Moving swiftly through the house, avoiding going anywhere near the living room where his dad was fucking some bitch on the couch, he headed to his room.
He was sixteen but he’d already had four girls. The first one sounded like the woman his father was currently pumping on their couch. Those pained whimpers.
It wasn’t good, fucking dry. He got off but it wasn’t good.
It really wasn’t good for her.
He’d learned with the second one that if he kissed her a while then paid some attention to her tits, things were a lot better down there. Wet and hot. Sweet. And it far from sucked, tonguing and toying with a girl’s nipples. He’d got off, she hadn’t, but the whimpers he got when he was doing her were of an entirely different variety.
Number three was where he found it. She’d shown him. He got her ready. He got off. But when he was done, she wasn’t and she wanted to finish. So she took his hand and pressed his finger against her clit and moved it around, moaning and squirming and… fuck. So damned hot, he nearly came again on her leg watching her. In the end, he got her off with her help and Carson watched, thinking it was beautiful.
A miracle.
So number four got it all. After he made out with her forever, did shit to her tits and got her wet for him, he’d fucked her while he worked her clit, and she’d gone wild. It was magnificent. So good, he wanted to try other shit, using his mouth, his tongue, his hands, see what that would bring. She let him and the results were spectacular.
But after he gave that to her, she got clingy and kept calling and coming around and his dad gave him crap, not the good, teasing, my-boy’s-becoming-a-man kind of ribbing.
Mean. Like the jackhole he was.
So even if Carson kind of liked her, had a good time with her, and not just when he was doing her, he scraped her off. He didn’t need that shit.
And hearing his father’s grunts and groans coming faster, as well as the pained cries and, “Jeff, hold on a second, honey,” he decided he didn’t need this shit either.
So to make a quick getaway, he grabbed what he did need, opened his window, climbed out, and took off.
Carson Steele walked a lot since his father got shitty for some reason, tossed Carson’s bike in the Dumpster, and beat the snot out of him so he knew not to go out and retrieve it.
Now Carson had a job. He was saving up for a car. He didn’t care how beat up it was. The minute he could afford one, he was going to buy one.
First step to freedom.
He’d fix it up too. Linus was a mechanic, and sometimes when Carson was over at Linus’s house he helped Linus in his garage, getting Linus tools as Linus tinkered with an old Trans Am he was fixing up to sell. He watched, Linus showed him things, let him do things, he learned.
Which was why Carson went were he went. Moving through the residential streets of Englewood, Colorado, he found Broadway and walked north. Block after block. He saw it from a distance: his destination. The American flag at the flagpole on top. The white flag under it with its insignia, the words around it, Wind, Fire, Ride, and Free.
His place, even if it wasn’t his. It still was.
The only place he felt right, even standing outside the fence.
So he walked right to it and stopped when he hit the end of the fence.
He stood there. His body on one side, he craned his neck around and looked into the forecourt of Ride. It was an auto supply store up front on the street but they had a garage at the back.
And the day got better even as it threw Carson right into a yawning pit of hell.
That was because the cool guy with the dark hair and kickass the goatee was working in one of the bays.
And he was doing it with his son right by his side.
The best.
And the worst.
Since Carson spent a lot of time watching, he’d seen that guy—and others, all members of the Chaos Motorcycle Club—around Ride, the store and the custom car and bike shop at the back, all of which they owned and ran.
The best and worst times were watching the goatee guy with his boy.
His kid had to be Carson’s age. Looked just like his old man, like Carson looked like his.
But Carson would bet the three hundred fifty-eight dollars he’d saved that the kid he was watching was proud of that fact, where Carson absolutely was not.
He’d seen them grin at each other, they did it a lot, and Carson couldn’t remember one single time he’d smiled at his old man.
And he’d seen the goatee guy laugh at something his kid said. Or he’d smack him on the shoulder in a way that wasn’t mean. Or, the best, he’d grab him by the side or back of the neck and tug him close, swaying him around.
It was a hug. A motorcycle guy hug for his boy. Carson knew it, even though he’d never felt anything like it. The kid had done something his father liked. Or made him proud. Or maybe it was just because he looked at his son and couldn’t stop himself from showing some love.
Right then, they were bent over the engine of a car, hood up, one on each side, doing shit. Every once in a while they’d look at each other and say something. Or smile. Or laugh.
Carson watched a long time. Until they quit and walked through the garage, disappearing in its dark depths.
Probably they were off to some house Carson figured was clean and nice and maybe even decorated good. They’d have dinner together. Maybe with the pretty dark-headed girl he’d also seen around who could be none other than that guy’s daughter and that kid’s sister.
They’d get home and have dinner and that guy would ask his son if he’d done his homework. He’d give him crap about the girls he was dating. The good kind. The my-boy’s-becoming-a-man-and-I-like-how-that’s-happening kind.
The kind Carson never got.
On this thought, he took off. Kept walking. Found a spot and dug the book out of the back of his jeans where he’d shoved it, and took the nubs of pencils out of his pockets. He sat with his back to a tree in the park, his ass to the ground, and flipped through.
Sketches.
His.
Drawings of Linus’s bulldog, Ruff. Carson loved that dog. He looked like a bruiser, the way he waddled was flat-out hilarious, but he always seemed like he was smiling. As he would, the love Linus showered on him.
There were also drawings of Mrs. Heely’s house.
She lived across the street and one down from Carson and his dad. She had an American flag on the flagpole, aimed high but stuck at a slant on the house at the top side of her front door, the edges tattered.
He mowed her lawn for money. He also did shit around the house for her because her son, and only child, was gone and so was her old man, so she didn’t have anyone else to do it.
She was a great old broad. Made him cookies. Noticed when he was younger and alone because his dad was out carousing and would bring him over a plate of food, warm food, good food, with vegetables and everything. Sat with him while he ate and made him eat his vegetables and watch Wheel of Fortune with her and other shit before she’d hear his father’s car in the drive. Then she’d put a finger to her lips, wink, grab his dirty plate, and sneak out the back door.
He’d asked about that flag. She’d said they gave it to her at the funeral after her son died “over there.” She put it up and it stayed up, wind, rain, snow, sun.
She told Carson she was never going to take it down. It would fly out there until she died. She didn’t care how tattered it got. Beaten and worn. Faded.