Chapter Three
Jacket
I must be riding like a deranged motocross jerk, gung-ho for the finish line. Numerous times I’ve pulled over on the side of the road and looked up at the ocean of black night sky, seeking answers to my crazed behavior. What the fuck am I doing chasing across six states to speak to a woman I don’t know.
Why have I been thinking of her incessantly since I last saw her six months ago?
Everything is coming in sixes which seems kind of hellish although I’m in no way superstitious. That’s another lie I tell myself because I developed all kinds of ritualistic little beliefs I hoped would keep me alive another day. Nothing too drastic or weird. Just the proverbial lucky charm shamrock – plus an amulet from a shaman in Colorado.
I should turn around but what for? I don't have anything more to go back to than I have in front of me. For some crazy reason that woman feels like home.
“Even if she does get married, seeing her again will be like a homecoming,” I tell myself. The only person I’ve spoken to in the last twenty four hours. Even the gas station monkey didn't have a word to say to me.
I’m not lonely. Maybe I should be.
Any of the psychiatrist types would assure me I’m on the path to destruction, living a solitary existence without a soul in the world to care whether I live or die. I don’t give a shit what they say. Can an individual be shoved into a box, tied up and labeled? I don't think so.
And it sometimes seems my lone wolfish lifestyle affirms that. I used to be completely at ease with breezing across the country, letting my two wheels take me where they would, hooking up with some very loving women along the way. But never for more than a night or two. The feeling of clamps tightening around me is too intense by the time I’ve fucked a woman a second night running.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t outrun that creeping sensation of entrapment. But recently even a one night stand has lost its appeal. I know I can still perform, my dick is constantly pressing at my pants in ravenous hunger. When I got worried at my loss of desire, I hit the first strip club I came on and ordered a private dancer.
The girl had long blonde hair, slightly straggly and looked nothing like – anyone I know. I could forget about Bella. The stripper slid down the pole in front of me and I sat back in my chair, stretched my long legs out and enjoyed the show. I love watching a woman take her clothes off.
The slower the better and this girl was great at giving a performance. She arched her back into all the provocative shapes as she slid a strap down each shoulder. She spun around and bent over, leaving very little unexposed. She almost coyly hid her exposed tits from me as she unhooked the clasp and threw the tiny bra to one side.
Then she whipped back around to face me. Reaching her hands above her head to entwine them around the pole, she slid down. Spreading her legs apart and using her heels to stretch her bared round cheeks, she pulled her slit further open for my gaze.
My dick was rock hard in my jeans. What normal man wouldn't be solid at a sight like that? And then she offered me more.
“I can make you a good deal, Soldier,” she whispered.
That made me startle, because how could she know? I wasn’t wearing any fatigues. I was way beyond that now.
“Some other time,” I gritted out.
She looked down at the furious bulge I was packing and licked the inside of her lip with the tip of her tongue. A sudden image of another woman, months before, making that same little tell of desire blasted into my head. But that woman did it without contrivance, or awareness of what she was doing. She wasn't trying to seduce me or tease me into giving her cash to fuck her. She simply couldn't hide the fact that she was attracted to me.
So big deal?
That sounds like I’m being an arrogant fuck but it’s just honesty. All women want to wrap themselves around me. Put it down to my taut upper torso and a flatter rack of abs than ribs on the grill. The girl from back then swirled up into my head again. A vision of innocence and sensuality and directness. My homecoming queen. There was no guile in her. She seemed natural and genuine and her body was smoking.
I’d have given anything to have seen her strip for me like this professional just did without a second thought. But she was rushing to a family funeral and stressed about her car breaking down. I’m not that much of a jerk to try to take advantage of her when she was in a tight spot. I can be a gentleman enough to help out a lady in distress. Even if I am picturing myself seated on my bike and her straddling my hips, her beautiful welcoming heat impaled on my thick cock.
Shit, I have to get this woman out of my head.
I clasp Candy’s or Lindy’s or whatever her name is hips and yank her onto my lap. She grins with more than a hint off triumph and throws me out of my reverie. She isn't that girl from before. That girl would never work in a strip club. No judgment on girls that do but that one was just too pure. Candy’s tits are swaying lightly in front of my face, the nipples doll pink and erect but up close I can tell they have that fake plastic look. She’s freeing my dick from my pants with an expert twist of her palm, sliding my burning heat into her grasp.
“Not tonight babe,” I tell her.
I got the rollicking abuse I’d expected but I didn't give a shit. I tossed down enough cash to shut her up and exited quickly before any more heat came down. I wasn't in the mood for a fight with strip club heavies although maybe it would have worked off some of my frustration. All I could think of was getting to a place where I could bring the vision back. The vision of the girl in my thoughts constantly.
I never had a sweetheart like some of the other guys in my unit. Like Stick with his Scherri. Even though those two weren't together then, the image of her face kept him stable and alive. Another one of those odd superstitions.
So I keep riding and remind myself every mile that I'm not heading back to my girl. This isn't a homecoming. This isn’t even the start of something. If this woman had a clue about how I’ve watched her on that Instagram site, she’d have me arrested for stalking. I tell myself I’m dropping by for a visit to my old buddy, Stick.
God knows that has the potential to be almost as fraught after what happened last summer. I shake my head, the longer curls at the back of my neck whipping with the wind. My helmet is strapped behind me. I trust that no cops are out in this desert at night and that they won’t ticket a vet if they are. Not for riding free in a wasteland.
Sometimes I ask myself if I'm a magnet for intense situations. They seem to draw towards me no matter what. Maybe I just read stuff wrong. But I’m sure Stick and I parted on good terms. Whatever rift had grown between us out in the desert when Soames was lost and inserted itself into our friendship like a weed growing up between paving stones, was healed by the connection to Scherri. Through Scherri. Fuck that’s one situation I hope I haven’t misread.
It’s dinner hour when I ride into town at last, tired and gritty from the road. I’m unsure what to do. It would be presumptuous to pull up at Stick’s house and ask for a meal and a bed. So I park at the seven eleven and head inside for a six pack. The cashier, bored of course, looks up from her phone and does a double take.
“Hi,” she simpers.
“Evening,” I husk.
Under other circumstances I’d have made a move. But not now. There’s something rubbing at the inside of my skin and I need to unleash it. But not on her.
I head down the aisles, looking for the beer. I’m striding fast with the need to stretch my legs that have been bent on one position for too long. I’m here now. I made it in two days, not the anticipated three. My insanely driven haste. I’m gonna – whoa.
I go slamming into an obstacle and a pile of dairy pots go tumbling to the floor. I look down to see my boots and the bottom of my jeans covered in thick white cream, as well as the pair of sexy high heeled boots on the pair of feet facing mine. My eyes trawl up and up the incredible curves I just ran into so hard they bounced right back off me. But not before my dick pricked up in interest.
“I’m so sorry about that,” the Angel before me says. “I just knew something like this was going to happen.”