Deke was a part of that now. As were Krystal, Lauren, Twyla and the new addition of Lexie.
The girls didn’t offer cuddles (though, all but Krys and Twyla, I was sure they would if Deke wasn’t already providing that). But them kicking in like they did was super-cool.
And even with my newfound acceptance of what Deke was willing to give me, I knew there’d be a day when he’d find someone, or I would, and that cuddle-type closeness would have to go.
But he’d been there in every way I could need someone, and then some, on a day which, outside the ones I lost people I cared about, was the worst of my life.
So yeah.
I could do his boundaries.
Especially if it came with fried bologna sandwiches in his kickass trailer.
This thought made me look around his space yet again.
I found I was not wrong on first, second, third (etc.) perusal.
I loved every inch of his trailer.
It had not been a surprise that he lived in a travel trailer in the middle of nowhere but right by a beautiful lake. I didn’t even spy a single house built around that lake. It seemed it was just Deke and his trailer.
And all of this seemed just so Deke.
Deke living isolated and on wheels. He sets that trailer to his truck, he’s good to go.
I loved that about him. I loved that he was a man like no man I’d ever met and all of it was interesting, a lot of it was sweet, some of it was funny, the entirety of it good.
I felt a smile play at my lips as I glanced around and noted he was not only good to go but good to do it in style.
The interior of the trailer was like a museum of the road and an inner guide to Deke’s psyche.
There were posters of rallies, music festivals and concerts glued to the walls. And if these posters were any indication, he not only had really good taste in music, he’d traveled far and wide and back again about fifteen times.
Just like me.
There were also stickers tacked everywhere for everything from bike shops to bars to diners to coffee houses.
Further, there was a bevy of bumper stickers that ranged from the hilarious to the profound. Like one that had a Star Wars Storm Trooper face on it and next to that “I had friends on that Death Star.” And another one that said, “The gene pool could use a little chlorine.” And another that said, “Contrary to belief, no one owes you anything.”
Then there were the random quotes, like Walt Whitman’s “Resist much. Obey little.” And Kurt Vonnegut’s “I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you can see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.”
I saw Clint Eastwood behind the long barrel of a gun. Bruce Lee in the zone. James Dean leaning against a car. A fake baseball card with Will Farrell in a Cub’s uniform.
All this was intermingled with liberal Americana. Eagles. Flags. Stars. Uncle Sam. Rosie the Riveter. “Don’t Tread on Me.” “Liberty or Death.” Not to mention, the every real biker’s maxim, “Ride free or die.”
And this was Deke’s wallpaper, from living room space to bedroom space and even in the miniscule bathroom.
It.
Fucking.
Rocked.
“Your trailer fucking rocks,” I told him and his gaze went from the frying pan to me.
“Come again?”
“Your trailer…fucking…rocks,” I repeated, grinning at him. “I could say the Storm Trooper bumper sticker is my favorite but I could also say Coelho’s ‘Don’t waste your time with explanations…’ is my favorite because people do only hear what they want to hear.”
Deke stared at me.
“But, just to say,” I kept gabbing, “the fact you went for an Airstream already made it total cool.”
My smile got bigger as I indicated the space with a sweep of my hand, at the same time biting back the flinch that motion gave me because after the nap, my body made it clear it was protesting against nearly being strangled to death.
It had survived, that was the good part.
But it was reminding me of the toll that took.
I ignored the pain and finished, “It’s just that with all this, you made it infinitely cooler.”
Deke made no comment to my compliments.
What he did was take the skillet off the burner, go to the fridge, grab a bottle of brew, uncap it and open a cupboard. His hand went up and came out of the cupboard with two white bottles.
He then moved to me, handed me the beer and ordered, “Give me your hand, palm up.”
I lifted my hand palm up.
Deke opened the bottles and tapped out two aspirin and four ibuprofen.
I was not averse to the power of legal pharmaceuticals.
However.
“Deke, that’s a lot of pills.”
“Take ’em,” he commanded.
“But—”
“Take ’em or I give you your sandwich then put your ass in my truck and take you to Carnal Hotel. They got tubs. You can’t even wave your goddamned hand without wincing. You need ibuprofen or you need a soak. Your choice.”