His response was cute and sad at the same time. I swallowed my pie and gave him my best sultry look. “What if there’s a woman and a pie in front of you?”
He opened his arms wide. “All of what surrounds him vanishes.” He gestured to the table. “Then, all that’s left is her and the five and a half pieces of pie she needs to eat.”
“Until she gets up and walks away. Right?”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You said a man can live the rest of his life without a woman as long as she’s not in front of him. Per your theory, when she walks away he’s left needing nothing.”
“That’s not what I said. I said a man could live the rest of his life without a woman in it as long as he wasn’t reminded of their existence. A smell, a sound, my wandering mind, the rear seat on my bike being empty. All those things could remind me of your existence. That reminder makes it impossible to live without you.”
I liked the thought of him not being able to live without me but didn’t particularly care for his analogy.
“You’ve got five and a half pieces of pie and one question to go,” he said. “You better get busy, or we’ll be stuck in rush hour traffic.”
I could have told him anything for the answer to question number three, and he’d never know the difference. Telling him the truth would leave me feeling incompetent and weak. I was sure of it. I hated admitting that there was something everyone else on earth seemed to acquire without much effort, and for some reason, I wasn’t allowed to have it.
“The task on my to-do list that’s likely to be accomplished last, if at all, is number two.” I poked the remaining piece of pie into my mouth and spoke over my mouth full of food.
“Fawn lub,” I muttered.
He scrunched his nose and gave me a funny look. “What?”
“Fawn lub.”
“If I spoke with my mouth full my grandmother would have smacked my ass,” he said. “Swallow your pie, Abby.”
I washed my pie down with a drink of milk and reached for another piece. “Sorry. Fall in love.”
“Falling in love is on your to-do list?” he asked.
I sloved half the piece into my mouth and nodded. “Yeth.”
“That’s cute,” he said.
I swallowed the wad of pie. “You think it’s cute?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“I think you’re cute,” I responded.
There went my mouth again, saying what my mind was thinking without giving me time to stop it. It was a common problem.
“Thank you,” he said. “But, I’m far from cute.”
“The grandmother comment made you cute,” I explained. “I can imagine her slapping your shoulder with the back of her hand.”
He laughed as if recalling a distant memory. “That’s exactly what she did, too.”
“Can I ask you three questions?” I asked.
He rocked his chair onto the rear legs. After looking me up and down, he grinned. “Sure.”
I hadn’t given it much thought, but I really didn’t need to. My ability to think on my feet had been honed to perfection from years of interviewing people for my weekly YouTube show. While I considered my questions, I devoured the remaining portion of scrumptious pie I held, and then reached for piece number four.
I peered beyond the piece of pie and looked him over. His arms were crossed over his chest. Veins stood out in his massive forearms, both of which were decorated with various tattoos. His muscular shoulders rose into his thick neck. A day of stubble peppered his angular jaw. He looked rugged, unapproachable, and handsome all at the same time. Beneath that hard exterior, he was kind. With each moment we spent together, it became clearer.
Porter was a walking contradiction.
I brought the pie close enough that I could smell it, and hesitated. “Okay. One, do you believe in God? If not, please explain. Two, what living person do you admire the most? Then, the last one. Have you ever been in love?”
His gaze went skyward, and then drifted around the small patio, not stopping on any one thing for very long. Eventually, he lowered the chair onto all four legs and looked right at me.
“I’m not convinced God exists. I won’t swear he doesn’t, but I’m not convinced he does, either. For now, I’m sticking with this: God is a good thing for weak-minded people to attach themselves to. It allows them to find something to believe in when they are incapable of believing in themselves. Religion is one huge farce.”
I wanted to go on a rant about his weak-minded people comment but knew not to. If a person of belief went on a tirade toward a skeptic or nonbeliever, it never ended well. I swallowed my desire and lowered my piece of half-eaten pie.
“I’m not religious,” I said. “I’m spiritual.”
A confused look washed over him. “What, exactly, does that mean?”
“I don’t go to church. I believe everything a church going Christian believes, but I don’t think I need to go to church to profess my beliefs. That’s the only real difference. Spirituality is religion void of church service.”
He nodded. “Always wondered what that meant.”
“Is there a reason you don’t believe in God?” I asked.
“Of all the shit we could be talking about, you had to pick this,” he muttered under his breath.
He looked away. It seemed he was considering giving a response. I reached for my pie, hoping my lack of prying would encourage him to explain. After eyeing the entire patio, he met my gaze.
“I didn’t know my father,” he said. “My mother and I lived on my grandparent’s ranch, in Montana. My grandfather acted as my father when I was young. He died of cancer when I was four. So, my grandmother stepped in as my father. She died of cancer when I was thirteen. My mother and I continued living on their ranch, with me taking care of all the livestock while she tried to keep the place picked up and presentable. She died of cancer when I was seventeen. So, there I stood. A man in a boy’s body, in charge of one hundred and sixty acres that did nothing but remind him that everything he once loved was lost. All to cancer.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, almost choking on the words.
“Explain to me what kind of God would do that to a little boy? Take everyone he’s ever loved, and leave him alone?” He rocked the chair onto the rear legs and folded his arms over his chest. “A heartless one?”
He was remarkably calm. I, on the other hand, was an emotional wreck. Hearing of his losses made me want to leap over the table and take him in my arms. Instead, I summoned my inner strength and suppressed my emotion.
“I can’t make you believe in God,” I said. “So, I’m not going to try. I’ll just hope that someday something will happen that might give you reason to believe.”
He cocked an eyebrow of disbelief. “What might that be? What would be so significant that I’d forget about all the death?”
“I don’t know. I do know how hard it will be for you to get through what you’re going through alone. Are your friends in the motorcycle club a good support system?”
“Brothers,” he said. “They’re brothers, not friends.”
“Your brothers. Do they provide support?”
He looked away. “They don’t know.”
My heart sank. He was going through cancer treatments alone. I couldn’t imagine how helpless he was feeling. In my mind, there was a reason for everything. At that instant, I believed at least one of the reasons Porter was in my life was to receive my unconditional support.
“I’m here for you throughout this entire ordeal,” I said. “I mean it. We’ll get through this together.”
“I’m pretty good at grieving alone,” he said. “I’m experienced at it.”
If we didn’t change the subject, I was going to start crying. “What about the other two questions?” I asked.
He cocked his head to the side. “What were they?”
“What living person do you admire the most, and have you ever been in love?�
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He lowered his gaze to beneath the table and stared for a moment. “Right now,” he said, looking up as he spoke. “I think I admire you the most. And, no. I’ve never been in love.”
I was flattered, confused, and, once again, filled with more emotion than I could handle. I mentally stammered to make sense of what he’d said.
“Me?” I coughed. “I don’t deserve that kind of admiration.”
“Beyond sitting in a meeting, hunting a rattlesnake, and eating together today, you don’t know me. But, you offered to help me through this. You earned my admiration with that offer.”
“Thank you.” I smiled. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”
His eyebrows raised slightly. “I’ll try not to let you.”
His lack of faith in God – and in mankind – was painfully obvious. I wanted to ask a question but feared the answer would do nothing but strengthen my belief that he had no faith in anything the world had to offer him. Eventually, my curiosity got the best of me.
“Why haven’t you ever found love?” I asked.
“I’ve never looked for it. In fact, I’ve done a pretty good job of avoiding it. I figured if I ever allowed myself to fall in love, she’d just be taken from me. We don’t get to choose our family, but we can choose who we let in our lives. If I don’t let anyone in, I don’t have to worry about getting hurt.” Wearing a long face, he gestured toward the pie, half of which was now gone. “Don’t worry about finishing that. You did better than I could have. We should probably look at riding back.”
Our perfect day had been transformed into one that was filled with sorrow. Despite the clear sky, a cloud of sadness hovered over me. I wanted to fix him but feared I couldn’t. Disappointed and depressed, I accepted defeat.
“Okay,” I murmured, reaching for one last piece of pie as I stood. “I’ll eat this on the way to the motorcycle.”
He reached for the pie and pulled a piece from the tin. “I’ll have one, too.”
He rose from his seat and tossed the pie tin in the trash. For Porter, it was just another day. For me, it was a day that would always be earmarked with sadness. Shoulders slumped, I shuffled around the edge of the table and to his side.
I wanted to touch him. To hold him. To explain that although I had no idea why he had been exposed to so much loss, I believed that everything happened for a reason. At that moment, however, I couldn’t fathom any reason that would call for him to lose so much.
We turned toward the street. Porter took a bite of pie. After swallowing it, he looked at me. His face was plastered with surprise. “This is good fucking pie.”
I was too busy wallowing in my sadness to carry on a meaningful conversation. My gaze dropped to the sidewalk. “It’s okay.”
He pushed against my shoulder, forcing me to turn and face him. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sad.” I bit off half the piece of pie in one bite. “Sad affuck.”
“Why?” he asked. “It’s been a good day.”
I swallowed the mouthful of pie. “Not for me,” I said without looking up. “I don’t like it that you’re so uncomfortable with life that you won’t let people in it.”
The index finger of his free hand came into view. He raised it to my chin, lifting it until our eyes met. Instead of continuing the conversation, which was what I expected, he leaned closer. In my sad state of being, I thought for an instant that he was going to kiss me.
And then. He did.
His tongue parted my lips. The sweet taste of syrup, pecans, and buttery pie crust tickled my taste buds. I closed my eyes. Starting at my feet, a tingling sensation ran through me, working its way up my body until I was completely encompassed by a sensation of euphoria.
I followed his every lead, kissing him in return. With a half-eaten piece of pie held loosely in my left hand, I pressed my right palm against the taut muscles of his upper back. Our chests collided. My heart faltered.
Sparks flew.
I wanted the kiss to last forever. We continued our embrace for an amount of time I couldn’t accurately describe. When our lips parted, it seemed that we’d been kissing for a lifetime. I drifted back to earth. A kiss had never transformed me into mindless ball of emotion, but that one did.
Elated, I looked at him admiringly.
My mouth opened slightly, but my mind was incapable of sending a signal to my tongue. While I tried to remember how to turn thoughts into discernable dialogue, he broke the beautiful silence.
“I just let you in. All I ask is this.” He swept my hair over my ear with a gentle finger. “Don’t hurt me.”
Gracious that he trusted me enough to allow me to cradle his damaged heart in my hands, I swallowed heavily, hoping to speak without revealing the mindless state he’d left me in.
“I won’t hurt you,” I breathed. “I promise.”
As we walked to the motorcycle, with him so close I could taste the sweetness of his pecan pie laced breath, I hoped like hell I was right.
90
Ghost
I’d walked into the kitchen hoping to find a piece of pizza in the refrigerator. While I rummaged through the leftovers, my mother sat down at the kitchen table.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Pizza.”
“I threw it out,” she said.
I spun around. “Why?”
“Because it was from Monday night.” She gestured to the chair across from her. “You don’t need to get sick.”
I noticed a plate of cookies on the table that weren’t there when I left for school. My mother often baked, and cookies were her specialty. I meandered to the table, lowered my backpack to the floor, and sat across from her.
“They’re oatmeal and raisin,” she said.
I searched my mind for what I might have done to warrant an after school sit down discussion. I’d been difficult to deal with since my grandmother’s passing, but not so much that a face-to-face with my mother was necessary.
I looked her over, hoping to find a hint on her face as to what the conversation was going to be about. Short of her long dark hair and natural beauty, I found nothing.
She was a tall woman, standing five feet and ten inches without shoes. Lean and as muscular as most farm workers, she seemed much younger than her age of thirty-seven years. Her youthful appearance and hourglass figure earned her MILF – Mom I’d Like to Fuck – status from most of the kids at school.
They said it in my absence. I needed to kick off my boots to count the amount of kids who got their asses whipped for saying they wanted to fuck my mother. Nonetheless, I’d often overhear a conversation where someone wanted to fuck Ghost’s mother. It never ended well for the person making the claim.
She reached for a cookie. “I just baked them.”
It didn’t take much coercing to get me to eat an oatmeal cookie. As my mother was aware, they were my favorite. Somewhat hesitant, I reached for the plate, still wondering what I did wrong.
I bent the cookie until it broke in two, and then met her hard-to-read gaze. “What did I do?”
She pinched a thumbprint-sized bite from the cookie and paused. “Nothing. I just wanted to have a talk with you.”
It was never that simple. My mother rarely stuck her nose in my business. When she did, there was always a reason for it.
“About what?” I asked.
“You’re sixteen,” she began. “We probably should have had this talk long ago.”
The sex talk.
She was going to have the sex talk with me over a plate of oatmeal cookies. I couldn’t tell her that Amy Betterman had given me a hand job in her dad’s truck, or that Shelly Pickert had sucked my dick at the end of sophomore year, just before summer break. I damned sure wasn’t going to let her find out that I’d shared half a bottle of Goose’s dad’s whisky with Patty Wilson, and that she let me fuck her in her back yard while we were half drunk.
The hand job sparked interest in having girls do what I’d already spent twelve
months trying to perfect. I learned that it was much more satisfying to watch a girl stroke my dick than do it myself.
Shelly’s blowjob opened the door for me to try and stick my dick in every willing mouth in Great Falls, Montana. That love for blowjobs got my dick into Patty’s very willing – and capable – mouth.
I found her insistence to swallow my spunk grotesque at first but was fascinated by it later. That fascination lured me to return day after day, while her mother was at work. Her willingness to suck my dick on any given day made her the perfect candidate for experimental sex.
The whiskey was more to boost my courage than to lower Patty’s resistance. She was willing from the start. When the deed was done, I left Patty in the wet summer grass with her panties around one ankle and an empty bottle of whisky at her side. Filled with guilt, I couldn’t run home fast enough to escape the cloud of shame that seemed to loom over me.
Her foul-smelling pussy left me wondering if sex was worth it. I spent a half hour in the shower trying to scrub the rotten residue off my dick, only to find out later that she had some sort of an infection.
Sitting across from my mother, I seriously doubted I’d ever have sex again. Blowjobs, on the other hand, were as commonplace as going to the movie theater, and I went to the movies quite often.
I situated my backpack but didn’t look up. “Is this about sex?”
“Should it be?” she asked.
Not wanting to make eye contact with her, I fidgeted with the bag. “No.”
“There’s nothing down there that needs your attention, Porter. Look at me when I’m talking to you,” she said.
I looked up. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re sixteen,” she said. “We need to have this talk.”
“I know about sex, ma.” As if it would save me from continuing, I poked both halves of the cookie into my mouth.
“Have you had sex?” she asked.
I chewed the mouthful of cookie, wondering if I should tell her about Patty. I wanted my first sexual encounter to be memorable. Something I’d talk about with my four half-brothers while we smoked cigarettes and drank warm beers. Instead, it was something I’d chosen to forget. It had only been seven months. It seemed like a lifetime had passed.
Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set Page 47