Zak relaxed even further against his car, and the more Stitch was looking at him, the more he liked his handsome, but somehow cocky face. “Well, it was a play on the fact that everyone felt watched and spied on at the time, but in the actual chapter, this guy meets a foreigner, who’s actually the devil. They talk, and the foreigner reveals that the Russian guy’s gonna die. It’s not atheist and rational, so the guy doesn’t believe Satan and then dies a page or so later. He slips on some oil, and a streetcar cuts his head off,” Zak said with a wide smile.
“And the moral is: don’t talk to strangers?” Stitch chuckled. “Nothing happens to the devil though?”
Zak stepped closer and poked his long finger against Stitch’s ribcage. “Duh, he’s the devil. He saves the Master.”
Stitch’s cock felt a surge of excitement at the touch so he backed off, pretending he wanted to have a better look at the hood of the car. “You not afraid to talk to a devil?” Stitch looked into Zak’s eyes.
“Nah, the devil’s fair. It’s the people around you who grasp you at the throat and don’t want you to overstep some preset boundaries. That’s what this book is about for me.”
“Sometimes the devil has boundaries as well…” Stitch cocked his head to the side, not sure anymore what this conversation was about and wondering whether maybe he should end it.
“Does he?” Zak’s teeth sank into his bottom lip, and he moved back to the trunk. “He’s the devil,” he said, opening the door.
Stitch played with his signets. “I suppose he should act any way he wants to then…”
Zak pulled out a block of fliers and shut the trunk, making his way to Stitch. “That would be my actual motto.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t talk to strangers then.” Stitch held out his hand, and Zak placed the papers on top of his outstretched palm.
“So far so good.” Zak smiled at him, and the silence became strangely long.
Stitch swallowed. “So… yeah, be good Zak, don’t talk to strangers.” He took the leaflets and turned around before the rum in his veins could push him to do something rash. Something was off and he couldn’t pinpoint it.
He walked straight into the bar without looking back, in case Zak would hold his gaze again in this chilling yet blood-warming way. Captain hadn’t moved a muscle since Stitch last saw him, but took the top leaflet as soon as Stitch placed the pile on the counter.
“So, how’s his ride?”
“Cool. It’s this repainted old Chevy.”
Captain looked at the leaflet, and then suddenly slapped Stitch’s arm. “I thought he was gonna go down on you back then.” He pointed behind the bar counter.
Stitch groaned. “Come on, the guy seems all right.” Yet he couldn’t shake the weird vibes he got from Zak.
“A bit of a weirdo though. What’s he doing in Lake Valley of all places?” Captain downed his liquor. “It might be different where he comes from, but he should be more careful, you know what I’m saying?” he asked, lowering his heavy eyelids.
Stitch took a deep breath. “Yeah. I can see he’s just clueless, but some people might not get his jokes.”
Captain emptied the small bottle of whiskey into his glass and tapped it with his thick fingers. He turned his head away, so Stitch found himself facing the eye patch with the club symbol. “You heard what happened to a fag biker over in Edmonton? I have a friend in The Rippers.”
Stitch had to use all of his drunken self-control not to sneer. He didn’t wanna hear it. “What?”
Captain gave him a wide grin. “The guys wanted to teach him a lesson, and they overdid it a bit. After being dragged behind a bike, naked, any man would lose interest in riding. He’s got no skin on his ass now, that must be tough luck for a fag.”
“Yeah.” Stitch pushed away the empty glass and took the whole bottle of rum. This was not going to be him. He knew to keep it in his pants. He didn’t even feel all that gay anyway. “He knew what he was going into. Rippers don’t fuck around.”
“Yeah, fuck him. Better tell your new friend to behave when you visit him on Sunday. Some people won’t get his sense of humor.” Captain shrugged and sipped the whiskey with a self-satisfied smile.
Stitch snorted. “I’ll tell ‘im while he’s looking at my dick. He's not from around here. Has to settle in.” He kept quiet for a while, just enjoying the jukebox music in the background and drinking his rum. “You know that Rippers guy? How did they find him out?”
Captain put the glass back on the counter. “This guy I know said somebody saw him fucking a guy in a shitter at a gas station. If you ask me, he had it coming.”
Stitch nodded and looked to the door when tattooed hunk Zak walked back in.
So off limits.
Chapter 2
Stitch jerked awake when Joe patted him on the shoulder.
“Go on, you’re home,” he whispered, reaching out across Stitch’s lap to open the passenger’s door. The nighttime chill immediately bit into Stitch’s skin as he raised his head to look at the small house he was still forced to share with his ex-wife. It was old and needed constant renovations, but he always did his best to maintain it in the best possible state: doing all kinds of repairs and even making some of their furniture. Dealing with the house was what first got him into carpentry. And what got him his first few stitches when he was younger and fell through the rotting, century-old balcony. It was then that he had declared he would make a new balcony if it killed him.
Right now though, he was drunk, and all he wanted was a good hearty snack before falling face-first into bed. Stitch thanked Joe for the ride and stumbled into the house through the backdoor, straight into the kitchen.
As he pushed the door shut behind himself, he realized something wasn’t right. There was bright tape running across the floor, and he frowned, switching on the light. The kitchen was modest, sort of cramped, but tidy. Or at least it had been before something had turned the floor into a board game.
He looked to the fridge and went straight for it once he spotted a note. One he couldn’t bother to read. But opening the fridge wasn’t a happy experience either. All the food was moved to the left side where the shelves were marked with a glittery ‘C’, whereas the other side would be completely empty if it weren't for a bottle of ketchup and a yellow note with Stitch's name on it.
“The fuck?” he grumbled and closed the door to read the note on its outer side.
‘Stitch,
Now that you’re single, you’re free to fill your side of the fridge. Since I don’t want to see your face, I made a schedule for using the kitchen, so we don’t have to see each other.’
Stitch looked at the allocated hours and then to the clock on the wall. His drunk mind wasn’t ready for this. He just wanted some food. He’d buy it back for the bitch. Stitch groaned and slid his fingers into his hair. He wasn’t even sure when he’d lost his hairband.
There were the eggs, only two, but he could fry them with... lean ham because it had been ages since Crystal bought any bacon. He could have the banana for dessert, covered by canned whipped cream. Crystal was on a permanent diet anyway, she should be thankful for having the temptation removed from her sight.
He put on the gas, fished the pan out of the cupboard. and got the eggs ready. First, he threw the ham into the pan, and followed it with the eggs. He even put some bread in the toaster. He had this. Fucking schedule. How did she come up with these stupid ideas? It had to be her new boyfriend’s suggestion. Four-eyed, rat-faced Milton. It was just typical that she met him when he came to fix her computer. Who the fuck called themselves ‘Milton’ anyway?
Stitch dropped his ass in the chair on Crystal’s side of the table (as marked by the same glittery ‘C’ as in the fridge) and peeled the banana, immediately spraying a generous dollop of whipped cream on top of it.
“There we go.” Stitch grinned before putting half of the banana into his mouth at once. He didn’t know how the connection came to his mind, but it suddenly got him imagining
having Zak’s cock in his mouth. He sucked on the banana with a frown. He was both nervous and excited about getting the tattoo done. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence for him to speak to a man so much his type, and sucking the sweet juices out of the banana was kind of nice. Good enough for him to take a bite. He groaned with pleasure when the cream and fruit mixed in his mouth, but when smoke filled his nostrils, he jumped to his feet and rushed for the burning pan. It shouldn’t have heated up so fast!
Stitch screamed when the handle burnt his hand, and he dropped the scorching food into the flames. “Fuck!” he growled, grabbed the pitcher with filtered water, and poured its contents all over the cooker. The flame died, and he stared at the mess, wide-eyed. The quick footsteps in the corridor were like nails being hammered straight into his head.
“Stitch?” hissed Crystal as she rushed into the kitchen, red hair all rolled up with what looked like pink snails made out of plastic. “What the hell? You’ll wake up Holly!”
“I was just making a snack,” he growled, not even sure how to start cleaning up this shit. “It wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t make this crazy schedule and separated the fridge. Did I divorce the kitchen or something? Fuck this!”
Crystal opened her mouth to speak but she sniffed and turned off the gas with a deep frown. “Christ, you can’t even cook eggs without burning them? That’s pathetic. And you can’t just leave it on without the flame. You could kill your own daughter, do you understand that?” She stabbed the middle of his chest with her index finger. It was hard to understand how so much force fit into her tiny body.
“I was gonna turn it off!” Stitch spread his arms to the sides. “Bacon wouldn’t burn like that. If you had bacon, this wouldn’t have happened!”
“Well, then buy bacon if you want to clog your arteries and die at forty! Go on, it’s not my concern anymore,” hissed Crystal. “At least Holly won’t have to see her sorry excuse for a dad!” Crystal’s eyes went to the banana on the floor, and her face tensed more than Stitch had ever thought possible. And he’d seen her in a mud face mask. “That was for her breakfast, you greedy fuck.”
“What?” Stitch actually paused, now feeling dirty that he’d compared the banana to Zak’s dick. “Oh, come on, it’s just a banana. Can’t you tell Milton to get her some fruit?” He would go himself if he weren't still drunk. Fucking Crystal, always knew where to hit for it to hurt. If there was one thing he wanted to do properly in life it was to be a good dad.
Crystal shook her head. “She’s not Milton’s kid, she’s yours, sadly.” She gestured to the water all over the stove and the burned ham. “Clean this before you fall asleep on the floor.” And with that, she stormed out. The phoenix tattoo on her back and the flames on her ankles really fit her personality.
For a moment, Stitch considered going up to Holly's room and apologizing, but she was probably still asleep. Then again, the last thing he wanted to do now was cleaning the kitchen. For fuck’s sake. He groaned, grabbed the chair Crystal had labeled with his name and took it out into the backyard. Their garden was messy, full of weeds and old trees, since they were both shit at gardening, but they did manage to keep a small section tidy. Stitch had used the space to create a playground for Holly, with a little sandbox, and a swing attached to a thick branch.
Stitch took the chair and smashed it against the tree with full force, sending splinters flying. He screamed his anger out into the silent morning, repeatedly hitting the tree with the chair. He’d made it, so he could destroy it if he wanted to.
Fucking Crystal. Fucking lean ham. Fucking cock-banana distractor. Fucking fucked-up marriage. Fucking Milton stealing Crystal away.
Stitch took deep breaths and threw away what was left of the chair. He slid down the tree and sat in the sandbox. It was just his fucking luck that he didn’t notice one of the plastic toys and crushed it with his weight.
Stitch hid his face in his hands. Maybe Crystal wouldn’t have divorced him if he could get it up for her. She was probably sick of a limp-dicked husband. She’d signed up for a biker stud and got a fag.
Chapter 3
The low buzz of the tattoo machine harmonized with the raw sound of the bootleg record playing in the background. Zak was slowly adding the shading on one of the three skulls he’d tattooed over the name of his customer’s ex-wife. It was a pretty shitty name too, but he didn’t comment on it. He would never stop being baffled with people who ink their bodies with names of lovers. Even a pet’s name would have been more reasonable. He’d just opened his small home-based studio in Lake Valley, and the last thing he wanted was to possibly offend a member of the local motorcycle club. Doing a good job meant a large group of potential customers that he didn’t want to lose.
Zak discreetly glanced up the fine piece of meat that was Stitch’s bare chest. The first time Zak had locked his eyes with Stitch in that dim bar, chemistry had sizzled like water poured into hot oil. The big bad biker did his best to get some attention, and even followed Zak to the car. With his bright eyes tracing Zak’s whole body as if he were made of chocolate, it was hard not to connect the dots. Finding such a hot and eager guy in a small town like Lake Valley wasn’t what Zak had expected so soon after moving over here. And now that they were finally alone in Zak’s house, it was hard not to look up at the guy’s body every now and then. Almost as tall as Zak, but bulky like an overgrown pitbull, with sandy hair and stubble that was bound to feel nice and rough to the touch. The veins on his arms were pronounced and spread out like the roots of an old tree, and Zak would just love to lick them up all over. Especially with the tattoos on Stitch’s arms being such a delicious sight. Two ornamental Mjölnir hammers with runes turning into wolves on one side and ravens on the other.
Stitch sat in the chair he was being tattooed in, in just his cut, with jeans and briefs pulled halfway down the thighs so Zak could reach to where the tattoo was, low on the hip. It wasn’t easy to focus when that ripped stomach kept moving up and down with each of Stitch's breaths. And as soon as Zak got to see Stitch's abdomen in good light, it became clear where his nickname came from. There were three scars on his stomach, two of them small, one long and too prominent to miss, all tattooed over with flaming skulls and runes, but clearly visible because of how protruding they were.
And while Zak usually wasn’t the type to ogle his customer’s dicks in an unprofessional manner, Stitch's vibe was ticking all his boxes, and with that thick cut dick in plain sight, below Zak’s face as he leaned over Stitch’s hips, he caught himself stealing glances. It was a good size, resting between two defined thighs and overseen by trimmed blond pubes. From inches away, Zak could smell the rich musk and fresh sweat mingling with the scent of ink to create the most intoxicating combination.
“Does it have any particular meaning for you?” he asked about the new tattoo. Not the dick.
“Yeah,” came a low grunt that had the hairs of Zak’s forearms bristle. “I’m burying the memory of that bitch. So, you know, flowers, and death and shit.”
“Sounds about right.” Zak grinned, moving the tattoo machine in a circle on the inner side of the outline of an empty eye socket. “At least you’re free as a bird now, eh?” He glanced up the full chest, over the meaty pecs, all the way to the handsome, rugged face. Stich had a nice, firm jaw, but the longish blond hair gave him a softness that most probably had nothing to do with his personality. A certain confidence oozed out of Stitch’s pores, engulfing him like the cologne he was wearing.
“Exactly. I can do whatever. What about you? What brings you here?” Stitch shifted in the chair when Zak pulled away slightly. “And I mean, here.” He pointed to the wall with his chin, and this slight movement got his dick to brush against Zak’s forearm. It made Zak’s skin explode with thousands of sparks, but he raised his head and looked at the coppery brown walls he had painted himself just weeks ago, adding some texture with a sponge. With the additional decoration of some metal skulls, and a painting of a demonic cat taking up one of t
he walls, he’d managed to achieve a dark, gritty look for his studio room.
“You know Virginia Abbot? She died two months ago,” said Zak, trying to ignore the persistent tingling in his forearm, where it was closest to the hellishly hot cock.
“I suppose. The old lady with the fancy poodle?” Stitch’s chestnut-colored eyes focused right back on Zak. They seemed to see right through him. Only now Zak noticed Stitch had another scar on his upper lip. This one looked nicely healed and pale, but cut through the stubble in that place.
Zak sighed. The poodle wasn’t that fancy anymore because unlike Aunt Virginia, he wouldn’t bother grooming him for shows. “That’s her. She was my gran’s sister, and she left this house to me. So I chose to move here and see how it goes. It’s not a good time for selling property,” he said, keeping his eyes on the handsome face. It was as if whole armies of ants marched down his back each time their gazes met over Stich’s cock. There was this freakishly intense chemistry that made the air throb in the same rhythm as Zak's blood. He could imagine Stitch was a beast in bed, with all that muscle helping him pump his hips like a piston. He was a top dog, one that wouldn’t hesitate to grasp his lover’s neck to keep them in place.
“Yeah, I guess Lake Valley isn’t exactly the Silicone Valley when it comes to property value. It’s not all that inviting for guys with tats all over either.” Stitch took a deep breath, and it made his chest expand in the most appetizing way. “Some nice redecorating you did here.”
Zak let out his breath slowly, not to sound flustered. “Yeah, I’m still thinking whether I’m gonna stay here or not. This house is pretty much... the dream of a cheesy old lady, if you know what I mean.” He shook his head, remembering two whole cabinets filled with porcelain poodles in the living room. Those things had to go eventually if he were to stay. But as much as he detested Aunt Virginia’s taste, she was the only person in his family who hadn’t forgotten about the ‘faggy punk’ that he apparently was, even though they never met. In fact, until he got the phone call from her lawyer, Zak hadn’t even known his gran had one more sister, but he supposed some of the things Aunt Virginia did as a young woman must have made her even more of a black sheep in the family than he was. At least no one pretended he didn’t exist, although a brief look through the desk in one of the rooms revealed Gran did have contact with Aunt Virginia until she died three years ago.
Road of No Return (gay outlaw biker MC romance) Page 2
