Tattoo gave him a funny look. “Twice?”
“At least,” No Name replied. “Needs to be to her waist.”
Tattoo wagged the gun at me. “Dig, bitch.”
My arms felt like they were a mile long. “I’m too—”
“Dig,” No Name said, stepping between Tattoo and me. He mouthed the word please.
No Name’s apologetic look and one-word plea convinced me if I dug a waist-deep hole that the game would end. Fueled by a surge of energy that was brought on by the thought that a bottle of water, shower, and celebratory meal was surely on the horizon, I began to dig like I was being paid to do so.
I shoveled and shoveled, all but creating a dust storm in the process. After a few minutes, my energy dissolved to nothing. With heavy arms, wet shorts, and a foggy mind, I looked up.
In the distance, a dust devil blew. From my right to my left, it slowly moved along the horizon, growing in intensity as it grew closer. I watched it, wishing it would come close enough to provide a hint of a breeze.
As if it could hear my thoughts, it veered in our direction. Fascinated, I stared, wondering if it would dissipate before it reached us. It grew closer by the second.
Despite the clear blue sky, the sound of thunder crackled in the distance.
In the Tucson areas, it rained in the mid-afternoons, often for no more than sixty seconds. In that one-minute period of time, a torrential downpour would belch an inch of rain onto the desert. I gazed at the horizon, hoping the dust devil was the beginning of a rainstorm.
Equally fascinated, No Name and Tattoo turned to face the cloud of dust.
With the dust devil merely two hundred yards away and approaching fast, the thunder grew louder. Growing confused, I blinked my eyes.
It wasn’t a dust devil.
It was a motorcycle.
Riding ahead of the cloud of dust, Price blazed across the desert floor. His tattooed arms were outstretched to his ape hangers. His hair was blowing in the wind. Coming straight for us at breakneck speed, he jockeyed to miss the cactus, rocks, and sagebrush that lay between him and his destination.
My heart shot into my throat. Although anything was possible, I was convinced Price was my prince, and that he was riding in to save me. He rode not a galloping white horse with a flowing mane, but a steel stallion that glistened with chrome.
Finally, the sickening game was over. Tears streamed down my sunburned cheeks. I tossed the shovel aside and attempted to crawl out of the makeshift grave I’d been forced to dig.
The motorcycle slid sideways, casting rocks in every direction. Before he came to a complete stop, Price bailed off and stumbled toward me. His motorcycle came crashing down a few feet away, against a giant saguaro.
He leaped into the hole and lifted me from my feet. Holding me in one arm, he brushed my hair away from my face and looked me over. “Are you alright?”
Since my abduction, I’d known nothing for certain. In Price’s arms, however, one thing was crystal clear.
I was safe.
I was unable to speak. Overcome with emotion, I was breathless from blubbering. He needed to know I was strong. That I’d been shaken, but that I hadn’t cracked.
“I’m okay,” I said, lying through my teeth. I managed to offer him a crumpled smile. I needed to know where I stood. “Did I…I…did I pass?” I muttered. “I didn’t say a word. Not…” I wiped my eyes with the heel of my palm. “Not one, Price.” I blubbered a lifetime of emotion and tears of relief. Eventually, I caught my breath. “Snitches get stitches, right?”
He leaned away and looked me in the eyes. He seemed confused. “What?”
“I didn’t say…” I shook my head. “I didn’t…I didn’t tell them a word. They tried and tried to get me to talk, but I didn’t. Remember? You remember what I said? I’d rather eat crumbs with bums than have steaks with snakes.” I bit down on my trembling lip. “Did I pass?”
Seemingly overcome with emotion as well, he pulled me close to his chest. “Yeah.” He pursed his quivering lips. “You sure did.”
18
Price
Gray was convinced the kidnapping and mental torture was a test of her worth, organized by the club. In lieu of telling her the truth—which would have opened an entirely new can of worms—I opted to continue to let her believe it.
It was an easy way out of what could potentially be a very awkward situation.
I sat on the floor and admired her as she soaked in the tub. Everything beneath her shoulders was concealed by a layer of bubbles on the water’s surface. She reached for the edge of the tub and braced herself while sinking to her chin.
“You’re a little sunburnt.” I poked her forearm. The skin turned white where I’d touched it and then promptly returned to the same rosy tone. “Not bad, but you could use some aloe.”
She laughed. “That’s how you test it?”
“My aunt used to do that to me. She said if it took longer than three seconds to return to its color, you’re burned.”
“Am I burned?”
“A little,” I said. “Not bad, considering where you were.”
“You fuckers ought to come up with another way to initiate women.” She sat up a little. “Making them dig a grave in the desert is going to be a deal-breaker for most of them. Especially in the summer.”
I hated the thought of lying to her, but I felt I had no other options. To explain that Brisco was convinced she was a snitch who was working for the police—and that he intended to kill her to protect the club—would cause her to run the other direction. Losing her again wasn’t a chance I was willing to take.
“Yeah,” I said. “That was a bit harsh.”
She scowled. “Ya think?”
It may not have been my—or the club’s—intention to get her to do so, but Gray had proven herself beyond a shadow of doubt. Having been exposed to bikers for her entire lifetime, she applied a biker’s traditions, beliefs, and morals to her everyday way of living life. She was a strong woman, and she had proven that strength under tremendous pressure.
“When you’re done do you want to get some sleep?” I asked. “You’ve got to be exhausted.”
The corners of her mouth curled up just a little. “Can I sleep here?”
“If you want to.”
A full-fledged smile appeared. “How easy is it going to be to fix the brake lever on your bike?”
I bailed off my motorcycle as soon as I saw her. My motorcycle slid on the right side for thirty feet before crashing into a cactus. The rear brake lever and foot peg were bent all to hell.
“Pretty simple,” I replied. “I can bend it back with a Crescent wrench. It’ll just take a second. Why?”
“Can we go to town and get some tacos, and then get some sleep?” she asked. “Back here?”
She’d earned the right to get whatever she wanted. “You name it, we’ll do it”
She stood, slowly. She squeegeed the water from her sunburned arms with the web of her hands. “Can I have a towel?”
Her exhaustion was apparent. I gave her naked body a quick once-over, and then looked away. “Are you sure you want to ride on that hardtail to town? You look like hell. Not like hell. You look good. Damned good. Maybe tired. You know what I mean.”
She laughed. “Thank you. But you’re right, I feel like hell. I’m hungry, though. What other options do we have?”
I handed her a towel. “I’m sure I can come up with a few.”
She dried off and then stepped out of the tub, not bothering to cover up. She began towel-drying her hair. “Do you know where my car is?”
Her self-confidence—the fact that she was willing to stand before me naked and carry on a conversation as if she were clothed—drove me wild with desire. It wasn’t the time or the place for us to have sex, but my cock thought otherwise. Embarrassed by my lack of ability to maintain control over my male anatomy, I walked to the doorway and leaned against the wall. I lowered my gaze to the floor.
Regarding
sexual stimuli, I realized I was different in high school. While my friends were stimulated by photos of naked women or a glimpse of the plunging neckline worn by a top-heavy cheerleader, I could care less. Seeing a naked woman provided little, if any, excitement whatsoever.
My only interest in women was to have sex with them. At times, sex was a difficult task. Stimulation didn’t come easily, and often required acts of sadism on my part. I dismissed the differences between me and my friends as being a product of my exposure to my parent’s deaths, expecting I’d never have a conventional relationship with a woman.
Yet.
Seeing Gray naked had me embarrassingly stiff.
A person wouldn’t describe her as having the tits of a porn star, the ass of a gymnast, or the abdomen of an athletic trainer. She was normal. Being naked revealed no outstanding qualities or characteristics, other than the fact she was undeniably attractive.
I looked up. She was still naked. “I’m not sure,” I lied. “I’ll have to ask around. I’m sure we can have it back at your bar in the morning.”
If it hadn’t been burned yet, her Pathfinder was at Brisco’s. I had no intention of letting her know Brisco was involved in her abduction. Taking her to his house to recover the car would be a dead giveaway. If the vehicle had been torched, I’d deal with it accordingly.
“What about my purse?” she asked.
“I’m sure it’s with your car,” I said, hoping like hell it hadn’t been set afire along with her SUV.
If so, I’d buy her another.
“I hope my phone’s in it,” she said.
“Me, too.” I reached into my pocket. “I bought a new phone.”
She lowered the towel. “A smart phone?”
“No, a dumb one.” I showed her the phone, flipping it open and snapping it closed like it was a magnificent feat of cell phone engineering. I hoped fiddling with it would be enough of a distraction that the swelling in my pants would subside, but I had no such luck. “Little black flip-phone, just like my other.”
“You crack me up,” she said, facing the mirror as she spoke. “Only person in the entire state that has a flip-phone that’s not a burner.”
I laughed. “What do you know about burners?”
She nodded toward my hand. “I know they look like that.”
While guiltily admiring her naked body, I realized she didn’t have any clothes to wear. Her shirt was filthy and sweat-stained, and her shorts and panties smelled like a wet goat.
“How about this,” I said. “I’ll give you a tee shirt and a pair of shorts to wear, and I’ll make us something to eat?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “You’re going to cook?”
I needed to leave the room before I embarrassed myself. “I’m the only one living here,” I said. “If there’s any cooking going on, it’s done by me.”
“So, you cook?”
“I do.”
“Often?”
I shrugged. “A few times a week. Maybe.” I turned toward the door. “What do you want?”
“Tacos,” she replied. She rifled through a few drawers and then looked at me. “Do men have brushes?”
“Not sure about men in general, but I’ve got a few.” Mildly distracted by her nakedness, I handed her a brush. “Anything else?”
“Detangler?”
“De-what?”
“Tangler. It’s a spray that helps untangle your hair.” She lifted two handfuls of her wet hair by the ends. “Mine’s a mess.”
Her hair may have been a mess, but her perky tits made up for it. I shrugged one shoulder and considered looking away but couldn’t seem to peel my eyes away from her. “Not going to be much help with that one.”
She dragged the brush through her tangled hair. “I’ll manage.”
I couldn’t stop staring. If I stuck around, I was afraid I’d make a fool of myself.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. “I’m going to grab you something to wear.”
Seeming unaffected by her lack of clothing, she looked at me and smiled. “Okay.”
I got the smallest pair of cut-off sweats I could find, a pair of my boxers, and an old tee shirt for her to wear. I placed the folded clothes on the vanity at her side.
Laughing, she picked them up. “Good thing these shorts have a drawstring.”
“Why’s that?”
She held them at arm’s length. “They’d fall off if they didn’t.”
I grabbed her wet towel and dirty clothes. “I’ll throw these in the wash and start cooking.”
“You wash clothes, too?”
I detested washing clothes but needed to remove myself from the presence of a woman who was unknowingly teasing me. “I don’t have a choice.”
“I’m just not used to…” She waved her hand at me. “Never mind.”
I tilted my head toward the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
I tossed a skirt steak in the skillet, and sautéed some peppers and onions, hoping my creation would satisfy her taste buds and her hunger. I couldn’t imagine going through what she’d experienced over the past twenty-four hours. Imagining her surviving it both mentally and physically was difficult.
Her belief that it was nothing more than a game helped matters, I was sure. If she ever found out otherwise, it would change her outlook, no doubt.
She limped into the kitchen. “Smells fantastic.”
I hadn’t noticed the limp until that moment. “You’re limping.”
She reached for her ankle. “They tied my legs really tight. It cut into my ankles. I tell you what, they had me second-guessing myself for a while. I figured it was a test, but that guy with the tattoos on his fingers was doing a pretty good job of making me think otherwise.”
Her ankles were covered in a red rash. “I’ll get some ointment as soon as we’re done eating.”
I wanted to kill Chivo for what he’d done to her, but realized it wasn’t solely his fault. I told myself he was acting on the orders given by a senior member of the club, but it didn’t come close to dissolving my anger.
“Let’s not talk about it anymore,” I said. “How about that?”
“Okay.”
I gestured to the cabinet at my side. “Grab a couple plates? Tortillas are in the oven. It’s ready.”
Seeing Gray in my kitchen brought memories of evening meals with my aunt to mind. She’d raised me after my parents were murdered and stayed in the home until I was in my early twenties. I realized in looking at Gray how much I missed her company.
We prepared our tacos and sat beside one another at the kitchen table. After a few bites of my first taco, I glanced at Gray. She was devouring her food like a starving dog.
“Mind if I put on some music?” I asked.
“Mind?” she asked over a mouthful of food. She pinched what remained of her taco between her thumb and forefinger. “Not at all. I listen to music all the time.”
I walked to the mid-century credenza in the adjoining room and opened it. My father purchased it when I was a kid. We’d spent countless hours dancing and laughing while listening to music.
I pulled the Rolling Stones Let It Bleed album from the dustcover and placed it on the turntable. I set the volume at a moderate level and returned to the kitchen.
Keith Richards’ guitar introduction to the song filtered into the room. “Guess the album,” I said.
She looked at me like I’d asked her to add two plus two. “Let It Bleed,” she said. “1969. Brian Jones died when they were recording this one. Face down in his swimming pool.”
It amazed me that another human being knew as much about music as I did. I took my seat, hoping to hide my excitement at who Gray Forester was.
She bit off half a taco in one bite. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just enjoying another Saturday on this earth.”
“This song is so deep once you realize what they’re singing about.” She took a bite. “Rape, murder, war. Bobby Kennedy’s
death, Martin Luther King’s assassination. The loss of Keith’s girlfriend. He was inspired to write this song during a thunderstorm in London. He said he was looking out the window at the lightning and rain, and it came to him.”
“Every time I play an album, I think it’s my favorite.” I laughed. “Then, I play another and think the same thing.”
“The lyrics at the end.” She waited a few seconds and then raised her index finger. “Do you know what he’s saying?”
“That love is just a kiss away,” I said.
“Do you believe that?”
I had no idea if a man could love anyone beyond family, and all my family was dead. I still loved my aunt and each of my parents, but I missed the feeling of being loved in return. To think that a kiss could activate something inside a person’s heart that allowed love to blossom was a stretch.
A far stretch.
“I’m not sure,” I responded. “I think it’s a far stretch.”
“When we were in the bathroom, you said, ‘you name it and we’ll do it’, remember?”
She was right. I did say that. I nodded. “I do.”
She leaned forward, puckered her lips, and closed her eyes. “You think it’s a stretch? Well, stretch your sexy ass over the table and kiss me. See what happens.”
I did as she asked.
Feeling her lips against mine didn’t make me love her, but it was a damned good step in the right direction.
So, I kissed her again.
19
Gray
In the five days that passed since the incident in the desert, Panzer’s construction crew finished the kitchen. They kept their progress a secret by constantly feeding me false statements about equipment and materials being on backorder. After the crew pulled an all-nighter, Panzer surprised me with the news that an inspection had been scheduled for the following day.
I’d been at the bar since 5:00 am, frantically cleaning, tidying, and praying. Wiping the bar down for the umpteenth time in the past five hours, I looked up as Panzer came from the kitchen to the bar.
“Any luck?” I asked.
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