by Nicole James
We get a room in a motel off the interstate. It’s a budget place with doors that open to the outside. Our room in on the first floor, and Memphis can park the bike right outside. I’m sure he’s glad to be able to keep an eye on it.
We’re barely in the room long enough to use the bathroom before he jerks his chin to the door.
“Come on. Let’s get some chow.”
I follow him back out to the bike, my ass sore, hoping we don’t have far to go. We ride into town, and find a small diner on a cute Main Street with diagonal parking.
Dismounting and stashing our helmets, we step up onto the sidewalk. A folding sandwich board outside lists the night’s specials.
Memphis holds the door for me, and a bell over it tinkles as we enter. There’s a long counter with spaced-out metal stools attached to the checkered linoleum floor. A few locals in ball caps look up. The Royal Bastards cut draws some attention, but mostly the sparse crowd pays us no mind.
A cook calls up an order as Memphis lays a hand on the small of my back, and guides me to a booth by the window. The cushioned red vinyl lets out a whoosh of air as I drop into it. Memphis does the same across from me. He grabs the laminated menus stuck behind the condiment caddy, and passes one to me as a waitress comes over with a pot of coffee. Upside down cups sit in saucers on the table.
“Coffee?” she asks holding a glass carafe up.
“God, yes,” I say, turning my cup over.
Memphis does the same, and she pours the steaming black liquid. It’s rich aroma carries to me, and I inhale deeply.
“Nirvana.” I smile up at her.
She grins, taking us both in. “Are you ready to order?”
I glance down at the menu, scanning usual diner staple.
“What’s good?” Memphis asks.
“Tonight’s special is spaghetti, and it’s not bad.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I hate the stuff.”
“Well, the meatloaf is delicious.”
“Sold.” I push the menu to the side.
She looks at Memphis. “And for you, darlin’?”
“Same.”
She moves off and I look over at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who hates spaghetti.”
“It was a cheap meal I got served a lot as a kid. It’s amazing how bad it can be when its just pasta and cheap tomato sauce.”
I take a sip of coffee, feeling the need to change the subject to something less depressing. For a diner, the brew is surprisingly good. “Umm. That’s good coffee.”
Memphis pours some sugar in his and stirs it, then his eyes flick up to mine. “You sore?”
I grin. “Some.”
“Second day’s always the worst.”
“Is that so?”
“Yup. You should probably take some painkillers tonight. It’ll help you sleep.”
I yawn. “Don’t talk about sleep.”
He chuckles, and lifts his cup of coffee. “Drink up, then.”
A group of children skip past the window, balloons in their hands. Their parents follow, a sleeping toddler in the father’s arms, a bag of cotton candy clutched in his little hand. I lean closer to peer down the street the way they came, and spot the lights of a Ferris wheel between two buildings. “Oh, wow. Check it out; there must be a carnival in town.”
Memphis leans to the glass, and follows my gaze. “Yup. Looks like it.”
“I used to love going to the carnival when I was a kid. One would come to town every Fourth of July. My favorite ride was the Scrambler. How about you?”
“How about me what?”
The waitress comes back with two plates, sets them in front of us, and pulls two wrapped silverware sets out of her apron. “Need anything else?”
We both shake our heads, and begin unrolling our silverware. Once she leaves, I lean toward Memphis. “Which ride was your favorite?”
He forks off a piece of meatloaf, and shoves it in his mouth, meeting my gaze. “Don’t know. Never been.”
My mouth drops open. “You’ve never been to a carnival?”
“Nope.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
I frown. “Why not?”
He shrugs, not answering.
I press him. “But surely the carnival came to your town, right?”
“Sure, it came.” He pushes the food around on his plate, avoiding my gaze.
“Then why didn’t you go?”
His eyes lift to mine. “You want the truth?”
I nod, but pull my head back, my smile faltering, suddenly not sure I actually do.
He stabs another piece of meat, and drops his eyes to his plate. His other hand forms a tight fist, and I can see the tension running up his arm.
“I grew up in a series of foster homes. None of them were the kind that took us to carnivals. Probably didn’t have the money if they’d wanted. Pretty sure they used what the state gave them to pay their mortgage. They for sure didn’t use it for toys and fun outings for us.”
My heart breaks with every word that falls out of his mouth, but I can only key in on one word. “Us?”
“My sister and me. Well, until they split us up. Then I bounced from one group home to another.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
He puts down his fork, and takes a big slug of coffee, and then, almost like the java fortifies him, his gaze meets mine. “For what?”
He suddenly sounds like we’re talking about anything else but his sad childhood. I want to answer, but anything that comes out of my mouth right now will be wrong. I have a million questions, but I feel like I don’t have a right to answers. Our relationship is too new. But maybe there is something that I can do. I glance out the window toward the lights of the Ferris wheel.
“When we’re through eating, can we go? Everyone needs to experience a carnival ride, at least once in their life.”
“Babe, I don’t need you tryin’ to make up for shit in my past. It’s done.”
“I know that. Can we go anyway? Please.”
He glances around the diner.
“They have funnel cake,” I say in a singsong voice.
“You’re not gonna drop this, are you?” His gaze returns to mine.
I grin. “Nope.”
After we eat, and Memphis pays the check, we wander down to carnival. It’s dark now, and the lights are festive. Cheerful music is piped through speakers. The smell of corndogs, popcorn, and cotton candy fills the air. Happy kids race past with hands full of ride tickets.
I move closer to Memphis to avoid being rundown, and feel the warm skin of his forearm brush against mine. It feels completely natural as I take his hand and lace our fingers together.
He doesn’t fight it like I thought he might, instead his grip tightens briefly around mine. I like it—holding hands with this man. It’s such a simple thing, but it fills me with happiness and a certain degree of wonder at this simple happiness flowing through me.
Carnival calliope music flows out of speakers as we pass the rides. The Tilt-a-whirl has a line, and so do the bumper cars. We pass the kiddie section with its Whirling Teacups, Flying Elephants, and Caterpillar Roller Coaster. I pull him to a ticket booth, and we get enough for two rides. Then I drag him over to the Ferris wheel.
He frowns. “Thought you wanted to go on the Scrambler.”
I shrug. “I changed my mind.”
He looks up at the tall structure. “You sure?”
“Please?”
“All right.”
We watch as a mother and two small children load in front of us. The carnival worker starts the wheel again, and several swinging chairs swish past, before he stops it for us with a press of his foot on a pneumatic pedal.
We board a blue chair, and he swings the metal safety arm down with a clank. A moment later, we’re moving backwards, and then we start the climb up the big wheel. The ground falls away below us as we rise above the treetops, and the lights of the town come into view. We ca
n even see the distant traffic crawling along on the interstate. We come to a stop at the top as he loads more people.
“Wow. Look how far we can see,” I say.
Memphis is quiet beside me, and I look over to see his fists tight on the bar, and his gaze on the ground below.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper.
“What?” His eyes dart to mine. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re afraid of heights.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I arc a brow, and call his bluff, leaning forward to swing the chair.
He grabs my arm in a tight grip. “Knock it off.”
I stop immediately, sorry for tormenting him. “Why didn’t you just say you didn’t want to go on this ride?”
“And be called a chicken-shit? No way. If you can ride it, so can I.”
We begin to move again, slowly circling down and around. The ride is picking up speed now, and the attendant is no longer loading more chairs.
Beside me, Memphis lets out a slow breath, and I can see him physically relaxing back. As long as we don’t stop at the top, he seems fine with it.
A few more rotations and the unloading begins. We pause a few chairs above the attendant. We can see the crowd milling about. I spot a vendor and point. “Oh, cotton candy. Have you ever tried it?”
“Nope.”
Our chair swings down to the ground, and the attendant unloads us. We tromp down the plywood ramp to the grassy dirt, and I pull Memphis toward the vendor. The small stand is lit with bright lights. A woman swirls a paper cone around the spun sugar, forming a pale blue puffy cloud of sugary goodness. We get one to split.
“What is this stuff?” Memphis asks.
I tear off a piece, and hand it to him. “Spun sugar. Try it.”
“Sweets aren’t really my thing.”
“Everybody has to try it at least once.”
He pops it in his mouth, and grins. “It melts.”
I smile back. “That’s the best part, feeling how quickly it disappears.”
He tears off another hunk, and tries it again. “I see why the kids love it.”
“It’s awesome.” I take a bite, and enjoy the flavorful sweetness dissolving on my tongue. Memphis smiles as I moan in pleasure, and I love the way he’s looking at me.
“Are you having a sugar high?” he asks.
“That’s the best kind.” I hold it out to him, but he waves it off.
“No thanks. I’ve experienced it. You finish it.”
“Okay. Not gonna argue over hogging it all.” I smile, and lift my chin. “We still have tickets left. You pick the next ride.”
He glances around, then takes my hand, and leads me through the crowd. I devour half the cotton candy, and toss the rest in a nearby trashcan as we arrive at a ride. I look up.
“The Scrambler.” I slug his arm, cuddling close. “You don’t have to pick this just because of me.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then I’ve always wanted to know what that one’s like.” He points, and I follow his gaze to the Funhouse with its entrance shaped like a gaping clown’s mouth.
“Oh, you’re gonna love it.” I drag him that way.
A bored attendant takes our tickets at the entrance, and we go in. Immediately inside the clown’s mouth is a rotating barrel we must walk through.
“Whoa,” Memphis says.
I start to lose my balance, and grab his arm, and we both almost go down. We make it through, laughing, and then climb a rickety metal staircase. It shakes and tilts, and I clutch the cold handrails, chipped paint rough under my skin.
I fall back against Memphis, and his tight arm encircles my waist.
“I’ve got you.”
Flashing strobe lights make it all the more disorientating. Recorded clown laughter with an underlying sound of machinery clanking and grinding, echoes through the tight passages we navigate like mice in a maze. Occasionally the air is rent by screams and laughter of other patrons.
We come to some twisting disks we must walk across, and then make it to the funhouse mirrors that distort our reflections.
The metal floor under foot is sticky with spilled drinks. Popcorn crunches beneath my shoes. A clown face springs out from the wall, and I scream. Evil laughter echoes as I dash on, Memphis right behind me, laughing.
We walk down another passage, and find ourselves in a room of mirrors, searching for the exit as the floor fills with fog from a smoke machine.
Finally, we burst outside into the fresh air, laughing and coughing.
“Want to go again?” I ask, grinning up at Memphis.
“Hell, no,” he replies, heaving in the fresh air. “Once is enough. That was trippy.”
He drapes his arm around my shoulder, and I burrow against him, holding onto his waist. It feels natural and good, and I want to stay this way all the way back to the bike.
Of course we don’t. As soon as the crowd thins out, he drops his arm, and I move away.
The ride back to the motel is chilly as the dewy air rolls over us.
We pull in, and dismount, and suddenly I feel like a virgin teenager. Maybe its because I know what’s coming this time. I know how good it was between us, and I’m already dying to fall on him the moment the door closes, but a part of me wants to play it cool. Perhaps because I’ve been hurt before, perhaps because I’m doing what I swore I wouldn’t do—I’m starting to get attached. Memphis is no longer just a hot-as-hell stranger. With every tiny piece of him that I get him to reveal, I’m getting closer.
Only problem is, I’m not sure I’m anything more to him than a task he’s been given, and that gets my back up.
We enter, and I can’t stop the words that come out with more bite than I intend. “So what happens after you deliver the MC princess home?”
He frowns. “Where the hell did that come from?”
I shrug, feeling like a bitch, but I suddenly can’t let it slide. “Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Depends on what the club needs. Seems I’m always getting called in for something. Might be Nevada, might be New Mexico, hell I don’t know.”
“I see.”
He cocks his head to the side. “What’s changed?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we were havin’ a good time. Now you seem pissed.”
I shake my head, and look away. “I’m not.”
“You sure about that?”
I take a breath, and close my eyes, deciding not to let my neurotic crazy thoughts ruin what time we have together. I open my eyes, and smile at him. “I’m fine. But I could be better.”
He cocks a brow suspiciously.
I walk to him, and loop my arms around his neck.
His hands land on my waist, but he studies me with a wary look.
I press my lips to his, tilting my head to the side and deepening the kiss. He goes with it, lifting me up with his hands on my ass, and taking me to the bed. He comes down on top of me, his weight feeling reassuring and thrilling at the same time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Memphis—
I kiss Lola like a man quenching his thirst; more is never enough. I eat at her mouth with soft, little kisses that I press gently against her lips, then deep, probing ones that barely let her up for air. I can’t decide which she likes better.
I want to drag this out all night, taking my time with her, because I know with every mile we ride we’re that much closer to the end of this, and I don’t want it to end.
I pull back and stand, then grab her hand, and lead her to the bathroom. I don’t let go as I reach into the shower to turn the water on, adjusting until it’s the perfect temperature.
When I turn back, she’s already reaching for the little buttons on her feminine blouse. I brush her fingers aside, wanting to undress her myself, unwrapping her like the gift she is. I realize women like her don’t come along every day. I realize how special she is. I also reali
ze I’m already addicted to her gorgeous body, and the gentle way she touches me.
I pull her blouse off, revealing her sexy new bra. It’s ice-blue lace, and pushes her tits up, serving them up for my mouthwatering pleasure. I can’t wait to get my hands on them, but right now I’m dying to see the panties that match.
I unfasten her jeans, and squat, tugging them down her coltishly long legs. The lace barely covers her, with several tiny satin ribbons that wrap around her hips. I pull the denim from her feet, and toss it aside, then turn her, my eyes taking in her ass in the barely-there thong.
I follow along the satin ribbon with the tip of my index finger, watching her skin pebble as she trembles at my touch. I lean forward to kiss one cheek, then turn her to face me. I press another kiss to her lace-covered pussy, as I hook my fingers and drag the panties down her hips.
She steps free, and I stand, pulling her bra off as well.
Lola is gorgeous. Perfection. And for tonight, she’s all fucking mine.
I watch her nipples pucker and harden under my gaze, and my pulse races. I draw her under the spray, and watch her body grow slick as the water sluices over her. I lather my hands, and run them over her skin, soaping her slippery curves.
My palms glide over her arms, her shoulders, and down to the hefty globes of her breasts, giving them special attention. She moans, and when my fingers roll over her engorged nipples, she gasps, thrusting them into my touch.
I trail my hands down her hips and tummy, and I turn her, pulling her against me as I dip my soapy fingers between her legs, spreading her pussy lips and massaging her.
She whimpers.
“You like that?” I murmur at her ear, biting the lobe until she answers.
“Yes, God, yes.”
She rubs her ass against me, and my hard dick presses against the crack of her ass, the head bobbing against those dimples at the base of her spine.
My fingers roll over her hard little clit, and Lola cries out, gasping in need.
I grab her jaw, and turn her face, my mouth crushing to hers. She moans into me as my tongue delves deep.
I rub her clit in slow, deliberate circles, and then move faster as she responds, bucking against me, her hands clinging to my arms.
