Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) Read online

  “What would Daddy say, Mom?” he asked with disgust thick in his voice. Turning to walk out of the house, he took three trash bags with him to the dumpster down the street.

  7 -

  Riding south

  Sitting on the bike, Andy watched the tractor-trailer rigs drive in and out of the truck stop outside Colorado Springs. It was an ever-moving kaleidoscope of truck types, logos, and colors, the big vehicles weaving up and down the aisles between parking spaces.

  He’d been on the road for a dozen weeks, and was back to looking for work. If he could find a safe place to park the bike, he could probably pick up a few bucks unloading trucks. He’d been doing lots of different odd jobs since leaving Wyoming; nothing paid great individually, but if you did enough jobs, the money piled up. He simply had to work harder to get the cash than he’d expected.

  He’d found that the oilfields weren’t hiring inexperienced hands, and since you couldn’t get that experience without working—which you couldn’t do without experience—well, that severely limited the opportunities to break into that area.

  So, Denver had been a bust, but he’d talked to some ranch hands and backtracked north by a couple hours to a small town off the interstate. Sitting on a bucket in a feed store there, he had introduced himself to several ranchers in the area, and was able to pick up a variety of jobs. Those ran the gamut: fixing a bunkhouse roof, stretching five miles of fencing, seining a stock pond for turtles, digging irrigation ditches, and stacking tons of square hay bales into a hayloft.

  He’d been a sheepherder for a day on a ranch northwest of Denver, which wasn’t a bad gig. That had lasted until the second day, when they were supposed to dip the sheep prior to shearing in order to kill any parasitic hitchhikers they’d picked up in their wool.

  A deep channel with cement walls and a fence served for the dipping process. The fence ran along the inner edges of the structure to create a funnel. The ranch hands filled up the channel with the potent dip solution as if it was an artificial pond, and then began driving the sheep between the fences and into the dip.

  Andy had watched the sheep wading into the chemicals and realized that a few of them were climbing on the backs of the herd to escape it. “Hey,” he shouted at the lead hand and pointed.

  The guy nodded and rode his four-wheeler over. “See the railing? Stand on the cement inside that, and walk on top of the sheep to push them under,” he yelled and roared off on the equipment.

  Andy looked after him like he was crazy, but he wanted the job, so he edged closer. Swinging one leg over the railing, he held it in a white-knuckled grip, sliding his other leg over and leaning back against the rail. Tentatively reaching out with one foot, he shoved down on the back of one floating sheep. It went under quickly, and he gave himself a little air punch of victory.

  That was his first undoing, because he lost his grip and his feet slid off the cement into the dip. His legs were pushed against the wall by the bodies of the sheep, and he felt his boots filling with dip. Pulling them back up, he grabbed the railing with both hands again, disturbed by the smell now coming from his lower legs.

  Cold, wet, and smelly—that sounded like an ad for his last girlfriend back home, he thought and snorted. Seeing a brave sheep moving his way, one that had almost totally gotten itself out of the dip by climbing onto the back of fellow sheep, he primed his pushing foot. Just as the sheep got to him, it launched itself sideways onto the back of yet another sheep.

  “Walk across there and push them all under,” he heard from behind. He looked around in disbelief, but it was the lead hand again. “Walk them sheep, boy.” Holding the railing with one hand, he shook his head but stepped out onto the back of a sheep, pushing it down into the dip.

  He took a soggy step, and then another one, his footsteps absorbed by a combination of more than a half-dozen inches of saturated wool and bodies of the individual sheep trying desperately to get away from his weight on their backs.

  Looking back, it was probably an inevitable conclusion to the exercise, and maybe even laughable that he hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe at some point in the future he could tell the story humorously. Maybe.

  He’d taken a step outward, and the sheep simply wasn’t there. It had juked on him and avoided his big platter-sized foot. His foot and leg went down into the dip, and continued to go down. His other leg bent double and found no resistance to push against in order to help keep him upright.

  Then suddenly, there were hooves climbing his back, pushing him underneath the dip. His hand was ripped away from the railing, and he barely had the presence of mind to take a big breath before he went under, closing his eyes and mouth tightly.

  Those sheep and their hooves pushed him to the bottom of the channel, but his knees hitting cement reminded him that it was not deep, so he unfolded to stand upright. Reaching out blindly to find the railing again, he pulled himself up to the cement ledge.

  Holding onto the railing with one tight hand, he tried to shake the dip from his hair and use the side of one hand to scrape the thick liquid off his face. Oh God, he couldn’t open his eyes yet; this shit would surely blind him. He couldn’t open his mouth either; he’d die if he swallowed this crap.

  He pulled himself over the railing, getting away from the dip channel entirely. He was bent over, shaking his head violently back and forth when he heard the four-wheeler driving closer. “Goddammit, boy, did you fall in the dip?” came the terse question.

  He nodded, still unwilling to open his mouth. Struck from behind, it felt like the man had rammed him with the four-wheeler. He was scooped up, with his butt up near the storage shelf on the front of the vehicle and his back wedged tightly against the handlebars. Andy held on to the metal mesh of the shelf with his fingers, nearly losing his grip a dozen times, only saving himself from falling off by sheer determination.

  The four-wheeler came to an abrupt stop, and he tumbled forward into the dirt. Raising his head, he strained his eyes open a hairsbreadth to squint through his lashes just in time to see a hand reaching down to grab his collar. Dragging him ignominiously across the open area in front of the bunkhouse, the man dropped him into the cement gutter of the outside shower and cranked the water on full.

  Andy scrambled to his feet, pushing his face up into the water, sputtering it out of his nose and mouth as he scrubbed frantically at his face, trying to get the cloying dip off him.

  “Here, take this, son,” came a gruff order, and he automatically reached out his hand to feel a bar of soap being pushed into it. He grunted in appreciation and raised the bar to his face, only realizing that it was a rough, scrubbing detergent soap after it had scratched his face raw and started burning. He squinted through his lashes again, making a thick lather to attack his hair.

  He was rinsing out his hair when he heard, “Strip, son. Get those clothes off before it burns your tender bits crispy.” Nodding his head and squinting out of eyes that were only slightly more open than before, he toed off his soaked boots and then stripped off his shirt, socks, and jeans, standing naked in the water now.

  After an additional ten minutes or so of lathering and rinsing his whole body several times, he realized the water was—and had been all along—colder than fuck, and he stepped out of the shower, turning off the faucet. Goddamn, his balls were trying to crawl up into his belly; he was that cold. He hoped he’d gotten all the dip off, but the smell was up in his nose so badly that he wouldn’t be able to tell by smell.

  Covered in goose bumps, his eyes tearing, he looked at the man who had helped him. “Never had anyone fall all the way in before,” the man said, shaking his head. “You gonna be sick, boy? That’s some powerful stuff; I’ve seen it burn through leather gloves.”

  “Not gonna be sick, but I don’t think I want this job anymore,” was Andy’s retort through chattering teeth as he gathered up his wet and smelly clothes and footwear. “I’m pretty sure that’s the last time I want to do that job.”

  The man had laughed as
he watched Andy walk to the bunkhouse. “Good idea, son.”

  Sitting at the truck stop now, Andy swore he could still catch whiffs of the chemicals every time he moved. Wait a minute…there…his patience had paid off; one of the trucks pulling in had to be fully loaded by the way it moved on its springs, and the driver had looked his way—a clear sign he was hoping to hire a helper. Andy half-waved a question at him and received a chin lift in return. Now he needed to find a safe place to park the Indian for a few hours.

  Later that evening, he checked in with Jen, a waitress, to thank her for helping him. She had let him park the bike in a locked storage shed out back of the truck stop. Smiling coquettishly, she asked him if he’d give her a ride when she got off her shift, and he shook his head and said, “I don’t have a second seat, baby, sorry.”

  She grinned at him. “Who said I was talking about the bike? I’m off in ten minutes; meet me by the truckers’ showers.” She patted his cheek, turned, and walked away, her ass swishing with every step.

  He was waiting by the showers in five minutes with a towel and a key, because whether she showed or not, he needed a shower. Hearing the clip-clop of heels on the tile hallway, he looked up to see her sauntering towards him, taking off her apron. She squealed a little as he reached out to grab her by the waist, and then he quickly unlocked the door and pulled her inside.

  Wrapping his arm around her, he held her tightly, her breasts crushing against his chest. He dropped the towel and key on the bench inside the door, and raked one hand through her hair; he used that grip to angle her head back, which allowed easy access to her throat as she gasped and groaned. Sliding his other hand up the column of her throat, he wrapped his fingers around her neck, and then moved to cup her jaw, rubbing his thumb across her lips. Nibbling and lightly biting along her throat, he used his grip on her hair to control her movements, twisting her head back and forth to ease his access.

  He leaned her hard against the wall and pushed her skirt up to her waist. Angling himself into her, he bent his knees and rubbed his erection against the thin fabric covering her cunt, pushing and stretching her panties. Her hands were wandering over his body, and it was distracting, because he didn’t know if she was going to pinch, scratch, or stroke, so he caught her hands in his and pulled them to the wall above her head. “Leave ‘em there, baby,” he growled out.

  He moved one hand to stroke up the back of her thigh, flirting with the elastic edge of her underwear. Slipping a finger underneath, he dragged his hand around her leg to the inside of her thigh and his goal. She wasn’t wet yet, so he was careful as he slid his fingers along her folds. He flicked her clit with one fingertip and heard a quick intake of breath, then a groan when he grasped it lightly between thumb and finger, rubbing and pinching.

  He focused back on her neck, kissing and pressing his body against her. His hand left her hair, sliding down her side, where his thumb brushed the underside of her breast and found her hardened nipple. Putting his mouth over her breast and on top of her clothes, he mouthed and sucked, nipping and biting. Finally feeling her slicken below, he slipped one finger deep inside her, capturing her groan in his mouth and eating it down.

  He added a second finger and stroked slow and long, allowing the heel of his hand to press hard against her clit with every movement. Her kisses were more frantic now, and he was waiting for her to break the honor bondage position in which he’d placed her. Just another minute or two, he thought, and then smiled when he felt her fingers run through his hair and down his back.

  He froze in place, quickly pulling his fingers out of her and his mouth off her breast. “Baby, I told you to leave your fucking hands where I put them,” he snarled at her, forcing himself not to smile when she quickly put her hands back up against the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” was her breathless reply. “I wanted to touch you.”

  He nodded, putting his mouth back down beside her nipple, saying, “I know.” He took her breast back into his mouth as he pushed three fingers deep into her cunt. She seemed open and trainable, and if he was going to be around here for any time, it would be good to have someone who was willing.

  ***

  Andy fell over onto his back, breathing heavily. He reached down casually and stripped off the condom, tied a knot in it, and dropped it onto the floor beside the bed. He closed his eyes, forcing his breath into regular rhythms, bringing his racing heart rate down. Sighing, he jumped when he felt fingernails trailing up the inside of his thigh. “Jen, baby,” he used an intentionally discouraging tone, “I’m done for now.”

  He refused to let his lips twitch when he felt the hand remove itself hastily. He had a private policy of no cuddling after fucking; it kept the emotional bullshit to a minimum. No cuddling included those slow, sensual touches that women liked after sex. He didn’t like to be touched period outside of actual fucking; it made him feel too vulnerable and he couldn’t afford that, ever. Look what vulnerable had done to his mother, for fuck’s sake.

  Opening his eyes, he looked around the efficiency apartment and scoffed at himself. Efficiency was a stretch, because what it really meant was a weekly-rated, one-roomed hole with a hotplate. The bathroom was down the hall, shared with nine other apartments. It was still better than camping out in the field behind the truck stop, with a side bonus of keeping the truck stop hooker visits to a minimum. Once the lot lizards found out he was the one with the tent, they kept him awake almost every night trying to crawl into his sleeping bag.

  He’d been gone from home for months now, but when he talked to GeeMa a couple days ago, it sounded like Benny was still doing okay. Andy sent home as much money as he could every month, and she had said that everything she didn’t spend on Ben was going into a savings account. Andy wondered to himself if she was simply socking everything away, but he couldn’t make her spend the money, at least, not from here.

  Unloading trucks was hard, physical labor, but it paid well. Unfortunately, it wasn’t steady work, and was only available as long as there were trucks that needed unloading. He could manage five or six loads a day, and depending on the piece count and the weight, he could make between fifty and a hundred dollars per load. Working like this had kept his body in shape, and his arms and back were better defined than ever in his life; he silently flexed his arms as he laced his fingers together behind his head.

  The apartment cost seventy-five a week, but he felt that a locking door and sleeping surface that wasn’t covered by rocks or sticks was worth it. For now, he thought, and acknowledged he was starting to itch for the road again. It was that way every time; he’d find something that seemed semi-permanent, and then he’d want the wind in his face and new sights to see.

  He’d need to change the oil in the Indian, and pack his pannier bags with some food and water. If he headed into southern Colorado, it wouldn’t do to get caught without water. Maybe he’d go west from here, into the mountains proper. He’d like to see the scenery, and imagined the roads would be perfect for a bike. Musing, he thought he should pick up some kind of map so he could figure out his gas stops.

  Might as well get it over with, he realized. The way his mind was leaning, he’d be leaving in the morning, and he didn’t want Jen to look for him. He wasn’t a total dick; at least, he hoped he wasn’t. “Baby, we’ve had a fun time,” he started, “but I’m headed west in the morning.” He rolled onto his side to face her in time to see relief wash across her face, and thought, what the fuck?

  She swallowed. “Okay, Andy, be careful.” She sat up on the edge of the bed, reaching down for her panties and skirt.

  “Jen, what the fuck? Am I an asshole or something?” he asked. Breaking his own rule, he raised his hand to trail his fingers down her back, watching as the shivers and goose bumps hit her at the same time. “Huh? Am I?” he prodded.

  She took a deep breath before standing to pull her clothes on. “No, Andy, you aren’t an asshole. You are a capable lover, but—”

  “Fuck me...capable?” he
interrupted her. “Capable? Is that right? How many times did you come today, Jen? Was it three, or four times?”

  She looked down at him as she continued dressing. “Oh, you are an exceptional fuck, Andy, but you aren’t ever here emotionally. As a lover, there is a lack of connection. Orgasms are great—don’t get me wrong—I like a good, big O like the next woman, but I also want the tactile sensations of running my hands over my lover’s body, during and after sex.”

  She shrugged, amused at his open-mouthed surprise. “I don’t mind a little dominance in bed, but there should be some give and take. I want to know my lover is thinking of me, not counting my orgasms in order to notch some stick.” She leaned over the bed, kissing his forehead. “Sometimes, it needs to be about the build, you know? It should be about the back and forth of the journey, not just the final destination. If life is only ever about the ultimate result, then it can be exhausting instead of invigorating.” She touched his cheek, cupping his jaw in her hand to kiss his lips briefly, chastely. “Be safe, Andy.” Then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

  “Fuck me,” he muttered, getting up to lock the door. Shaking his head, he flopped back on the bed, but tossed and turned for a time before sleep rose to claim him. His dreams were filled with unending roads, trees casting shadows and letting light through in turns, with something always just out of sight around the next bend.

  Getting up the next morning, he was ready in minutes, letting the front desk know he was leaving. He gassed and serviced the Indian, making one final stop prior to hitting the road. He pulled into the parking lot at the tattoo place and took a deep breath before walking inside. He’d wanted a tattoo for a while, but had been afraid he’d wimp out. Several hours later, he walked out with plastic adhered to his shoulder and his ribs, feeling pretty good about his decision to leave Colorado Springs, and also his choice to permanently remember the most important lessons he’d learned so far in life.