Page 13 of Biker's Property
Steel climbsback into the driver’s seat and tosses a package onto my lap. I look down and angle myself away from the window so I can see what it is. Beef jerky?
“You need to replace your salts,” he says, following up with a blue Gatorade. “Blue has medicinal properties. Drink that too.”
I don’t think different Gatorade flavors have different healing properties, but keeping quiet seems like the best option right now. I don’t exactly know what to do about this beef jerky, since I’ve never had it before and I don’t know if I’ll like the taste.
“Come on,” he says. “Open it up. I’m risking going back to prison for this shit.”
He laughswhen he sees my worried look. “Just playing. I swiped Bucky’s credit card. Let’s go.”
He pats my thigh again, and I can’t stop myself from flinching. I get the packet of beef jerky open and the smell makes me gag. What the hell is this white nonsense? I wrinkle up my nose and try to make sense of the smell and the weird barbecue flavor.
“Fuck, that smells good,” he says. “Hand me one.”
I can’t believehis positive response to this nasty dried meat. I hand him a few pieces and he eats them eagerly. I put one in my mouth and although I want to spit it out, the salt hits me like a drug. I wasn’t allowed to drink coffee growing up, but I tried it once and that salt hits me almost like that one forbidden cup of coffee I had before my marriage.
My cheeks sink into my mouth as my face scrunches up. Steel laughs.
“What? You don’t like it?”
I shake my head, but the more I chew on it, the more the flavor grows on me. There’s a slight barbecue sweetness that makes the intense salty flavor a little easier to handle. Plus, I feel like I have better control of my mind.
Steel reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a 32 oz Coors’ Light. Cracking it open, he brazenly tips the beer down his throat. I want to open the damn door and jump out just as much as I want to scream. That’s why he really broke into that gas station. It had nothing to do with getting me water. I reach for the can, but he swerves like he’s going to kill us both the second I lunge for it. I shrink back.
This damn drunk is crazy enough to kill us both just for his Coors’. I grip the door and glare at him until he finishes the can, crushes it and throws it into the back seat of the truck. He smirks with undeserved self-satisfaction.
“What? Thought your little trick would work.”
“Congratulations. You get to drink and drive.”
“And you get to sit there like a passenger princess.”
“You mean a captive?”
He laughs. “I could always drive you back out there.”
I don’t findit funny.
“I won’t,”he says. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you suck dick either. Once I get word from the boss… I’m taking you back to your husband’s house.”
It’s my turn to consider taking the wheel and swerving us off course. He looks over at me, like it was some kind of test.
“I just want to make sure he’s dead. If he isn’t… I’ll arrange that. I’m not leaving you there.”
He reaches over and grips my thigh possessively, leading me to believe that there isn’t anything altruistic about his offer to ensure my ex-husband is dead.
“Where are you from?” He asks, once I don’t reply to his little test and the validation that follows.
“I don’t want to go back,” I explain. “I really did kill him. I can’t go to prison.”
He looks over at me and his gaze softens for a second. I see the guy who brought me cases of water bottles slung over his shoulder. A hero in the desert.
“You’re right,” he says. “A dyke would fuck your ass with a hairbrush in prison.”
I scowl at him. There was absolutely no need for him to say all of that, but I need to pick my battles with this man. The alcohol abuse is a much bigger issue than his foul language, although I don’t approve of either of them.
“Sorry,” he says, squeezing my thigh again. “Won’t let your skinny ass go to prison. Don’t worry.”
It doesn’t help me to feel any better. He sighs. “Okay, sassafras. I’m gonna keep this truck going for another half an hour or so and we’re gonna stop at a motel. Don’t worry. The club owns it.”