“Is that what Wrecker wants?”
“Shit, that boy would eat a cow if it was put in front of him,” says Macy, the manager of the Cut-n-Curl. She doesn’t own the place, the club does. Rumor is that Judge bought it for his first wife—Wrecker’s mom who died of breast cancer when he was four—and that it reverted to the club when she passed. I never ask about Julie because it’s still painful for both of them. “Your brother called, wanted to know if you’d be done soon. Said he tried your cell phone but you weren’t answering.”
“I’ll call him when I’m done,” I say sourly.
Fortunately, Danilo and I spend the rest of our time talking about our favorite potluck dishes instead of Wrecker, the Ellerbys or Bang Bang. When she’s done, I step out the back and call Grant.
“Chelsea, you busy today?”
I wrap my arms around me to quell the shiver. It’s so good being able to pick up the phone and talk to him after all this time.
“Some. Got done doing Danilo’s fill. Apparently she and Bang Bang are off.”
“Yeah, I heard that too.”
That means he saw something at the party because Judge doesn’t like people talking about club activities outside the club and Grant hews pretty close to Judge’s preferences.
“Anyway, we done gossiping about Danilo and Bang Bang?” he says.
“Depends on what you called me about.”
“Dad wants me to run up to Ortonville and see a guy about some old Corvette parts. Thought you might want to come along. We could camp near Big Stone Lake and spend the night. Just the two of us.”
The next shiver I couldn’t suppress. Grant and I away from the club, his dad and the town? We could fuck and sleep and wake up together?
“When you picking me up?”
His low laugh curls around my belly and makes my muscles tighten—all of them. “Let’s meet at the house in an hour and we can take off as soon as we’re packed.”
I do one more set of nails that could not harden fast enough for me and run out of the salon as if it’s on fire.
At home, I grab my backpack and throw in a pair of panties, jeans, knit tank, and my skimpiest swimsuit that happens to be three tiny pieces of white fabric held together by string and gold rings. I bought it at the Mall of America on my sixteenth birthday. Grant wanted to have it burned and Judge wasn’t much of a fan either but it was my money and neither of them dared to tell me to put it back.
I ended up buying another one at Walmart in black—with a little more fabric— to get them to stop whining about it. I kept the white bikini and would wear it with girlfriends from time to time, mostly to rile up Grant more than anything. It’s the perfect item for our getaway.
A few toiletries and my toothbrush round out my overnight kit. I run downstairs and pack a few things for Grant. When I reach the top of the stairs, I hear the throaty growl of Grant’s bike as it roars down the street and up the driveway. I meet him in the garage and throw myself at him almost before he’s off the bike. Instead of pulling me against him though he sets me aside.
“Grouch is coming,” he murmurs, adjusts himself and then moves toward the back where the camping supplies are kept.
Grouch is the club treasurer. He arrives not a minute later. Climbing off his low rider, he holds open his arms. “Where’s my big hug, girl? You only give those out to your brother?”
I scamper forward into his arms and then dance away. “You been gone to prison for three years? I must’ve been sleeping that entire time because I swear we had barbecue at Rowdy’s a few weeks ago.”
My voice is shaky because of my near miss. If Grant hadn’t acted quickly, I’d have been climbing him like a tree and exploring the inside of his mouth with more dedication than a dentist. That would’ve been hard to explain to Grouch.
“Your dad wanted me to pick up the books for the Cut-n-Curl.”
“Sure. They’re inside on the kitchen table.” I follow Grouch in. “Is something wrong? Macy wouldn’t take money from the club.”
“Nothing’s wrong, darling,” Grouch says and pinches my chin like I’m a child. “Just reconciling everything. We need to make sure our tax estimates are on track. Don’t want the IRS after us. They brought down Capone.”
“Right.” I don’t believe him. Grouch knows those books inside and out. If they aren’t worried about Macy then they’re using her books to move some cash around which is one of those things I’m better off not knowing anything about.
Outside Grant is lashing down the tent to the top of the handlebars.
“What’s with the tent?” Grouch asks.
Grant straightens. “We’re going to camp at Big Stone Lake tonight. Dad wants me to pick up a couple Corvette parts.”
Grouch frowns and shakes his head. “That doesn’t sound like a solid plan to me. Thought you said you were taking your sister with you.”
“I am.” Grant picks up the sleeping bag—the one sleeping bag—looks at me and then at Grouch. My heart is thumping loud and I press a hand over it fearing that they could hear it. Grant tosses the bag aside and makes a big production of going back to get a second sleeping bag. He unrolls it and then re-rolls the first bag inside. He fits everything on the back and waves a hand at the setup. “Everything fits.”
Grouch has not stopped frowning. He steps over to Grant and leads him to the back of the garage. The acoustics inside, however, allow me to hear everything they’re saying.
“There are a lot of vacationers up at Big Stone during the summer,” Grouch begins.
“Yeah?” Grant is confused and so am I. I’m beginning to think it’s not about the solo sleeping bag at all.
“You can’t leave your sister on the beach alone.” Grouch shakes Grant’s arm.
“I’m not leaving her on the beach. We’re going to share…the tent.”
“Son, you’ve been in for a long time and I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to get up to Big Stone and spend some time chatting up pretty girls, but Chelsea is your sister. And if you’re taking her with you, you can’t abandon her on the beach where some lowlife could take advantage of her. There are Henchmen up that way. Maybe you oughta leave her home.”
Grant scowls. “Appreciate you looking out for Chelsea, but I’m not going to leave her in the tent and go off and fuck some chick. I can keep it in my pants for a day.”
Grouch falls silent and then gives up on Grant and turns to me. “Wrecker’s antsy so it’s a good thing that you’re going with him, but if he decides to spend the night at someone’s place you need to check into a hotel for the night. Hear me?”
“I hear you.” I smile at him and then lean over to give him a hug. He’s trying to watch out for the both of us. He drives off, shaking his head, no doubt thinking we are stupid and young and his pearls of wisdom are wasted on us.
•••
The ride to Big Stone is everything. The wind whips by our bodies and Grant handles the bike as if he is one with the machine. I press my face into the heavy leather of his cut and breathe in his male scent, the spice of the leather, and the tang of the fresh air. I don’t want to stop in Ortonville and I can tell by the reluctant way he wheels the bike into the campground, he’s not ready to call it a night either.
“Want to go to Canada?” I suggest, only half joking. Our helmets have radio communication but we rarely use it on the open road.
He nods emphatically but we stop anyway.
Grant has rented a drive-in site so we can keep the motorcycle close to our tent. Big Stone is over eight acres of trees and trails and rocky lakeside beach. At the campsite, there is a tent pad, fire pit and a picnic table. The lake is only a few yards away.
We pitch the tent and Grant pulls out the food in his saddle bags along with a six-pack of beer.
“Bottles, huh? Fancy,” I tease.
“Don’t ever say I can’t show a girl a good time.” He grins.
We gather some tiny branches for tinder and larger logs for fuel and hunker down to start our fir
e, which is mostly to protect us from the mosquitos rather than provide warmth. The summer night is sultry. I sit on top of the picnic table and Grant sits on the seat, between my legs. Periodically he turns and presses a kiss against my thigh.
Now that we’re somewhere totally private, neither of us is in a hurry to get the other naked. There’s something…wonderful about sitting here, with his arms slung over my knees and my hand in his hair as we drink beer and stare at the lake.
“You need a haircut.” His hair is nearly down to his collar. Before he went in, he’d worn it short, almost a buzz cut because he claimed it was easier. Inside, he let it grow. A small rebellion because prison regulations required hair to be no longer than a certain length and no beard growth. Grant let it grow out until he was ordered to get it cut and then allowed the cycle to repeat itself.
“Yeah, but I thought you could do it.”
“I could wash you but I don’t think you want me cutting it.” I’m a nail tech and hadn’t bothered to learn the art of hair cutting.
“Then I’ll let it grow. That bother you?”
“Nope. We can take turns French braiding each other’s hair then.”
Without turning around, he reaches up and gives my tit a squeeze. “We going to have a pillow fight and then rub lotion on each other?”
“Is that what you think girls do at sleepovers?” I bat his hand away.
“Nope. I think you guys have a lesbian orgy fest after the lotion rubbing and the pillow fight.”
I laugh even harder. “Then there’d be no reason to sneak out and find the boys, right?”
“A guy can dream.”