Hard Rider

“Oh God, yes! We saw that old couple down the street going at it like dogs in heat! How could I forget? An image like that...”

I literally shuddered, laughing at the same time. It was certainly one of the more traumatic memories of my childhood. You never do forget your first eyeful of 80-year-old tits...or 90-year-old balls, for that matter.

“Hang low, sweet chariot,” Cross sang, a wicked grin on his face. I started laughing all over again, and held onto his arm to keep from falling off the stool. That was a bad idea. He was so...firm! It was like rock climbing. Not that I'd ever do anything so hare-brained, but I could imagine how that solid rock would feel under your fingers. Except Cross was warm to the touch, blood flowing in and over and around that wall of muscle. Hot, rushing, masculine blood...

I had to control myself. My laughter died to a content hum and I signaled for another beer. Okay, so maybe I didn't want to control myself. Not when he still looked as good as the day I left him – better, even, despite the scars. He had longer hair now, dirty blonde and tousled. And those eyes, bluer than anything on God's green earth. Still that five-o'clock shadow ringing his smirking lips.

It wasn't just Cross' traffic-stopping good looks that was driving me straight down the bottle. The booze was making it much easier for me to deal with the guilt in my stomach. I could blame the nausea on the whiskey until the sun came up.

I had hoped Cross would be different. That, like Dutch said, he'd be shady, and grim. But he wasn't. Not a bit of him was different than the Cross I loved when I was a teenager. Still rowdy as all hell, still never without a smile on his face, still handsome as the devil and twice as tempting. Still knew just how to make me laugh.

“Well, now, let me see...” Cross said, staring into his beer like it was a crystal ball. “You heard about Ducky?”

“Ducky!” I hadn't forgotten about my other best friend from childhood, but I hadn't wanted to ask, either. I didn't want any bad news. “I haven't heard anything about Ducky...he make it out? To Las Vegas?”

Cross shook his head, rolling his eyes at the same time.

“Hell no,” Cross said. “If he had an idea, it would die of loneliness.”

I scowled; Ducky always did make Cross' ass itch. I knew it was just stupid, boyish jealousy. Cross didn't feel it was “right” for his girlfriend to have another boy as her best friend. I told him to stuff it then, and I'd tell him to stuff it now.

“Shit,” Cross said, winning me over again with that smile, putting his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, darling. Just force of habit. No, Ducky does alright for himself. He's managing that feed store down on Crockett. He's out of town now, I think. Some convention. He'll be excited to see you when he gets back, though.”

“Oh,” I said, confused. “Is that the big news?”

“No,” Cross said. “The big news is that he and Mary Samuels got hitched.”

“No!” I covered my mouth with my hands, damn shocked out of words. Mary Samuels was not the kind of girl who would shack up with someone from our side of town. Well, maybe she'd shack up, but just to piss off Daddy for a little while. She was, as they say, shitting in high cotton.

“Yup,” Cross beamed. “I never had much love for Duck, but I gotta say, he pulled that one off smooth as peanut butter.”

“Kids?” I leaned in, momentarily forgetting everything in my surprise.

“One on the way,” Cross nodded, taking a sip of his beer.

“Well, screw me sideways and lay me down to rest...” I shot Cross a dubious look over my own beer. “I'll believe it iff'n I see it, Cross DuFrane.”

See? Being back in Cutter was bringing out the trash in me again. But talking to Cross wasn't like talking to his pa, or Dutch, or any of the other old-timers. Their accents were thick, jagged, harsh on the ear. Cross had a more refined way of talking, new southern. Easy, slow, thick as molasses. Forget the biceps and the six-pack abs; his tongue was always his best muscle. Not just for speaking, either.

That was the beer and the whiskey talking. Even so, I knew that eventually, I would have to get him bedded down. I didn't think he'd get to trust me any other way. My stomach turned twice at that thought. Now, I covered my mouth with my hand to make sure I didn't throw up.

“You alright?” Cross' concern showed in his eyes. I nodded.

“Just gotta....” I didn't finish my sentence, but rushed straight to the bathroom. There, I unloaded all three shots and four beers into the toilet, coming up for air only when my stomach was empty as Mother Hubbard's cupboard. Shit. I couldn't do this. There was no way I could do this. I couldn't keep on lying to Cross. Every word out of my mouth was a lie. Every time I touched him, it was a lie. If the guilt didn't eat me alive, the shame would.

“You done?”

Dutch's voice chilled me to my core. It came from outside the stall, echoing off the bathroom's tile. He'd followed me in here? I must have been too busy being sick to notice...

“I expect you'll want to wash your mouth out pretty good before you go back out there,” Dutch said. “I'm gonna leave you some gum here on the sink.”

What the hell was I supposed to say to that? Thanks?

“Dutch, I don't...”

“Shut up. Get out here.”

Well, this sure as hell wasn't the same Dutch who'd come to me first, all polite and smiling. I felt my body obeying him, rising from the floor, flushing the toilet and coming to stand before him. He was red-eyed as hell, his face streaked and cracked with wrinkles, his lips chapped.

“Here are some things I ain't ever want to hear comin' out of your mouth: don't, can't, won't. I'm not trying to scare ya, honey, but we gotta establish these ground rules. I've been watchin' you out there, and you're doing mighty good. Keep it up. 'Cause I'm gonna keep watchin' ya. Get it? There's never gonna be another moment that I ain't watchin' ya. Not 'til this is done. So keep your don'ts and your can'ts and your won'ts to yourself. Hear me?”

“Yes,” I said. Fuck! I should have known! I should have known! Getting back in business with Dutch was never going to be smooth, never going to be easy. He had the whole club at his back. I had nothing. If Cross learned why I was really here, he wouldn't save some spit to keep me from dying of thirst.

“Good girl,” Dutch said. “Now, make yourself purty again. Your next round's on me, and I'm makin' his a double. Loosen them lips, right?”

“Right,” I said, hating the meekness in my voice. Bullies. All of these assholes were just bullies. When I was a kid, I had Cross and Ducky to stand up against the bullies. This time around, I was alone. Worse, this time around, I was on the bully's side. I went to the sink after Dutch left, washed my face and rinsed out my mouth, took some of the gum. I avoided looking into the mirror until the last possible moment. Did I recognize her, the woman looking back at me? The traitor? I didn't want to, but I did.

Outside, back at the bar, I found another round waiting for me – just as Dutch had promised. And Cross, grinning, lif

ted his shot towards his president, waiting for me to do the same, thanking Dutch for buying the round. He had no fucking idea. I wasn't sure I could keep my own drink down, but I managed it, somehow. Burned a hole in my stomach. I deserved it, and much worse. As Cross turned back to slam his empty shot glass on the table, I noticed something on his cut I hadn't seen before.

“Now, how'd you manage to get a set of these?” I asked, reaching up to touch the patch, proudly displaying a pair of broken wings.

“Ah, now that's one hell of a story, sugar,” he said with a grin. “Bloody as shit, too. You sure you can handle it?”

“I'm sure,” I said, knowing he wouldn't accept any other answer.

“Well, I was out on Birch Road, and you know how that pavement winds like a figure eight. Black as pitch, moon nowhere in sight. No stars to speak of. This was four years ago. I was on my Indian. She was a beaut, handled like a dream, but she was no damn match for this Camaro and its leakin' oil. I was comin' round a turn, smooth as could be, but all of a sudden I feel her sliding out from under me. I didn't know what the hell was happenin', but I knew it wasn't good.

She had her heart set on layin' down, so I let go, and she threw me 75 feet across the tar. And I caught up with that damn Camaro. He saw me bite it in his rearview, was slowing down and fixin' to stop, and I found myself lookin' up at his engine block! It was the last thing I saw, before the pain knocked me out. Friction burned clear through my quilts. That's where I got this beautiful souvenir...”

He stood up then, and lifted his shirt up, turning so I could see his ribs and back. A big, nasty scar ran diagonal across his flesh; it was ugly and red and angry-looking. But holy fuck, did the rest of his body make up for it. Inked everywhere ink could go, abs like a mountain range, muscles so thick and tight they looked fake.

When I finally managed to drag my eyes away from his body and back to his face, his grin had me blushing and blinking fast.