Chapter Ten
Nash
Her lips stay sealed while we drive, but I can feel her rebuke every time she looks in my direction. And every time she does look my way, it’s a battle for me to keep my own mouth shut. I want to tell her the truth — that that little shit Erick wasn’t giving up any other way than with a firm fist to the face — but it’s pointless arguing with her.
Why the hell do I care what she thinks? She’s my hostage after all.
Despite what she says, there’s no way I’m letting some limp-wristed bitch pull a knife on her. Or talk to her like that. A woman like her deserves better than a pathetic, disrespectful piece of shit like that bitch I left face-down in the hallway.
She deserves a man.
We’re miles outside of Chicago before she says anything. The city traffic fades away; the skyscrapers and condo blocks give way to the weirdly flat land of the Midwest, where the only defining feature is the straight line where the earth meets the sky.
Beautiful land for riding. I’m aching to get on my bike, where things seem simpler, where life feels freer.
“I still need to tell Maria I’m ok,” she says.
I look over. The fight’s left her. Something stirs in me, a need to do what I can to ease her pain. I reach back, into the duffel of her things I’ve got sitting on the back seat. I fish out her purse, set it on my lap, and find her phone. One eye on the highway, the other on the screen, it takes me a minute to find her friend on the contacts list and type out a message.
“That look alright to you?” I say, handing over her phone with the message I’ve typed out.
“No.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It says: ‘I’m ok. Going out of town. No need to worry. See you in a week or two. Don’t worry.’.”
“And? It gets the point across. What more does she need to know?”
“The only thing this message is missing that could make it even more of an ‘I’ve been kidnapped’ kind of thing is having the letters cut from a magazine. Also, there’s some spelling errors, too. Have you ever used a swipe keyboard? Or auto-correct?”
“I was in prison. I’m used to the push-button keys. Those make sense. I’m not used to rubbing on some screen like I’m trying to jack it off.”
I snatch the phone back from her, my thumb hovers over the screen, ready to type something new.
“What should it say?”
“Let me type it.”
“No, I don’t trust you not to send some kind message for help.”
“Well, I’m not going to let you send it for me. You’re not a woman, you’re not Maria’s friend, you won’t get it right. Besides, you shouldn’t be texting while driving — it’s not safe.”
“What part of these last twenty-four hours has seemed safe to you? You stabbed me, hit me with a bottle, and I’ve had a gun on you. Not to mention what happened to that shit-heel Erick.”
“Yes. Thank you for the reminder. Look, if we end up hitting some pedestrian, or killing someone just trying to get back home after work or whatever, we’ll be hurting someone that doesn’t deserve it.”
“So, you’re saying Erick might’ve deserved what he got?” I say.
“No. But maybe part of me, maybe, didn’t mind seeing that happen to him after he threatened me and, maybe, I appreciate you stopping him. Even though I would’ve rather it was non-violent.”
“You’re welcome.”
I know that’s as much of a ‘thank you’ I’m going to get. But it feels good to be appreciated.
“Now give me back my phone so I can tell my best friend not to worry that I’ve disappeared and gotten myself killed.”
I roll my head from shoulder to shoulder. Tension’s building in my muscles and I can tell this is going to be a very, very long drive. Worse still, I have to do it behind the wheel of this truck. If I had my bike, this would be a whole different story. Hell, I might even enjoy it. And the sound of the road would definitely drown out Houdini’s nagging.
“Just tell me what to type.”
“No. Give me my phone. Your text messages read like I’ve been kidnapped my a spasmodic baboon with dyslexia.”
“That’s a low blow.”
“I swear to God, I will seize the wheel and drive us into a ditch.”
God damn, she has spunk. I love it. She folds her arms over her chest. Fiery eyes, lips set in a frown, and her tits pushed out by her crossed arms.
My cock’s as hard as a stick shift right now.
“Shut up. You’re not getting this phone. Just make this easier on yourself and tell me what to say.”
There’s a click. Her seatbelt recedes and she turns to face me. “No,” she says, and she slides closer. Trouble and determination swirl in her eyes.
“Put your seatbelt back on.”
“No. Give me my phone.”
She lunges for it and I drop the phone between my legs and use my free arm to hold her back. She’s like a fucking rabid animal, clawing and scratching at me in some desperate bid to get her phone.
“Sit down and get yourself under control,” I say again, my voice rising.
This chick is insane.
And it’s fucking hot as hell.
She makes a dive for it, ducking under my outstretched arm, her hand darting for my leg.
I shift and the phone tumbles deeper between my legs. Her hand follows.
I grab her by the hair.
She grabs me by something else.
“That’s not my phone,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet.
Her hand doesn’t move.
“No, Houdini, that’s not your phone,” I say, matter-of-factly.
This doesn’t feel half bad.
“Are you hard right now?”
I think about changing her nickname to Sherlock.
“Great observation you made there.”
Her hand’s still in it’s place.
Every part of me feels like it’s on fire, lit up by her touch. It takes everything I’ve got to keep my focus on the road. But my mind is racing.
How easy it would be to pull her head down, to put her mouth to work on something other than arguing with me? She couldn’t fight it. I don’t think she even would — her hands are still there, her cheeks are flushed.
Fuck, looking over at her, I can see right down her shirt.
“You going to do something, sweetheart?” I say to her.
She looks up at me, startled. “What?”
“Either you take your hand off my cock, or you do something other than just hold it. Whichever is fine with me, but right now, this is the most pathetic hand job I’ve ever had.”
“I’m not giving you a hand job.”
She still hasn’t moved.
Her cheeks are redder than ever. I can’t tell if she’s paralyzed or what. Maybe she’s having some sort of stroke. She wouldn’t be the first woman to freeze up once they find out how much I’m packing.
“I am not giving you a hand job,” she repeats to herself.
“You’re not not giving me a hand job. The least you can do is move it back and forth a little. Here, let me help you out,” I say, reaching down for my zipper.
That sparks her back to reality.
She takes her hand back like my cock’s a cobra about to bite her. She sits up, her posture rigid.
“Give me my phone, please.”
“Just reach back between my legs and take it, Houdini.”
Her cheeks flush and she looks down between my legs. I shift a bit, moving, making my hard cock even more prominent against my jeans. If this is what it takes to keep her quiet instead of nagging me all the damn time, it’s fine by me.
Besides, she’s pretty cute when she’s embarrassed and angry. Rosy cheeks make her blue eyes and pursed lips pop.
“No, I don’t want to. I just want my phone, ok?”
“I don’t believe that for a second. You were pretty quick to get close to me back at the bar the other night. I’ll bet you’re still aching for a ride.”
“That was before I knew you were a kidnapping, violent felon,” she says.
“Don’t lie to yourself, darlin. You were so wet for it, I don’t think it would’ve mattered if I told you. You still would’ve hopped on my cock for a ride and I would’ve fucked every memory of that limp-dick you used to call a fiance right out of your pretty little head.”
“I have standards. And now I know you’re just some thickheaded criminal with this twisted delusion that he’s going to murder his way to getting his daughter back.”
That’s a line too far.
I glare at her.
“I’m a man who loves his daughter and you’re fucking right that I’m going to do whatever it takes to get her safe,” I say, then I pick the phone up from between my legs and toss it to her. “If I have to be a thug to do that, then I’ll be a fucking thug. She’s worth it, and there’s no way in hell I’m passing up the chance to be her dad. So send your fucking text.”
She fiddles with her phone for a second, then shows the screen to me. “Is that ok?”
I nod. “It’s better than what I wrote. Go ahead and send it.”
“Thank you. And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what I said.
“Don’t worry about it. Just send the text, Houdini.”
She presses a button and then puts the phone back on my leg.
“Thank you, Nash.”
It goes quiet. Miles and hours fly by through the streaked, dirty glass of the windshield. It’s been too long since I’ve put some real time in on the road.
Next to me, Roxanna curls up, rests her head against the door and drifts off to sleep. Every once in a while, she’ll let out this gentle snore that makes me smile.
I’ve had worse traveling companions.
We cross into North Dakota and I stare out at the endless miles of flat frozen nothing. A yawn rips my lips apart and my jaw pops. There’s days worth of driving to go, days worth of featureless terrain, days worth of this frustrating firecracker asleep in my passenger seat.
Some way on, a tiny dot appears on the horizon.
It grows closer over the course of a dozen miles, until this big, ugly, half-ripped-to-hell billboard comes into view. Dirty Hank’s Roadhouse – 42 1/2 miles.
It’s a risky choice.
Out here, we could be stepping into some other MC’s territory, and the name Dirty Hank sounds like he belongs in prison instead of anywhere near anything that’s going to go into anyone’s mouth, but — as the next billboard that comes by tells me — Dirty Hank’s is the only bit of rest we’re going to get for the next hundred and fifty miles.
Fuck, I hate the Dakotas.
Dirty Hank’s it is.