Goose

by Hildreth, Scott

  “No,” I murmured. “Not at all.”

  He pulled away. Slightly disappointed and a little relieved, I watched as he stuffed the rock-hard beast into his jeans and zipped his fly. After convincing himself that he was situated in a satisfactory manner, he met my wide-eyed gaze.

  “Since Ghost died, I haven’t eaten anything other than a couple of mouthfuls of pity, and a handful of sorrow,” he said dryly. “I couldn’t choke anything else down. Sitting in that diner, talking to you, I started feeling normal again. Not completely, but enough that I’m thinking I might be able to get through this. Right now, that half a hamburger’s worn off, and I’m hungry. So hungry it hurts.”

  He tilted his head toward the restaurant. “So, I’m going in there to eat. After we’re done, we’ll reevaluate this situation. Just know while we’re in there eating shrimp baskets and fish fucking tacos that the reason we’re in there instead of fucking is because I’m goddamned hungry.”

  He pressed the heel of his palm along the length of his cock. It did little to resolve matters. He looked like he was trying to smuggle a zucchini from Whole Foods without paying for it.

  He tilted his head toward the restaurant. “C’mon.”

  Eating, at least at that moment, seemed ridiculous. He was walking in with a raging stiffy, and I was so soaking wet I was uncomfortable.

  Men like him came along once in a lifetime. I planned on taking advantage of the situation as soon as he had a full stomach. For the time being, however, I had a point to prove.

  I hung my helmet on the handlebars. After getting off the motorcycle, I stepped so close to him my boobs were smashed against his chest. I pulled off my sunglasses and met his downward gaze.

  “Touch my pussy,” I whispered.

  With thin eyes, pursed lips, and not one ounce of hesitation, he reached between my legs. He tugged against the hem of my shorts. His hand slipped beneath my panties. A surge of excitement rushed through me.

  I held my breath, and his gaze.

  He slid his finger along my wet slit, and then inserted it knuckle-deep.

  A breath fluttered past my lips. I narrowed my eyes to mimic his. “Does that feel like I’m scared of you, Mister?”

  Standing on the sidewalk, thirty feet from the door of the restaurant, he finger-banged me to the brink of an orgasm.

  He paused. “Scared?” His finger tickled my inner regions. “I’m thinking not.”

  “Are you scared of me?” I asked.

  He cackled a laugh. “Not. One. Bit.”

  I gripped his wrist firmly and raised his hand to my face.

  His narrow eyes went wide.

  I sucked my juices from his finger. “Well,” I said, arching a suggestive eyebrow. “You ought to be.”

  5

  Goose

  Our motorcycle club was originally comprised of five men who became inseparable in elementary school; Baker, the club’s president, Cash, the club’s muscle, Tito, the computer and electronics expert, Ghost, our getaway driver, and me, the weapons expert.

  Together, we moved from Great Falls, Montana to San Diego at the age of eighteen. At the club’s inception, and still well within our youth, we added a sixth man, Reno. He was our explosives expert, a special forces veteran, and a hot-headed fool at times.

  Nonetheless, I considered him a brother.

  Our clubhouse was located in a three-story building that Baker owned. The basement was our garage. The first floor was the clubhouse. The second was Baker’s living quarters. The third, his office.

  Although many of the men liked to congregate in Baker’s office, I chose not to. Seeing him sit on the other side of the desk was a reminder that he had obligations that went well beyond our friendship.

  Being president of the club was only one of the many hats Baker wore. A self-taught financial wizard, he laundered the club’s illicit income and employed its members at car washes his aunt “owned” through a legitimate LLC.

  I preferred to think of him as a brother first and an employer second. Doing so wasn’t easy when I sat in his office.

  But, it was the only place I could find him.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

  He seemed jovial. I wondered if he felt the same sense of vacancy I’d been feeling since Ghost was killed by a drunken driver.

  “Got something I want to talk to you about,” I said.

  Seated in his antique leather chair, he pushed himself away from the desk and stroked his beard. “About the job in Bakersfield?”

  “Nope.”

  “Club business?”

  “Nope.”

  He reached for his phone. “Music on, or off?”

  Baker listened to music all day, every day. Although I often found it distracting, whatever he was listening to at that moment was soothing.

  Considering my plan, soothing was good.

  “It’s fine, for now,” I said. “Until something shitty starts playing.”

  He gave a slight nod. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I reached into my back pocket and removed a photocopy of Ghost’s letter. “Ghost left a letter with his attorney. I went by and picked it up yesterday. I want to read it to you.”

  “What kind of letter?” he asked. “Like a will?”

  “He left a will, and he left a letter,” I explained. “Abby left Ghost a letter, and receiving that letter prompted him to write one. That’s all according to the attorney.”

  He reached over the desk. “I can read it.”

  “I know you can read it, but I’m going to read the son-of-a-bitch to you. You can read it when I’m done.”

  He crossed his arms. “Alright.”

  “Brother Goose. If you’re reading this, I’ve moved on. Kinda weird thinking about it, but probably not as weird as you’re thinking it is—”

  “Hold on a minute,” Baker interrupted. “He wrote it to you?”

  I lowered the sheet of paper. “Out of respect to him, and to me, will you let me finish it?”

  He exhaled a long breath. “Fine.”

  “Brother Goose,

  If you’re reading this, I’ve moved on. Kinda weird thinking about it, but probably not as weird as you’re thinking it is.

  Believe it or not, I’m pretty fucking comfortable with the thought of death. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking forward to it or anything.

  But, I know I’ll be okay when the time comes.

  I’m writing this wondering how old you’re going to be when you’re reading it. Forty? Fifty? Seventy? Hell, who knows. Guess it doesn’t matter. Just one of those things I’ll wonder about until the day comes.

  On to the shit that matters.

  I didn’t leave each of the fellas a letter because I felt like it’d make this one less meaningful.

  I thought about it for some time and came up with this logic: Tito’s got his mother, Reno’s got his family in Texas, Baker’s got Andy, Cash has got Kim, and you’ve got no one.

  I always looked at you as the club’s voice of reason, and if I never made myself clear, I’d like to do so now.

  I appreciate you, Brother. I appreciate all the fellas, but when times were tough for me, you guided me through them. You did it for everyone in the club. It’s a debt I can never repay, but I’ll do my best while I remain forever grateful.

  Tito’s got his little shack, and he loves that place. Baker and Andy have the three-story office building, and I can’t ever see them leaving. Cash has got his place in Point Loma with Kim, and Reno has his place in National City.

  I know you love that place of yours, but I’m leaving you the house on the beach. Make use of it and have your cook-outs there. I know the fellas will enjoy hanging out there, and when they do, there’ll always be a part of me right there with all of you.

  Abby was a neat freak, and she’d die (again) if that place became a mess. I know your anal-retentive ass won’t let that happen. Abby and I shared our best of times in that home. I hope whoever’s left of the g
roup can create some new memories there.

  Flower pots on that roof deck will really set it off, and you’ll get all day sun up there. You can plant your flowers that need afternoon shade out on the back lot. The yard’s not as deep as the one you’ve got, but it’ll surely suit you well. The sunsets on the beach will make up for the shortcomings in yard space.

  If you don’t like the place, I guess that’s tough shit, Brother. Selling it isn’t an option. The paperwork the silver-haired fella has for you will explain all of that.

  I thought about what to do with my money for a long time. I want to make sure it’s enjoyed. I decided if I left it to Tito, he would sit on it until he died, and it would just go to whoever he married or his kids. Cash would blow it, because that’s what he does with money. Reno doesn’t have an ounce of common sense. We’ve all seen the news stories about the hillbillies that win the lottery and end up broke and strung out on dope in twelve months. Well, that’s Brother Reno. His gambling problem doesn’t help matters, either.

  I was left with Baker and you. Baker would give it all away, because that’s what Baker does with his money.

  You always loved making the world a more beautiful place. As most of the money was inherited from Abby, and Abby enjoyed beautiful things (flowers included) you made the most logical sense to inherit my fortune. Well, half of it, anyway. So, that’s what you’ll get. Half of whatever I’ve got at the time I die. Right now, that’s a pretty good chunk of money.

  Just in case you’re wondering, the other half is going to George, at the diner. If he’s passed on, the entire sum is scheduled to go to you.

  Speaking of George, I’ll need a favor from you. It’s written into the will, so there’s no getting around it.

  I left Eleanor to George. No sense in the five of you fighting over her, and George took a liking to her the moment he saw her the first time.

  You never cared much for cages anyway.

  But guess what, “Gordon”?

  You’ve got to deliver her to him.

  Enjoy the drive, Brother.

  (Imagine me laughing so hard I can barely write, because that’s what’s happening right now)

  Keep the X5M in the garage, and use it as needed to get you fuckers around on your jobs. That fucker is nimble, fast, and will haul anything you need to without fail. I can’t decide which of you will become the driver, because there isn’t a one of you that can drive a car to save your ass.

  I’m sure you’ll figure something out. If you happen to get another driver, have them make the X5M their own. Becoming one with your getaway car is critical to succeeding.

  Give Tito my laptop and tell him to wipe the hard drive clean before he sets it on fire. Make sure Baker gets my music collection, although it’s not much. Give that crazy-assed Reno my guns, because you’ve got too many of ‘em as it is. And Cash? Just give that big dumb prick a hug and then slap him in the nuts.

  Give Kim and Andy and whoever else might be around a hug and tell them I love ‘em like sisters. Don’t know how often I’ll update this letter, but knowing me, it won’t be very often.

  Tell the fellas I love ‘em, and live your life knowing I love you, too, Brother.

  Abby and I will see you on the other side whenever you show up. Until then, I’ll keep an eye on you and the fellas the best I’m able.

  Ghost (A real one now, I guess)”

  I’d practiced reading it enough times throughout the night that I was able to do so without becoming too emotional. I folded the letter, laid it in my lap, and looked up.

  Baker laughed and cried at the same time. “Fucker called you Gordon. If anyone knows how much you hate that name, he does.”

  I coughed out a laugh and almost joined Baker in shedding tears. Almost. “Broke his fucking wrist with an axe handle over it.”

  He wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm. “And he’s making you deliver the car? That’s funnier than hell.”

  “It wasn’t that funny,” I said dryly. “Already delivered it.”

  “He must have thought highly of George. I hope he takes care of it.”

  “I’m sure he will.” I leaned over the edge of the desk and handed him the letter. “That’s a copy I made. You can keep it.”

  He unfolded the letter and studied it.

  “Did you know Ghost built a car for that guy?” I asked.

  He set the letter aside. “What guy?”

  “George.”

  “He never mentioned it, no.”

  “He did. A Mercury Marauder. Saw pictures of it. Bad ass motherfucker, as far as cars go.”

  “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “You ever meet Him?” I asked. “That George fella?”

  “Ghost mentioned him a few times, but I never met him, no.”

  “In case you didn’t catch it in that letter, he left him half of his money. Let me tell you what. Half’s a whole hell of a lot.”

  “If Abby left him that house, I’m guessing she left him a sizeable sum of money, too. She made millions. Maybe tens of millions.”

  I raised my brows.

  He raised his. “More?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good for her,” he said. “Good for you, too. I guess.”

  His gaze went blank for a moment. He looked up. “Don’t know that I’d tell the rest of the fellas that you got any money. Definitely don’t say how much. Might cause some—”

  “Hadn’t planned on it,” I said. “Knew you wouldn’t give a fuck, though.”

  Baker didn’t care about money. He gave away most of what he earned. He was a modern-day Robin Hood, of sorts. Some of the other fellas weren’t as disconnected from their earnings. Cash, for instance, had one concern with the club’s business: when am I going to get my money? The rest of the fellas landed somewhere between Baker and Cash.

  He tidied his desk. “Did you tell your parents about Ghost?”

  “Fuck no!” I seethed. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

  “Sorry I mentioned it,” he said. “Didn’t know if something like this warranted patching things up.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me something like that.”

  He shrugged. “You know how Ghost was about it. It always bothered him that you couldn’t forgive them. You were young. Hot-headed. We all were when we were young. It never was that big of a deal to him—”

  It was a big deal to me. Enough of a big deal that I walked away and never looked back. “It comes down to respect. You know how I am about that. We’re done talking about it. End. Of. Discussion.”

  He resituated the items on his desk that he’d rearranged moments before. Tidying up did for him what planting flowers did for me. After watching him for a moment, I broke the awkward silence.

  “You find it funny that Ghost left that much money to a guy we didn’t even know?” I asked. “Some fella he met in a diner? Seems to me the last six months or so of his life was lived in secrecy.”

  “I think him leaving that guy half his savings is a pretty solid endorsement of who that guy is,” he replied. “Ghost wasn’t secretive about everything, though. He’d been talking to me about some things. He was getting ready to propose to Abby when she died. He told me that much.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said. “He didn’t say anything to me.”

  He picked up the letter, and then put it right back down. “I think he was talking to me because of when I proposed to Andy. He was curious about timeframes and what was acceptable.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “You an authority on relationships, now?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Got another one for you,” I said.

  “Another what?”

  “I don’t know. Story, I guess.”

  He leaned away from the desk and relaxed in his chair. “I’m listening.”

  “So, when I went to deliver the car yesterday, guess who’s sitting in there eating a double cheeseburger?”

  “You want me to gues
s?”

  I shrugged. “It was rhetorical but go ahead.”

  “Bill Murray.”

  “Bill Murray?” I looked at him like he was nuts. “Why the fuck would Bill goddamned Murray be in that fucking diner?”

  He shrugged. “You told me to guess. He lives here, you know. I thought maybe you bumped into him.”

  “No. I didn’t bump into Bill fucking Murray.”

  I glanced around his office, trying to decide if I wanted to continue with my story or not. As Ghost suggested in his letter, I was the club’s voice of reason. Unless I wanted to talk to myself, I was going to get smart-assed responses and poorly thought out opinions.

  “You going to enlighten me?” he asked. “Tell me who it was?”

  “The chick who put her panties in my pocket,” I said. “From the funeral.”

  His eyes thinned. “She was in the diner?”

  “Sure was.”

  “Did you find out what the hell she was thinking when she did that?”

  I chuckled. “Said I looked like I needed my spirits lifted. She thought that’d do it.”

  “Did it?”

  I shrugged. “A little.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  “She’s kind of—”

  “Wait,” he interrupted. “How’d you know it was her? Did she just walk up to you and say, ‘Hey, I put some panties in your pocket at a funeral the other day.’?”

  I didn’t want to tell him about my lucid daydream, or that I felt some strange connection to her that I couldn’t explain. I decided to stick with telling him about her quirky personality and smart mouth. If he was receptive, I’d tell him about poking my finger in her twat at the restaurant.

  “I recognized her from the funeral,” I said. “I walked up to her and asked how she knew Ghost.”

  “Well?” He leaned onto the edge of the desk. “How’d she know him?”

  “From the diner. She said he thought she looked like Abby. They’d been eating breakfast together for a few months. Right up until the day he died.”

  “No shit?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Guess there’s a lot about Ghost we didn’t know.”