Dizzy: A Steel Bones Motorcycle Club Prequel

by Cate C. Wells

  Carson slides the plate closer and bends his arm around it, guarding it like my nieces and nephews do. “He’s out in the garage, workin’ with Dad.”

  “Workin’ on what?”

  “Bikes.”

  Guess I could’ve figured.

  I sit down across from the kid. “How come you aren’t in school?”

  “Teacher work day,” he says with a full mouth. “Didn’t you hear us leave? We got there, and it was closed.”

  “Nope. I didn’t hear.”

  “You sleep deep, eh?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He grins at me as he shoves a huge bite dripping with syrup into his mouth.

  “Hey. You know the combination to your Dad’s safe?” It’s worth a try, right?

  He blinks at me, chewing. He’s got bright blue eyes, sandy blond hair, fair skin, and freckles. He must favor his mother. He’s cute. Looks like a chipmunk.

  “You fixin’ to rob us?”

  A feeling not unlike guilt rises in my chest, but I shove it down. “I need money.”

  He drags the last piece of toast through the syrup, sopping up as much as he can. His nose is wrinkled as if he’s considering. “I got five bucks I can let you hold.”

  “I need more than five bucks.”

  “Ask Dad for a check.”

  Well, this is a dead end.

  “Can I borrow your phone?” There’s always my Hail Mary. If I can remember Carol’s phone number, and if it hasn’t been turned off again, she might bail me out.

  “It’s dead.”

  “You kids only have that one charger?”

  “There’re more. We just don’t know where they are.”

  Carson swipes his fingers across the plate to wipe up the last of the syrup and sticks them in his mouth. “Can I ask you something?” he mumbles.

  “Sure.”

  “What’d you do to make Steel Bones mad at you?”

  “Why do you think they’re mad at me?”

  “Miss Ernestine said no one steals from us and gets away with it.”

  “She’s really salty about some nuts and beef jerky.”

  “That what you stole?”

  “Yeah. And some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

  “That’s crap.” He hops up and heads for the fridge. “We can eat whatever we want from the kitchen. Anybody can.”

  “Not me, I guess.”

  “You were hungry.” His face hardens almost to a glower. Now he looks like his dad. He grabs the milk, unscrews the lid, chugs, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “That ain’t right. If you’re hungry, ask me. I’ll get you what you want. Nobody’ll say anything to me about it.”

  “I did take some booze from the bar.” Since he’s being so nice, I feel compelled to be honest.

  He shrugs. “I can get you that, too.”

  “Thanks.” Carson is officially my favorite person in this family.

  “Want to play Point of Collision? You said you’d play last night, but you went to bed.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Cool.” He lopes off, heading down to the basement, and he nearly gives me a heart attack when he galumphs back and pokes his head back through the doorway. “Thanks, lady. You make good French toast.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Then he’s gone, and it’s quiet again. Eerily quiet. I pad into the living room and root through the end tables and a fancy antique desk with a rolling cover. Nothing except a half-empty pack of stale Capris. I snag those. I don’t really smoke, but they’re good for making friends and makin’ yourself look legit when you’re loitering.

  I search through a few closets before I head back for the bedroom. Parker has one of those drawstring backpacks hanging from his desk chair. I commandeer it, shake out a plastic Army guy and a gummy hard candy, and fill it with my food stash. Then I plop back on the bed, at loose ends. I get nervous when I don’t have anything to do with myself.

  Dizzy did mention the laundry.

  I don’t want to do laundry, but the quiet makes me jumpy. Makes my brain veer toward memories I’m working really hard to block. Walls closing in. My throat raw from screaming.

  I haven’t seen the washing machine in my travels. There has to be one in a house this nice. I knew a girl in elementary school who had a house like this. I lived for sleepover invitations. I thought her parents were millionaires. The invitations dried up in junior high. The kids who lived in town went to one school and hicks like us went to another.

  Her laundry room was in the basement.

  I bop on downstairs, fully expecting another theme. Instead, there is anarchy. An overstuffed L-shaped sofa covered in blankets, stuffed animals, and a camouflage sleeping bag. A coffee table with pop cans, deflated bags of chips, a lollipop without a wrapper, candy wrappers.

  The floor is a mine field. A race car set with loop-de-loops. Action figures. A castle. Lacrosse sticks. Bright orange plastic rifle. Wooden slingshot. Miniature catapult. A bop bag. Balls. Soccer ball, basketball, tennis balls, ping-pong balls, kickballs, footballs, Nerf balls.

  There’s a toy chest and bright-colored tubs on racks, but best I can tell, they’re empty.

  The curtains are pulled tight, and the lights are dim. It takes a second to make out Carson. He’s lying on his stomach in the middle of the debris, controller in his hands. He hasn’t bothered to move anything, so he’s kind of half lying on a board game, his upper body resting on a giant stuffed tortoise.

  “You gonna play?” he asks.

  “I’ll start the laundry first. Is it down here?”

  “Yeah, down the hall. When you get back, the other controller is somewhere on the couch. Just dump the other stuff on the floor.”

  No, I won’t. And I ain’t cleaning this room.

  Not for money.

  Not for nothin’.

  And if the laundry room looks like this, I’m gonna bolt, money or no money. Screw the Steel Bones Motorcycle Club. There are fates worse than death.

  But not really.

  I sigh. I’m stuck.

  When I left Dalton, I swore no more kids, no more constant drudge work, no more takin’ care of ungrateful folks who literally would not notice if I died. And here I am. Wading through the debris of Hurricane Unsupervised Kids.

  My fingers itch to put it to rights. But I’m not gonna. Sooner or later, Steel Bones is gonna lose interest in me. I’m very forgettable. And the moment they get bored—sooner if I can figure out a way—I’m out of here.

  I pick my way through the crap, heading down a narrow corridor. The laundry room is at the end. I breathe a sigh of relief when I flick the light on. There are overflowing hampers, but the clothes are sorted. There’s nothing on the floor. There’s a stocked shelf with all sorts of detergents.

  I check the door to make sure there’s no lock before I shut it, blocking out the pew-pew of gunfire and explosions coming from the family room.

  This is probably the cleanest room in the house. Thank goodness. The Laundromat in Dalton is filthy. It reeks of cigarettes ‘cause the good townspeople figure the county smoking ban can go fuck itself. There are cobwebs in the corners, and Lord help you if your sheets drag the floor as you’re folding them.

  Up in here, there’s a huge front-loading stainless steel washing machine and a perfectly matching dryer. They’re almost as tall as I am.

  You could do two regular-sized loads in ‘em at a time.

  There’s a load in the dryer. I pop it open—kid’s clothes. Psshh. They could’ve gotten triple this in if they’d tried.

  I snag an empty basket and unload. There’s a clear table for folding and an ironing board hanging from hooks on the wall.

  The room smells like dryer sheets. There are small, high windows that allow in some sunshine. Heat’s blasting from the vents, so it’s cozy warm. This is my favorite room in the house. All I need is music. Lord, I miss my phone.

  I dump the rumpled clothes, shake ‘em out, and fold. There’s a
pair of gray sweats. Probably Parker’s. I try ‘em on. They hit me mid-calf, but they fit around the waist. Way better than Sharon’s fat pants. I also find a long-sleeved raglan T-shirt with red arms and the Bud logo. My boobs are gonna stretch it out, but it covers my midriff.

  The folding takes no time at all. I throw in a white load, hoping I add the right amount of detergent. I’m used to powder, not liquid.

  I’m reading the bottle when I hear Dizzy’s deep voice from the family room.

  “That’s enough for today, Carson. Go help your brother with the lawn.”

  There’s whining.

  A little frisson of fear—or excitement?—zips through my belly. I tug down my T-shirt.

  “You seen Fay-Lee?”

  There’s a mumble.

  Then there’re footsteps in the hall, and the door opens. He stays there like he did when he found me in his room. Or last night, when I was in bed. He’s keeping his distance.

  But his dark eyes find me and don’t let go. The butterflies in my belly go nuts.

  “There you are,” he says.

  “You lookin’ for me?” My insides warm.

  “You weren’t upstairs.”

  “You said do the laundry.”

  “It don’t need to be done right away.”

  “I was bored.”

  His gaze rakes down my front. My nipples stiffen into points. I went braless the night of the first party, and since Chaos rolled off with my bag, I haven’t worn one since. With my A cups, I can get away with it. Not in this shirt, though. The Bud logo isn’t conveniently placed.

  “Those Parker’s clothes?”

  “I figure.”

  “We’ll ride into town later. Pick up what you need.”

  “This works fine.”

  “I don’t want you in boy’s clothes.”

  I swallow. For some reason, my mouth is watering. Dizzy’s clearly been working. He’s wearing a white, grease-stained T-shirt and ripped jeans. He’s pulled his hair back in a ponytail, but strands are springing loose all over the place.

  He’s bare-footed.

  I curl my toes. I am, too.

  What was he saying? Oh, yeah. He doesn’t want me dressed like a boy.

  I guess I should be offended by the heavy-handedness. But there’s something about the way he stands on the threshold, won’t come a step closer. Makes me want to mess with him.

  “Yeah? How do you want to dress me?”

  His gaze flicks over his shoulder. He listens for something. Probably Carson. There’s silence from the family room.

  Dizzy eases in, shuts the door behind him and leans against it. Panic flutters in my chest. I don’t need to be scared. I’m fine. If push came to shove, I could fit through the windows.

  “I’d put you in something pretty,” Dizzy’s saying, and I forget about the fear. “Soft.”

  “You don’t like this?” I tug the T-shirt taut.

  “No.” His voice is gravelly. I love it.

  “Should I take it off?”

  His jaw tightens. He tenses all over. Does he think he shouldn’t be doing this? Because I’m so much younger than he is? Or because I’m a hostage or whatever? Or is it because the kids are outside?

  Because he’s carrying a torch for his ex?

  That thought pisses me off.

  I grab the hem of the shirt and pull it over my head. Then I shake out my hair in the best impression of a stripper I can manage. Per usual, I get no bounce. It falls straight to the small of my back.

  I’m not a big flasher. Beads on Mardi Gras is a pervert scam, and I’m the only Parsons girl who never went wild.

  But I crave this man’s eyes on me. I eat it up. It makes me high. I couldn’t pass it up any more than I could pass up a buffet. I’ve been hungry too long. And this is too damn delicious.

  My tits ache.

  He gobbles them up with his eyes.

  “You want to touch them?”

  “Put the shirt back on,” he growls.

  “Why?”

  “Do what I say, girl.”

  My stomach swirls.

  “But you love my tits.” I cup them, offer them up.

  He moves so quickly, I don’t have time to react. One minute he’s in the doorway, the next he’s spinning me, crowding me between his body and the washing machine. The metal is warm against my chest from the hot water.

  “I said do what I say.”

  He draws me back, flush to his chest, and cups my left breast. He molds it, brushing his thumb across the nipple, squeezing, tugging. As if he’s milking me. And I know that’s weird, but it drives me crazy. I squirm, writhe. His other arm is wrapped around my waist, pinning me to him.

  “Do you like that?”

  “Yes. Play with the other one.” I’m whining. Breathless.

  He doesn’t make me beg. He switches to my other breast, kneading, drawing my nipple into a stiff, aching point.

  I mewl, rocking back into him. My pussy’s throbbing, demanding. I never get this out of control. Never go from zero to sixty so quick. There’s something about the way he’s holding me. I don’t need to think. He’s calling the shots.

  “Do you want to cum, baby?” he murmurs in my ear.

  “Yes,” I pant. I need to cum.

  He pushes my upper half into the machine and drags my hips back, shoving the sweats down and delving between my legs. I kick the pants all the way off and brace my arms against the glass door, elbows back.

  He’s bent around me. I can feel his heat on my back and his rough jeans against my ass and thighs. I try to push up, but he has me pinned.

  Besides, I don’t really want to get free.

  He’s wrapped an arm around my waist, and his other hand is spreading my folds. I’m so wet. My cream tickles as it drips down my slit. He strokes with his fingers, teasing my clit, smearing my wetness back from my hole to my bottom. I clench. No one’s ever touched me there. I haven’t touched me there.

  “Relax, baby. I ain’t gonna hurt you. I’m gonna make you feel good.” His voice is raspy and breathless in my ear.

  His finger returns to my clit, circling. That hungry wanting busts loose, and I work my hips, helpless, totally covered by his hard body, breathing in his scent. Motor oil and soap.

  Then his slippery fingers move back again, and I sidle my legs into a wider stance. His thumb keeps the attention on my clit while his first two fingers ease into my tight hole. It’s been a while. Years. I satisfied my curiosity that summer before tenth grade, and I haven’t been tempted since.

  Until now. This moment. I am so tempted. I want this. More. Dizzy’s nibbling my neck, and shivers are shooting everywhere, zinging down my spine.

  I love it. I moan.

  Then his ring finger’s pressing at my bottom. I squeeze tight. I still don’t know about that.

  “Let me in, baby.” He circles, insistent. “It’ll feel good. I promise.”

  I pant, relax for an instant, and he slides in, filling me. I moan. It’s so dirty. He has total control of my body. I can’t do anything but open for him. Let him do what he wants.

  It’s strange, and it hurts a little bit, but he’s right. It feels good.

  My swollen tits are smooshed against the warm glass. The machine vibrates and hums, teasing my aching nipples. Dizzy’s at my back, all around me. I’m in his hands, and I’m safe. I’m the center of his attention. It feels amazing.

  “You getting close?”

  “Yes,” I whimper.

  “You gonna cum in my hand?”

  “Yes.” I buck. He takes the cue and pumps his fingers harder.

  He nips my neck, his beard tickling my shoulder. Then his soft lips brush my temple, my cheek. He takes my jaw in calloused fingers and turns my head. Kisses me. Sips from my lips. Gently.

  Oh.

  I like that.

  He tastes me again, his beard scratching my chin. He sucks my bottom lip. It’s different now. My pussy’s fluttering, and I’m on the edge, ready to cum, but these
kisses are so sweet. I want more.

  He eases his tongue between my lips and licks me, exploring my mouth, almost tentative. I open up. These kisses aren’t wet and gross and pushy. They’re tender. Perfect.

  I always wanted to be kissed this way, but I figured men only did it like this in movies.

  I let my brain disconnect and float as he works me into a frenzy with his fingers and soothes me with his mouth. I’m getting higher and higher. Closer and closer. My insides are coiling, stomach muscles tightening.

  “Dizzy, I’m gonna cum,” I wail.

  “Say my name again, baby,” he groans against my lips.

  “Dizzy!”

  And I’m there, tumbling over, my pussy pulsating around his fingers, my asshole constricting so tight I force him out. I go rigid in his arms as I flush hot and break out in sweat. I’m tumbling and then I’m slowing down and then there’s random zings popping off inside me like the last fireworks before the drunkest folks turn in.

  “There it is.” He wraps both arms around me, cuddles me to his chest.

  Instantly, I’m hit with a wave of embarrassment. My face burns.

  I’m buck naked. He’s totally clothed. His finger was in my butt. I stiffen.

  He drops a kiss in the crook of my neck.

  “Don’t move.”

  He drops me, walks over to the utility sink and washes his hands. I squat, grab the sweats, wriggle them back on.

  This is so awkward. What am I doing? I’m not my sisters. I don’t get boy crazy and lose my mind.

  I need to get out of here. Collect myself.

  Dizzy stalks back over. “I said don’t move.” He snatches my T-shirt off the floor. “Arms up.”

  I do what he says without thinking. He carefully pulls the shirt over my head, freeing my hair from the neck hole and smoothing it over my shoulder. Then he drops a kiss on my forehead. I keep my eyes on the floor.

  “You weirded out?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I squeak.

  “Me, too.” My gaze flies up. His eyes are dark, as intent on me as they were before, when he was standing in the doorway, keeping me at arm’s length.

  He’s not smug and self-satisfied like Rylan or those few other boys. Is he feeling unsteady, too?

  A strange awareness swirls in my belly. It’s like I’ve known this guy longer than a few days. It’s vaguely comforting, but it’s also scary as hell.