by S. R. Grey
“Will,” I breathe out. “You can’t threaten people with guns.”
“I hardly think of him as a person,” Will scoffs.
“Look, Will,” I say, sighing. “Yes, Paul is an asshole, but you can’t threaten him with a deadly weapon. You’ll end up getting yourself into more trouble than he is in.”
“The police are still looking for him,” Will says, “so I hardly doubt that.”
Paul violated the restraining order against him when he stopped Cassie on the side of the road last week and almost molested her. Thank God for the passing car that made him stop. The police have been searching for Paul ever since, but to no avail. Paul’s ability to sneak around doing this shit is what makes Will crazy.
“Still,” I tell my brother, “just let the police handle things.”
“I’m going to, Chase.” Will says. “I promise.”
Yeah, I think, we’ll see about that.
After Will goes up to bed, I sit in the family room alone for a while. It’s just me and my thoughts, which leaves me feeling restless.
I could—and should—head upstairs and go to bed. Warm Kay is waiting up there for me. I can lose myself in her like I did before dinner.
And I will, but not yet.
I wander around the house for a bit, checking out things on the first floor. Every room is spacious and meticulously decorated. I stroll through the living room, which doesn’t look like it’s used all that often. Then I’m on to the downstairs bedrooms, including Mom and Greg’s room. Next, I walk through Greg’s study and then amble through a small library. When I’m back in the dining room, I turn this way and that, until I ultimately decide to wind my way to the kitchen. There I come upon a laundry room/mudroom combo in the far corner. The door to the garage is in there. Curious as to what kind of cars Mom and Greg are driving these days, I step into the mudroom and swing open the door leading to the massive garage area.
“Wow,” I mouth as my gaze sweeps over four spots, all occupied with very nice vehicles. There’s a Mercedes, a Porsche, a Range Rover, and a sweet Dodge Challenger, cherry red with white stripes. I assume that car is for Will for when he turns sixteen next year. He hasn’t mentioned the car, though, and you think he would. Still, if I know my mother—and I sure as hell do—this is just like her. If there’s one thing Abby excels at, it is keeping secrets. She probably bamboozled Will into thinking the Challenger is Greg’s car. But I know how she plots and plans and surprising Will with a car on his sixteenth birthday is just her style. It’s so typical of Mom to think a pricy gift might make up for all her years of neglect.
“Think again,” I snort as I step into the multi-vehicle garage.
I notice there’s a fifth parking spot, but it appears empty. Until I walk over to it.
Just as I’m passing the red Challenger I catch sight of something I never thought I’d ever see again, something I assumed was long gone.
I stare long and hard at my father’s old 1960 Indian Matchless motorcycle, muttering, “Shit, no way.”
Mom told me everything was gone. Hell, we sold off ninety-nine percent of our belongings when we went bankrupt. I remember those dark days all too well. So where has Dad’s old motorcycle been all this time? And what’s my mother doing with it parked in Greg’s garage?
Much like baby brother, it seems Mom is keeping secrets, too.
Kay
I wait and I wait in the upstairs bedroom, but Chase doesn’t come to bed. Eventually, I nod off, but only for a short while. I can’t sleep in this unknown house, this too-quiet home. I’m used to the farmhouse back in Harmony Creek, and my apartment above Chase’s garage. There, in both places, when the windows are open you can hear the sounds of the outdoors, teeming with life. Crickets chirping, frogs singing down at the creek, and the occasional call of a nighthawk. But here in this closed-up, gated community, all I hear is the low hum of whole-house air conditioning.
Not exactly soothing for a country girl at heart.
When I can’t take another minute of artificially generated sound, I get out of bed. I took off all my clothes before lying down, in anticipation of some quality time with Chase, so I now take a minute to dig out a short, silky robe from my still-packed suitcase.
Once I find the robe and am covered, I knot the pale-pink sash around my waist.
Then, I start down the stairs.
The first level of the house is illuminated with here and there nightlights. The only room with a big light on appears to be the kitchen. Chase is not in there, but I hear noise coming from what I assume is a garage area.
Concluding that Chase must be in there, I step over a big pile of Will’s unwashed clothes, in the center of the laundry room, and swing open a door leading into what I discover is a huge, multi-car garage.
“Wow,” I mutter as I take in all the expensive cars.
On the far end of the massive garage space, I hear Chase call out, “Hey, babe, come on in. I’m over here.”
He sounds so cheerful, unlike earlier in the night. I’m glad his mood has improved; I guess things went well with Will. But what has brought Chase out to the garage? Something he sounds pleased with, that much I can tell.
I walk past all the fancy cars and stroll over to where Chase is crouched down, his hand moving appreciatively over the curve of an old motorcycle. The bike appears to be a classic of some sort—completely restored, however.
“Wow,” I say as I reach Chase, nodding to the bike. “That is really nice.”
“Yeah, it is,” he says wistfully, his hand still but remaining on the bike.
“Does it belong to Greg?”
“No, it was my dad’s.”
Whoa, no way.
“I thought all your father’s things were gone?” I carefully inquire.
“Yeah,” Chase says on a long exhale. “I thought so, too.” And then, a little lower and more to himself than to me, he murmurs, “Shit, Dad loved this thing.”
I move closer to Chase. “Did he ever take you for a ride on it?” I ask.
“All the time, Kay.”
Chase looks up and smiles at me, and I cross my arms over my chest and smile back.
“Do you, by chance, know how to drive it?” I inquire.
“Actually, I do.” He laughs lightly. “Dad used to always tell me not to let Mom know he was taking me out to the desert all the time and letting me drive this thing.”
“That must have been fun,” I say, laughing.
“The best,” Chase agrees as his gaze returns to the bike.
He appears so happy. Discovering that this little part of his dad is still around has revived Chase; he looks less worried, less stressed. Chase has always been intense, but when I first met him he didn’t have the worries of Will weighing him down. Though he was burdened with his own struggles, Chase was more carefree. His demeanor now reminds me of those early days of getting to know him—lunches at the diner, him stealing my hair tie and me running after him, and me taking off with his last lemon-lime soda while he chased me down.
And then there was that first kiss.
I shiver with excitement at the memory. Oh, how I loved, and still love, to let Chase catch me. Whether for first kisses, or for catching me when I fall, he is always there. Suddenly, I realize Chase needs what I once sought—he needs to forgive himself. I don’t think he even realizes it, but there’s something in him that truly believes he could have somehow prevented his father’s suicide all those years ago. Chase blames himself for the faults of his father, as well as the subsequent sins of his mother. He feels guilt for going to prison, guilt for what he sees as his abandoning Will.
Chase helped me through my fires of Hell—I would never have forgiven myself for my role in my little sister’s death had it not been for his love and forgiveness. The least I can do now is stand by him while he faces these demons of his own. I thought up to now that love alone would be enough, but we can’t take advantage of this gift we’ve been given. Piling our past on top of our love will onl
y weigh it down.
Chase needs resolution.
Like me, he will forever be sullied, but we can live with that. The smudges on our souls can’t be washed away, but we have learned to accept that. However, the weight of regret over things we had no control over still looms and is a threat to our love.
I don’t regret my past any longer; I accept it as part of me. Chase, though, remains tortured by his past. Facing unresolved issues with his father is a start for Chase; I see this now. Finding this old motorcycle is good, very good.
Sometimes healing comes from the most unlikely of sources.
I crouch down next to Chase and leaning my head on his shoulder, I say, “Hey, maybe we can take the bike out while we’re here. Do you think it runs?”
Chase turns away from the bike. He stands, pulling me up with him as we face one another. With my hands in his, he says, “It looks like it’s still in working order, and I think taking it out is a great idea, Kay.”
“Good,” I reply. “I think so, too.”
Sadness, though, clouds Chase’s eyes as he tightens his hands on mine. “I’m trying to work through these problems, babe,” he says. “And I know it’s been hard on us lately.”
“We’ll get through it,” I reply.
Holding my gaze, his troubled blues question, And if we don’t, then what?
“We will,” I whisper, responding to his unspoken fear. “We always do.”
He lets go of me and scrubs a hand down his face. “I hope you’re right,” he mutters.
I want to change the subject—for now—so I ask, “Did you talk with Will after I went upstairs?”
“I did,” he says slowly.
He then gives me the rundown of their conversation.
“Hmm,” I murmur, frowning. “Do you really think the gun he gave you is the gun Kyle sold to him?”
Chase shrugs his wide shoulders. “I don’t know. I sure as hell hope it is.”
In a low voice, I quietly say, “If not, though, then it means Will still has a gun in his possession.”
Chase sighs. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’ve been thinking we should stay in town for a while.”
“We do have three more weeks off from work. School starts after Labor Day,” I offer helpfully.
I work as a first-grade teacher at Holy Trinity Elementary, the church-run school. And Chase works for the church as a sort of handyman. We don’t have to return to work until September since my summer secretarial job ended, and Father Maridale gave Chase time off to work out this thing with Will.
Chase pulls me to him, his hands reaching down and slipping under the pale-pink silk of my robe. “You’re okay with staying, then?”
His fingers graze over my thigh, trailing up higher and higher. “Uh-huh,” I gasp when he reaches and squeezes my ass cheeks lightly.
“Baby,” he says.
His tone is smug, knowing what his touch does to me.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
He doesn’t stop. Chase nuzzles my neck, his lips soft and wet. “This little robe is cute,” he murmurs against my skin, his breath the lightest of tickles. He finds the tie at my waist and adds, “But I think it has to go.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Good idea.”
Making short work of the loose knot, Chase slides the silky material down my body till it’s just a puddle of pink fabric on the garage floor.
“You’re so beautiful, baby girl,” he tells me as his eyes scan every inch of my bared-for-him body.
When Chase dips a finger between my legs, I moan.
He chuckles and says in return, “Always so ready for me, aren’t you?”
It’s true; I am always ready for him.
“I am,” I say. “I want you, always.”
Chase glances around the room, like he’s trying to decide where he wants to take me.
Anywhere, I long to tell him. You can take me anywhere, because you already have me everywhere.
He eyes the bike for a few seconds, but decides against it. Slowly, he walks me backward to the parked Porsche.
“It does have a nice, swoopy hood,” I say, which makes him laugh.
We reach the car and as he leans me back against it, he rasps, “It sure does.”
I prop myself up on the hood on my elbows and ask, “Is this your mom’s car, or Greg’s?”
“I don’t know,” Chase says as he unzips his jeans, “and I don’t really care.”
He slides his jeans and boxer briefs low on his hips, freeing his magnificent hardness. I reach out and wrap my hand around the silky smooth skin while I squeeze at the solid length beneath. “I want you right now,” I tell him.
Like Chase, I don’t care whose car this is. All I want is for Chase to spread me wide on the hood and fill me as only he can do.
He pulls his T-shirt over his head. That move is for me; he knows I like to touch the wings tattooed on his back when we’re together like this.
I lean all the way back and scoot up on metal so smooth my skin doesn’t stick or stop. I just glide.
Chase leans over me. His hand rests next to my head, the muscles in his left arm straining and bunching as he supports his weight. With his free hand, he does what I love to watch him do—handles his cock.
I watch as he strokes once, twice, and then positions himself at my core. I place my hand on the tattoo scrolling around his left bicep. I’ve read the words a million times, but I read them again, out loud. “As I stand before you, judge me not.”
“Fitting words,” he says.
“For both of us,” I say, and then I add, “I love your tattoos so much.”
“I know you do, baby,” Chase replies.
With his engorged tip at my entrance, Chase guides himself into me inch-by-inch. I writhe and arch at the slow but delicious torture of him filling my small body. When he’s in me as far as he can go, he makes me look up at him.
His gaze is questioning, tortured. I want Chase to find peace. And I certainly want to help him, no matter what that might entail.
Chase starts to move, his gaze never leaving mine. “I need you,” he whispers at last.
“I’m here,” I whisper back, gasping when he thrusts into me more roughly. “I’m here, Chase. I’m here.”
I know he hears me, but from the frantic way he keeps plunging into me, I don’t think he really hears me. He drives into me like he’s branding me, marking me. He’s doing everything he can to make me his forever.
Doesn’t he know I will always be his?
Logically, I believe he knows. But there’s something deep in Chase that makes him fear I will leave him, just as he’s been left in the past.
Never, ever will that happen, I long to say.
But he needs more than words. He needs to learn it on his own by overcoming his fears. I just don’t know if Chase sees as clearly as I do the things which haunt him.
Chase
If I keep this up, I am going to lose Kay.
Am I being irrational?
I don’t know. But even if she doesn’t leave me, she deserves more than this. I need to confront and work through my issues, just as I encouraged her to do. Maybe if I quell these demons haunting me, I’ll finally be the better man I’ve been striving to become.
After all, Kay deserves nothing less than my best.
I spend the morning in the garage, getting the old Indian bike ready to go. It’s in good working order, but it’s not fully road-ready. I work fast, as my goal is to have this thing out of here before my mother and her husband get home.
Truth is, I have no burning desire to be part of the welcoming committee. Let Will have the honor of bringing Mom and Greg up to speed. Little bro can figure out how best to inform them that Kay and I are staying in Las Vegas…and that we plan to stay here for a while.
Though I’m sure Will won’t be divulging exactly why Kay and I came to town.
Yeah, I’d place a Vegas bet on that shit.
Whatever, I think, sighing. Bottom line is that wh
ile all that is going down, I’ll be with Kay. We’re taking the bike out together. Shortly after we woke early this morning, I tossed out the idea…and Kay liked it.
“Where should we go?” she called out over her shoulder as she made her way to the bathroom adjoined to our bedroom.
After I retrieved my boxers, I walked to the doorway. Kay was standing in front of the basin, brushing her teeth. She looked cute as all get-out, hair all mussed and still sleepy-eyed.
It took me a minute to respond, but finally as I leaned on the doorframe, I said, “Anywhere you want to go, baby girl. Your wish is my command.”
“You have to pick,” she said, turning to face me after she rinsed out her mouth. “You know Las Vegas better than I do.”
Yes, I sure do, I thought.
I’m still thinking the same thing too—here in the garage, two hours later. However, the Las Vegas I know oh-so-well sure isn’t something I’d ever show Kay. Sure, she knows my past—most of it, anyway—but there’s no need to revisit the pit stops I traveled along the way. Sadly, my Las Vegas tour would be filled with dark alleys, darker apartments, and the darkest of nights. All shaded in tones of addiction, sorrow, and despair.
Would I ever want to show beautiful, gentle Kay where I used to score coke, coke that made my head feel like it was exploding?
No way.
Or maybe I could spin her by the old apartment and point out where Will and I spent many a night alone while Mom was off gambling? Hell, I could take her to the convenience store around the corner and point out the aisle where I once stole a can of Spam. Don’t laugh. That can of mystery meat provided a makeshift holiday dinner that year when Mom forgot to come home on Christmas Eve.
Would I subject Kay to that memory of mine? Short answer: No.
In fact, I wish I could block out some of those memories myself. I don’t like recalling how Will and I ate the Spam I stole out of the can that year.
But I do remember, I remember it all, including how Will cried the whole time, saying he wanted his mother.
Slumping down next to the bike, the distant memory leaves me feeling choked up.
