I swing my truck into the parking lot of Hog City, the biker bar on the outskirts of town, slipping it into park. They had a help wanted sign at the post office and I saw it when I was setting up my new post office box. I take a minute to just sit in my truck and think about my life over the last eight years. The pain I felt when we lost Everly is nothing compared to the pain I felt when Mr. Cantu stopped me on the porch that night all those years ago.
I hit the front steps and they creak under my feet. Bounding up the stairs, I rap on the front door three times, shifting from foot to foot. It takes a minute, but the porch light flicks on and the front door swings open.
“Dean.” He says as he steps out and shuts the door behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s always been built like a brick shithouse. He stands taller than my 6 feet, lean and agile. He’s never really liked me.
“Hey Mr. Cantu, is Whit home?” I ask, eager to get this little stand-off over with. To talk to my girl, hold her.
“She is, but you won’t be seeing her today.” I roll my eyes and he narrows his. “It’s been a week, Dean. A week since you bothered to call her or knock on this door to check on her. Her momma and I have been here, watching her wither away. Watching the guilt and heartbreak consume her. Where the fuck have you been?” He asks, and I want to tell him that I’ve been dealing with my own heartbreak, but would that make me look like less of a man? Whitley isn’t the only one feeling this loss. I am too. I grip the back of my neck, anxious and annoyed.
“I just really need to see her,” I start, and he shakes his head, taking a step towards me and lowering his voice.
“No, what you need to do is turn around and leave. For reasons beyond me, my little girl loves you, but she loved that baby more than life. If she could have, she woulda’ sacrificed her own life to take Everly’s place. She would have died to let that baby live and I’ve been holding her every night while sobs wrack her body, for the baby she lost and for the boy that can’t get his shit together. Hear me now and hear me good, boy. You leave. You do what you gotta do, but don’t you dare come back to my house until you’re the man she deserves, do you understand me?” And with that he turns and goes back inside. I hear the door lock behind him, and the porch light goes off and I’m left standing on that front porch, alone and heartbroken.
I deserved every word he fired at me. Every hurt he sliced back open when he told me to leave. I didn’t understand it back then, but he was right. Whitley deserved so much better than me, so I left. I left with every intention of staying gone. But it’s been too long, and I can’t live without her any longer. Of course, I’ve had other women while I’ve been gone, but none of them lasted longer than a handful of nights and none of them ever compared to Whit.
I’ve been working and saving as much as I can, ready to go back to Alabama and get my girl, I just need a little more time. Which is what brings me here. To this moment. In the parking lot of a biker bar in the middle of nowhere, Colorado. I exit the truck, determined to land the job.
Present
And I did land the job. Spoke to the owner who was desperate for another male bartender that could handle the bikers when they got a little too rowdy. He hired me and I started the next day. Jim taught me everything he knew, from working the bar to running the payroll. He became one of my closest friends, no matter the thirty-year age difference.
He didn’t ask questions when I came to him six months ago and told him I had to leave. Told me he knew I couldn’t stay forever but he was happy to have me while he did. On my last day, he gave me an envelope and told me not to open it until I made it to where I was going. Which is why I’m sitting here, in the office of my bar, staring at his crooked handwriting on the envelope in front of me. I tear it open and unfold the letter.
Dean,
I’m not so good with the words but I wanted you to know how much the time we’ve spent together has meant to me. I always saw you as sort of a kindred spirit, cus ya see, I’ve spent half my life running from my past.
I lost my wife and my son in a car accident thirty years ago. Drunk driver, which is pretty ironic for the fella that owns the only bar in a sixty-mile radius. Guess that’s the penance I pay for not being in the car with them, for being too busy at work to meet them for the dinner I swore I’d be at. Spent a lot of years feeling guilty, wanting to die myself. Thought about killing myself more times than I care to admit. Actually had the suicide letter written, had hung up a help wanted sign for the bar, and was ready to put my plan in to action. But then you walked into my bar.
Saw myself in you, boy. So sure of yourself. The way you talked about your past life and the life you’ve lived over the last handful of years, I started to realize that maybe I was left here for a reason. And that maybe that reason was for you to show up in my bar and turn into the closest thing I have to a friend. Now don’t you worry about me running off and killing myself now that you’re gone. I’m in a much better headspace than I was before. Been seeing’ a therapist and he’s helping me realize that I’m worth being here, living and breathing.
Go get your girl, son. You deserve every part of that life you’re fighting for, but just know, you can always come home to an old man and his biker bar, even if it’s just for a visit.
Jim
I drop the letter and let Jim’s words settle over me. Suicide. Never in a million years did he ever let on that he was struggling or hurting. Why didn’t he tell me? I fold the letter back up and go to slide it back into the envelope when something else catches my eye. I slide the slip of paper out of the envelope and my eyes bug out of my head. It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.
Holy shit. In the memo line he wrote ‘get your girl’. I shake my head and laugh. Crazy old fucking man. I’m getting ready to dig my phone out of my pocket and call him when Kolby pops his head into my office.
“Hey boss, need you in the kitchen to sign off on this vendor.”
“Be right there,” I say, and he leaves the doorway. I drop the letter and check into my desk drawer. Calling Jim will have to wait until later.
Whitley
“Get a move on it, slugger!” I shout as I thread my ponytail through my Monroeville baseball hat. Today’s the day for the annual co-ed softball tournament. It’s Deans first since he moved back to town and it’s something that started years ago while he was gone, so he has yet to witness the madness that is tournament day. I bound down the stairs of his old farmhouse as he strides out of the kitchen looking deliciously sinful in a pair of black basketball shorts and a gray cutoff. He stutter steps to a stop when he sees me, his eyes dragging a path from my ball cap all the way down to my sneakers.
“How am I supposed to play softball with a fucking erection, Whit?” He grits out, his blue eyes zeroing in on my spandex shorts. He scrubs his hand over his mouth. “Turn around.” He demands. I cock an eyebrow, challenging him. He makes a spinning motion with his finger and I oblige. “Stop.” He grunts out when my back is to him. I feel his heat hit my back as he walks me towards the front door and presses his cock against my ass.
“These fucking shorts should be illegal,” he says, dragging his palms down my sides and nudging my legs apart with his foot. “Hands on the door, sweetheart,” he murmurs in my ear and I do what he says. He presses his cock against me and snakes his hand to my pussy, running his finger down my seam over my shorts before dropping to his knees behind me and tugging my shorts and panties down my legs. Dean nips at my ass cheek and drags his finger through my wetness, causing my breath to hitch. He fills me with two fingers, and I drop my forehead against the door, circling my hips over his fingers that are inside of me.
“This cunt,” he says, slapping me on my ass and the sting of it feels incredible, “this cunt is mine. All fucking mine, right Whit?” And I nod my head, words lost because I’m already teetering on the edge of my orgasm. He uses his hand that isn’t finger fucking my pussy to spread my ass cheeks. “What about this? Has this belonged to anybody?” I tense
a little when his thumb drags across my puckered hole and shake my head, because no. No one has, and I’m not sure I would even want that. He grunts his approval at my answer. “Good, because I want to be the first. But that’s not happening right now. Save that for another day when we have time to play.” He presses his nose to my pussy and inhales. “So sweet,” he murmurs dragging his tongue from my clit to my asshole and my legs practically give out.
“Turn around,” he demands again, and I oblige, facing him and propping my back up against the door, my chest rising and falling with each breath. I glance down to take him in, him on his knees worshipping me like I’m some sort of goddess. As if he can read my mind he says, “I could spend the rest of my life worshipping that pussy and it still wouldn’t be enough.” He proves his point by using his thumbs to spread my folds apart and dives right in, sucking my clit into his mouth and biting down. I cry out, slapping my hand against the door and fisting his hair.
“Dean,” I whimper, and his hooded eyes meet mine while he eats me out, not breaking eye contact as he tongues me, lapping up all my juices. His fingers join his tongue and pretty soon I’m on the brink of my orgasm, grinding my hips against his face. I can feel the tingle starting to build and I’m close, so fucking close when he stops suddenly and stands.
“What the hell, Dean?” I snap, pissed that he’d bring me that close to the edge and just stop. The motherfucker grins at me, wiping my juices from his face.
“Patience, baby,” he murmurs, fingers hooking into his shorts to release his cock. It bobs free and he slides his hand up and down it a few times, still taking my body in, his eyes heated.
“Wanna come inside of you,” he says, lifting me and I wrap my legs around his waist, his cock sliding against the seam of my pussy. “Wanna know while we’re out on that softball field that my cum could be dripping down your thigh. Want everyone to know you’re mine.”
“I am yours,” I whisper, and his eyes darken. Striding over to the arm of the sofa, he drops me on it. I wrap my arms around his neck, tugging him down for a kiss and he obliges, slipping his tongue past my lips. I can taste myself on him and it’s intoxicating. Dean Anderson is my greatest high and I’m not sure I ever want to come back down.
He pulls back and watches as he presses inside of me, filling me to the hilt. I whimper, wrapping my legs around him. He wraps his arm around my back to brace me from falling over.
“So fucking tight,” he grits out, pumping in and out of me as I meet him thrust for thrust. “God baby, the way you fit my cock. Fuckin’ incredible.”
I moan in agreement because he’s right, it’s never felt this good with anyone else. Dean is the only person that’s ever brought me to orgasm and each time is better than the last. I grind myself down on his dick and he brings his thumb to my clit, pressing in on it and I come instantly, my head thrown back, legs still wrapped around his waist as his orgasm hits him, thrusting inside me once, twice, and stays rooted inside me on the third thrust, his cock spurting inside of me. I’m breathing heavy, trying to catch my breath as he slides out of me and helps me down off the arm of the couch.
“God baby, that was incredible.” Dean says, pulling me in for a quick kiss. We break apart and follow the trail of clothes to the front door, both of us dressing. I’m tying up my tennis shoe when there’s a loud honk outside. He glances at me and grins.
“Woop!” I holler and jump up, slapping Dean on the ass and throwing the door open. Game time.
Dean
“What the hell?” I ask, glancing at Whitley standing beside me in the driveway. I’m staring at the most obnoxious purple and gray school bus that I’ve ever laid eyes on. Take me out to the Ballgame is blaring from the speakers inside and the bass is thumping, rattling the windows. The door hisses open and Fred, the town cabbie, is seated inside. He flashes me a toothy grin before motioning us on board.
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask Whit and she shakes her head, her ponytail swishing from side to side.
“Nope,” she says, emphasis on the p before she bounds up the steps in front of me. “Come on, sport!” She throws back over her shoulder.
“Fuck me,” I groan, trailing behind her and up the stairs. I turn towards the back of the bus just in time to see her hop on one of the three stripper poles - yes, three - and swing herself around it before dropping down in the seat next to Lex, who is seated next to Ford. He stands and offers me a beer, which I happily take.
“No better way to welcome you home, officially, than the Split Finger Hoochie Mamas tournament,” Ford says, and I spew beer out of my mouth, causing Jaxson to guffaw.
“Please tell me that’s not the name of it?” I ask and glance at Ford. He winces.
“Wish I could, man.”
“Where did that name come from?” I ask, and Jaxson laughs even louder. I narrow my eyes at him. “What the fuck is so funny?”
“Your ma named it!” Fred shouts from the front of the bus and I drop my head down.
“That sounds just like something Darla would fuckin’ do,” I say, and Ford slaps me on the back.
“Come on, I’ve got whiskey.” I follow him to the middle of the bus where everyone else is seated, tugging Whit from her spot, and then depositing her back on my lap. The door hisses shut and we’re off to an albeit rocky start, the bus sputtering as Fred grinds first gear before finally getting it. We all lurch forward as he takes off.
I drag my hand down Whit’s back and let it rest on her ass. Her sweet, round, virgin ass. My cock starts to grow hard as I think about taking her, and I press up so she can feel it. She never breaks her conversation with Avery, but her cheeks turn pink and I grin, knowing I’m affecting her.
The sex we had before we left was so fucking hot. I was three seconds away from telling her I’m head over heels in love with her when the bus honked, and she was out the door. Probably for the best. I don’t want the first time we say it to be after a rough and dirty fuck. She means more to me than that, even though that’s a bonus.
The bus careens around a turn coming to a stop at an actual bus stop and more people pile on, all dressed to play softball. I know pretty much everyone from before I left, but there are some new faces, and Whitley introduces me to the people I don’t know. I finish my beer and toss it in the trash can.
The song changes to Get Low by Flo Rida and Whit lets out a loud whoop and jumps off my lap, pulling Avery to her feet. Avery shoots a nervous glance at Jax, whether it’s because she’s head over heels for him or because he’s her boss, but he just grins and shakes his head. Pretty soon, her and Whit are grinding all over each other and we are careening into the parking lot of the baseball field.
It’s good to be home.
***
Dropping down onto the bench next to Whitley, I let out a pitiful groan. She pats my knee.
“You okay, honey?” She asks, and I rest my head on her shoulder, the liquor finally getting to me.
“You’re so pretty,” I slur, closing one eye, trying to only see one Fred up to bat instead of two, but it’s no use. Still two of him. Damn. She presses a kiss to my forehead before pushing me off her and standing, slipping her helmet on because she’s up to bat next. She bends over to grab her bat and I slap her on her ass. She narrows her eyes at me over her shoulder and I shoot her a sloppy grin that earns me an eye roll. There’s a commotion to my right but it’s just Jaxson, tripping over the bat bag, catching himself on the wall of the dug-out, and then using the bench to guide himself to me. He flops down and lets out a sigh.
“Lady trouble?” I ask. Him and Avery have basically been eye fucking each other all night and if someone doesn’t make a move, I might lock them both in the porta potty. Jax solemnly nods his head, staring longingly at Avery in the outfield.
“I’m so fucked,” he hiccups, clearly intoxicated too. I pat his knee consolingly.
“I know the feeling, bro.” Whitley, hearing our conversation as she practices her swings, snorts a little.
�
�You two look super pathetic right now,” she says, and I narrow my eyes at her.
“Excuse me, did you just call your future husband pathetic?” I ask, my lips loose. “It’s your fault I’m this drunk!” She cracks up and makes her way over to me as Fred bat makes a resounding crack as it hits the ball, sending it sailing over the fence. Homerun.
“Honey,” she says, dropping to her haunches in front of me and placing her hands on my knees. Fuck, I want her like this later at home, her on her knees. Me, fucking her mouth. As if she can read my thoughts, her cheeks turn pink. “Honey, it’s not my fault that this is your first SFHM tournament and you thought that you could hang.” She pops up and drops a kiss on my mouth before sashaying her ass to home base since it’s her turn to bat. I clutch my chest and elbow Jax.
“I’m gonna marry the shit out of that woman.”
He gasps dramatically. “Can I be the flower girl?”
We’re both clearly drunk because we start howling with laughter. I can’t drag my eyes away from the beautiful woman up to hit. She points the bat at me.
“This one’s for you, future husband,” she hollers, blowing a kiss at me and everyone around us catcalls. She takes her position. Jensen is the only one semi-sober enough to be pitching, if that’s saying anything, because his first pitch is wide and it nails Fred, who’s standing in the dugout, right in the arm.
“Ouch, you son of a bitch!” Fred hollers and Jensen drops his glove, bending over to pick it up and falling in the process.
“Gen! We need a stand in pitcher!” Avery hollers at her little sister, who is sitting in the stands with her friends. She begrudgingly makes her way down the bleachers, grabbing the glove and ball from a still sprawled out Jensen, nudging him out of the way so she can actually stand on the mound.
Come Back for You: Boys of Alabama Page 5
