She slipped into a new Mercedes as Grady hopped onto a beat-up Harley, one of two dozen lined along a dark wall. A couple of other cars sat in slots; the rest of the lot was sand and cactus and tumbleweeds, with just two lights and a neon sign that read “S—T BAR” so softly, the “L” and the “O” were invisible, adding to the sense of isolation around the joint.
She cast Grady a glance, frowning as he backed the Harley out.
“That’s yours?” she asked.
In answer, he kicked the hog to life and zipped over to her.
She shook her head. “It’s criminal, letting a bike like that go to shit.”
“Motor’s in perfect pitch,” he snapped back. “I’m not into superficial.”
“We’ll see,” she said, then she fired the Mercedes up and pulled onto a two-lane blacktop leading nowhere. Not even a million stars could chase desolation from that much darkness.
They zipped down the road, Grady playing tag with the Mercedes, making her smile. At one point, as he was pulling up beside her, she stuck a hand out the window and let her fingers trail up his forearm. He slowed a bit and moved to within an inch of the car. She laughed and reached a bit further to rest that hand on his thigh. He clenched his ass and let her feel that he was going commando.
“Oh, Grady…you have a lot more than Spit, going on.”
He laughed and shot ahead of her. Then he noticed her blinker was going and she turned onto a gravel road, behind him. He spun around and chased down the road after her, fighting to get ahead of her dust, but he had to hold back. He had no worries about following her; the Mercedes’ headlights glowed through the billowing dust…until they stopped and vanished into the night.
She had reached a beat-up old ranch house surrounded by nothing but desert for miles and miles. Night gave the place a sad feeling – whitewashed brick walls, black-framed windows, a few succulents planted along a cyclone wire fence, the low-slung roof’s shingles so bleached by the day they looked pale even at night. Not the kind of home you’d like to come back to. But there she was, leaning against the Mercedes and watching him glide up. Dust covered him.
“You should’ve stayed by me,” she laughed.
Grady killed the bike and got off, beat most of the dust away and shrugged as he removed the goggles, leaving rings around his eyes.
“Do I gotta shower?”
She linked a finger in his belt and pulled him into a kiss, then backed away when he tried to slip her some tongue.
“Wash your face,” she said, pulling out her keys.
She was putting the key in the door when he slipped up behind her and ran his hands around her waist. Then he molded himself to her and nuzzled her hair. Not only was he going commando, it was obvious he was ready for business. So ready, he cupped her breasts.
She opened the door and broke away from him.
“Use some of the mouthwash, too,” she said. “Or would you rather have another beer?”
“You gotta ask?”
The interior was just as old and worn as the outside, with the barest of furnishings – couch, couple chairs, TV, end tables with second-hand lamps and torn shades. Fake paneling for walls. Cheap paintings in crappy frames. The floor wood but in serious need of refinishing. The whole place was the total opposite of what Grady’d expected, considering the Benz she was driving cost more than he’d made the last two years.
She dropped her things on the couch and motioned down a hall. “Bathroom’s second door on the left.” Then she strode into the very 1970s model-home-in-avocado-green kitchen.
Grady washed his face and ran wet hands through his hair in record time. He thought about the mouthwash but figured it would ruin the beer so shrugged that off. Then he took a piss…which wasn’t easy because he was still hard and couldn’t stop thinking about her breasts. He may only have groped them for an instant, but he could tell they were real. That would be perfection.
He tucked away and came out to find her holding a couple of Negro Modelos.
“Tough beer,” he said.
She held one up with a shrug. “Would you prefer a Miller Lite?”
He took the beer. She sipped her own. He gulped down half of his.
She stepped back to survey him. “You always go free-balling?”
He shrugged. “You?”
“Free-balling?” she smirked.
He chuckled. “Commando.”
She shook her head. “And I like guys in briefs. Tightie-whities. They make them look clean. Usually.”
“Told ya I’d take a shower.”
“Maybe later.” She sat against the back of the couch and sipped more of her beer. He downed the rest of his, then she grabbed the neck of his t-shirt and pulled him close, again.
“Don’t tear the shirt,” he snarled, joking. “It’s my best one.”
“Don’t worry.”
She cast Grady a glance, frowning as he backed the Harley out.
“That’s yours?” she asked.
In answer, he kicked the hog to life and zipped over to her.
She shook her head. “It’s criminal, letting a bike like that go to shit.”
“Motor’s in perfect pitch,” he snapped back. “I’m not into superficial.”
“We’ll see,” she said, then she fired the Mercedes up and pulled onto a two-lane blacktop leading nowhere. Not even a million stars could chase desolation from that much darkness.
They zipped down the road, Grady playing tag with the Mercedes, making her smile. At one point, as he was pulling up beside her, she stuck a hand out the window and let her fingers trail up his forearm. He slowed a bit and moved to within an inch of the car. She laughed and reached a bit further to rest that hand on his thigh. He clenched his ass and let her feel that he was going commando.
“Oh, Grady…you have a lot more than Spit, going on.”
He laughed and shot ahead of her. Then he noticed her blinker was going and she turned onto a gravel road, behind him. He spun around and chased down the road after her, fighting to get ahead of her dust, but he had to hold back. He had no worries about following her; the Mercedes’ headlights glowed through the billowing dust…until they stopped and vanished into the night.
She had reached a beat-up old ranch house surrounded by nothing but desert for miles and miles. Night gave the place a sad feeling – whitewashed brick walls, black-framed windows, a few succulents planted along a cyclone wire fence, the low-slung roof’s shingles so bleached by the day they looked pale even at night. Not the kind of home you’d like to come back to. But there she was, leaning against the Mercedes and watching him glide up. Dust covered him.
“You should’ve stayed by me,” she laughed.
Grady killed the bike and got off, beat most of the dust away and shrugged as he removed the goggles, leaving rings around his eyes.
“Do I gotta shower?”
She linked a finger in his belt and pulled him into a kiss, then backed away when he tried to slip her some tongue.
“Wash your face,” she said, pulling out her keys.
She was putting the key in the door when he slipped up behind her and ran his hands around her waist. Then he molded himself to her and nuzzled her hair. Not only was he going commando, it was obvious he was ready for business. So ready, he cupped her breasts.
She opened the door and broke away from him.
“Use some of the mouthwash, too,” she said. “Or would you rather have another beer?”
“You gotta ask?”
The interior was just as old and worn as the outside, with the barest of furnishings – couch, couple chairs, TV, end tables with second-hand lamps and torn shades. Fake paneling for walls. Cheap paintings in crappy frames. The floor wood but in serious need of refinishing. The whole place was the total opposite of what Grady’d expected, considering the Benz she was driving cost more than he’d made the last two years.
She dropped her things on the couch and motioned down a hall. “Bathroom’s second door on the left.” Then she strode into the very 1970s model-home-in-avocado-green kitchen.
Grady washed his face and ran wet hands through his hair in record time. He thought about the mouthwash but figured it would ruin the beer so shrugged that off. Then he took a piss…which wasn’t easy because he was still hard and couldn’t stop thinking about her breasts. He may only have groped them for an instant, but he could tell they were real. That would be perfection.
He tucked away and came out to find her holding a couple of Negro Modelos.
“Tough beer,” he said.
She held one up with a shrug. “Would you prefer a Miller Lite?”
He took the beer. She sipped her own. He gulped down half of his.
She stepped back to survey him. “You always go free-balling?”
He shrugged. “You?”
“Free-balling?” she smirked.
He chuckled. “Commando.”
She shook her head. “And I like guys in briefs. Tightie-whities. They make them look clean. Usually.”
“Told ya I’d take a shower.”
“Maybe later.” She sat against the back of the couch and sipped more of her beer. He downed the rest of his, then she grabbed the neck of his t-shirt and pulled him close, again.
“Don’t tear the shirt,” he snarled, joking. “It’s my best one.”
“Don’t worry.”
2 comments:
Have to say that Grady is one sexy man.
Wait'll you meet Zeke...
Post a Comment