porter was en fuego.
“How’d you get the nickname Ghost?” I asked.
With his eyes fixed on the base of the bush, he slowly raised his left hand to chest height. He then balled it into a ham-sized fist.
The universal sign for shut up, Abby.
I looked at him – not hoping for a response – but expecting an explanation for why I needed to be quiet. Instead of speaking, he bent at the knees – slowly – until the leather-clad shoulders of his six-foot-plus frame were even with mine.
My eyes darted back and forth between him and the thorny bush that had become his object of desire. I saw nothing fascinating about it, only a few red berries and countless intimidating four-inch long thorns.
He remained statue-still, pointing the stick at the ground beneath the seemingly brittle branches. I searched the surrounding area and saw nothing more than sand, rocks, and an occasional twig. Convinced he’d become delirious from a combination of the brutal heat and blinding sun, I stood quietly and waited for him to collapse from heat exhaustion.
If he did crumble into a pile of dehydrated flesh, moving him would be out of the question. Unless he had water in saddlebags of his motorcycle, he’d die a slow, miserable death. The closest place to get a drink was miles away, and I’d be forced to walk through the blistering heat in search of relief. By the time I returned, the vultures would have every ounce of his two-hundred-plus-pound frame picked free of flesh.
I envisioned ripping a splined leaf from an agave cactus and squeezing the nectar onto his swollen tongue. After accepting a few drops of the bitter juice, he’d come back to life and look me in the eyes.
His sun-cracked lips would part, and he’d mouth the words thank you, Abby. Later he’d confide in me how he owed me his life. In true biker tradition, he’d show up at my home every Christmas with a fruit cake and a cheesy card, telling whoever happened to be visiting at the time about the day my problem-solving skills saved him from what was sure to be an untimely death.
While in my trance-like state, his right hand shot forward like a bolt of lightning. Startled, I jumped to the side. The rattling sound that followed gave hint as to what he’d been staring at while I became drunk with his scent and enamored by his looks.
“Holy crap!” I gasped. “Did you find one?”
“He’s under the stick,” he said, pointing toward the ground with his free hand. “Grab him behind the head.”
Holding a live rattlesnake sounded like a courageous idea. A brave stunt. Something I’d talk about for many years in the future. Heck, I’d planned on telling my grandchildren about it.
Frozen in place, I was hypnotized by the shaking tail of the venomous serpent. I stared at its angry body as it coiled around the stick like a speckled brown spring of scaled flesh, wondering all the while if I’d simply have to abandon item number fifty-six and admit defeat.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Well, are you going to grab him, or not?”
I glanced at the ball of fuming mad muscle that was wadded around the end of the forked stick and then looked at Porter.
“Or not,” I said.
It came out more like a question than a statement. I desperately wanted to strike item fifty-six from my list, and the opportunity had fallen in my lap. To do so, however, I had to risk my life. Even if the snake wasn’t poisonous, getting bitten by it seemed like a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
I assessed the situation.
Porter was an experienced snake hunter, that much was clear. Along with that experience, I expected he’d be versed in first aid techniques. I mulled over each step that would take place if I attempted to grab the venomous viper.
After I was bitten, I’d be flailing around like a beached shark. He would lie me flat on the ground at his feet, comfort me, and attempt to calm me. Using his massive hand, he’d brush the hair away from my face, peer into my eyes, and check the dilation of my pupils.
He’d whisper into my ear that a tourniquet would need to be applied, to prevent the venom from rushing to my heart. The tourniquet would be torn from the most delicate piece of fabric available, which was my dress.
Then, he’d need to tie the tourniquet between the bite mark and my heart. My upper thigh would be the most logical spot. Being the observant soul that he was, while securing said tourniquet, Porter would undoubtedly make note of two things:
One, that I was wearing a pair of red lace boy short panties. And two, that they – and my pussy – were dripping wet messes.
So, in summary, Porter would look me in the eyes, whisper in my ear, rip my dress to shreds, and then see soaked pussy. All while he was saving my life.
It sounded like a fool proof plan. With my eyes locked on the snake, I took the first step in starting the process.
“Where’d you say to grab him?” I asked.
“Right behind the head,” he said. “It’s the only safe place to hold them.”
I took a step in the snake’s direction. “Have you done this before?”
“I spent my childhood hunting snakes in Montana. Why?”
With my eyes glued to the snake, I gave a crisp nod. “Just wondering.”
“Slide your hand along the stick until you get to the snake,” he explained. “Grab it right where I’ve got it pinned down. Ho
ld it firmly, but not like you’re trying to strangle it.”
The snake’s head was pressed hard against the densely-packed sand beneath it. Furious for being torn away from a day of basking in the sun, its body was coiled tightly around the stick, attempting to constrict it to death.
My heart pounded against my ribs. What little moisture was in my mouth evaporated, leaving a big ball of unswallowable cotton-like yack in its place. Fearful of what the immediate future might hold, I took a step toward the snake, reached under the tree, and paused.
I looked at Porter. Not for direction or reassurance – I simply wanted to see him one last time before things went awry.
He was strangely calm. The half-assed smirk he wore told me he was at least mildly entertained. I snapped a mental picture of his strikingly masculine jawline, turned to face the snake, and did just as he’d instructed.
I expected slimy and slippery. Instead, I got rough and warm to the touch. I gripped the two-inch diameter piece of muscle between my thumb and forefinger and then gave Porter a blind nod.
“I think I’ve got him,” I exclaimed.
“You better know,” he said with a laugh.
I increased pressure on the deadly reptile’s neck. “I’ve got him.”
He lifted the stick. In turn, I lifted the snake.
Its body began coiling upward toward my hand.
“Shake it up and down,” he said.
Fearing that it was going to wrap around my arm and constrict me into submission before it sank its fangs into my sunscreen slathered flesh, I promptly filled with regret for having picked it up in the first place.
“Shake it up and down?” I asked, frantic that his only instruction made zero sense. “What does that even mean?”
“Like you’re jacking off your boyfriend,” he said, moving his fist up and down like he was stroking a two-foot-long dick.
Just before the snake wrapped around my wrist, I did what he said. Miraculously, the snake’s body straightened. A second or two later, he began to coil upward. I shook him again, and down he went. The third time he coiled, he seemed less interested in completing the task. I shook him lightly, and he straightened.
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