“I was j-just . . .” She is stuttering. Not in an indignant way, but because she doesn’t know what to say. But I do.
“I’ll wait outside.” I turn to leave and I see the clerk picking up the phone. She is going to call the cops. I could rip out the phone lines, but she has seen my face. I would have to kill her, and I don’t want to. She is an older woman, and I’m sure she hasn’t done anything that warrants death. Her life is more valuable than the one I will take tomorrow, but what about all the people that will suffer because I don’t do my job?
There are no cameras. I knew that before I chose to stop. I’m looking at her, and her face is white. She looks like she is going to pass out.
“Dirk.” I hear Saylor’s pained voice from behind me and I see her on the floor. I forget the clerk and rush to her. She looks fine, other than the twisted look of agony on her face.
“Is something wrong?” the clerk asks, her voice shaky and cautious. She has made her way over to us with the phone still in her hand, but she hasn’t dialed any numbers.
“I have low blood sugar. I almost passed out. That’s why he kicked the door in; I wouldn’t answer him.” She is looking at me when she says this, and I know she is doing it to save my ass. What she doesn’t realize is that it is the clerk’s life she is really saving.
“Oh thank God!” I turn to see the clerk clutching her chest in relief. “I thought he was going to kill you or something!” I ignore her comment and look back at Saylor. “I almost called the cops!” This woman is getting on my fucking nerves, and Saylor notices.
“Will you help me up?” she asks, and she is trying to fight a smile. I haul her from the floor and when she is on her feet, I take her hand in mine. I survey the door, and it is still in one piece. The only damage is to the cheap eye hook that has been ripped from the doorjamb.
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll have someone fix it tomorrow,” the woman says, as she eyes the two of us hand in hand. “You are a lucky girl to have a man that cares so much for you.” She walks toward us and I stiffen. I don’t want her to touch me and she looks like the hugging kind. Saylor intercepts and steps in front of me, sticking her free hand out to the lady.
“Thank you for your concern.” Saylor’s smile is genuine and fucking remarkable. She renders the woman speechless and I know the feeling. She turns back to me and winks. I let her hand go, and disappear into the men’s bathroom. Saylor’s winks have power over every part of me, including my growing cock.
—
We are about three hours from Banks, Alabama, and I let Saylor feed me Skittles, compliments of the store clerk, for the first hour. She is singing again and I’m pissed again ’cause I can’t fucking hear her, but I do enjoy her touch. I put my cut in my bag before we left the store. My fuckup with kicking the door down and the fact that we were nearing our destination has me taking precautions earlier than usual.
It wasn’t out of the norm for me to not wear my cut on a run, but I try to wear it as much as possible. There are MCs all over this part of the country, and I need to represent as often as I can. We have charters in forty-seven states including Hawaii and Alaska. We are world-renowned, but the U.S. is our home. I’ve visited a few other countries here and there, but Mexico is the place I frequent more often than the others. I go there for business, but mostly just for pleasure.
I suck another Skittle into my mouth, making sure to touch Saylor’s finger with my tongue. I’ve watched her more than the road and noticed that every time I licked her finger, she put it in her mouth before diving into the bag for another. I don’t know if she knows I notice, but I won’t tell her, because I don’t want her to stop.
The sugary candy is good, but my stomach needs something a little more filling. If I’m hungry, she probably is too. I would have to get better at this shit. Usually, it was only my needs that mattered.
Troy, Alabama, is located about ten miles from Banks. It isn’t a big town, but big enough that we won’t draw any attention. I find an older motel where they accept cash and the rooms have doors that lead outside. I leave Saylor outside by the bike while I book the room in the same name that is listed on the credit card and license in my wallet. When I get back outside, I see Saylor taking a picture of herself with a Polaroid camera. I didn’t even know they still made those things. But she was now holding the picture, fanning it in the air, waiting on the image to become clear. She sees me and smiles.
“I have helmet hair, but I don’t care. I wanted to have a picture to help me remember my first ride.”
“No pictures,” I snap, feeling anger creeping back into my veins. Why in the hell had I not warned her of this? But if I did, what in the hell would I have said? “Do you have any more?”