Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(46)
"Now, don't be like that," he said, rolling a taut strawberry nipple between his fingers, loving how her pout melted away on a moan. "You know I've gotta go to work. This ride'll bring in a lot of cash."
As she sighed, he filled his hands with both porcelain breasts, and let his caress drag down her torso, past her tiny waist, and then pausing, allowing her shapely hips to warm his palms. Damn, Marianne had been a great roll in the hay, always was. Blondes were indeed more fun, but he had things to do. He kissed her navel and stood. There was no way he was going back to the trailer with his parents, who'd most likely be in the midst of another of their drunken rages. He'd had enough of it all. The road was calling his name. This had just been a pit stop. Marianne had known what this was, going in.
"Well, when are you coming back?" She sat up slowly, thoroughly disappointed, and began twisting a long tendril of corn-silk-colored hair around her finger.
"Soon," he lied, pulling on his jeans, and stalking around the room to find his T-shirt and boots. "I'm just going to ride with the fellas to be their road mechanic, then I'll be back. I'm the best in the business, and if they're gonna do the Arizona races, then I not only get fed and paid, with free drinks along the way, but also get a cut of what they win. Nobody can rebuild a Harley like me. Like I said, I'm the best at what I do."
"You are the best," she murmured, sending him a double message with her sad smile as she left the bed and came toward him slowly. "But you promise you'll call from the road?"
"Yeah, baby, of course," he said absently. "Don't I always take good care of you?"
She nodded and melted against him, and leaned up for a kiss. He returned it hard, holding her silken tresses in his hands, and then let her go. Damn it, she was going to make him late.
"I'll call you," he said, pecking her lips one more time, and swiping his wallet off the dresser.
"I wish you could make it last forever," she said quietly.
"Maybe when I come back, I will," he said offhandedly, giving her a sly wink that contained its own double message, and then he was out the door.
Freedom, blessed freedom. He'd broken out of Kentucky's red-clay prison, had money in his pocket, wind in his face, and was riding with the pack. Even the rough riders had respect for his skill and his custom rebuilt bike. She was purring like a kitten between his legs, petting his crotch with her vibrations—a black and chrome beauty, and the sexiest thing he'd ever been with.
He was proud of his pretty woman. She could make love to the asphalt at a hundred and ten without a shudder, and could go faster than that if he wanted her to. All he had to do was stroke her right and she'd respond. There wasn't another one like her. She was a fingerprint original with his stamp of excellence; a custom-built Easy Rider that would make a man shiver just looking at her.
She had fine Hell's Angels high bars in the front, a teardrop gas tank, custom painted, with blue and red flames… V-twin engine—a hard-tail, with no shocks… fishtail stack exhaust, highway pegs that demanded respect, and a sissy bar for those times when he needed to pick up a stray babe and ride a little female companionship toward a motel. When the women got off his chopper, they were already wet. She was the hottest thing on two wheels, and the only thing he needed to make a commitment to. No, he wasn't coming back. Unfortunately, Marianne's sweet charms couldn't compare.
He pulled fourth position in the convoy, just behind Snake, Crazy Pete, and Razor, and had moved up a notch in front of Bull's Eye, loving the way the vibrations traveled up his arms, quaked his legs, and jarred his spine. Motion was an aphrodisiac. Speed was a rush. He had no plans to take a job he hated, like his father, and then come home to beat his wife. The old man should have gotten out before he'd lost his mind in a bottle. He should have done what Rider was doing now. Just got out. But roaming probably wouldn't have helped his dad. From northwest Kentucky near the strip mines, to Mayfield in the southwest parts near the Mississippi, it was all the same nonsense.
Where he'd been didn't allow for the individual soul to explore. They said music was a waste of time. Playing the guitar was a fool's dream. Trying to get some of Johnny Cash's and Willie Nelson's riffs under his belt had mollified them. He could do that on a plaid nylon lawn chair out back without protest being hurled out the window at him. But he had to tinker with B. B. King, Eric Clapton, Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley, Led Zeppelin, and the other masters in private, at the garage. Messin' 'round with Hendrix had made his father threaten to break his arm. Had put his other lover, his guitar, at risk. Had to pet her like that on the sly. Didn't his father know some things just transcended race? Music, like knowing how to rebuild an engine, was another one of those things.
L.A. was his destination. After he made some money, he was never coming back. He was twenty-one and there was just too much of the world to see.
His guitar was slung over his back, his tools, a bottle of Jack Daniel's and a roll of jeans, concealing a Smith and Wesson model 19 revolver, were in his side saddlebags—just in case life got crazy, as he headed toward the Wild West. Black tires set in gleaming wire rims eating up Route 66 blacktop.
And they said Paradise was lost. Well, he was living testimony. Being a nomad was in his genes; this was the only thing he wanted to make last forever.
Words weren't even necessary to communicate with these guys he was with. One of them would simply ride down the line, offer a nod, and it meant "pull over; bar stop." Time to leave highway civilization and do the back roads.