After that, the door to their bedroom closed again, and the argument went from yelling to talking, which meant only muffled sounds, and no words for me.
I pushed my nightstand to the side, pulled the heating grate open, and added today’s ten dollars to my getaway stash.
After closing my hideaway, I put my earbuds in and cranked up the music in case the yelling resumed.
Soon, I’ll have enough to get away.
Chapter 2
Luke
Tuesday morning, the phone woke me.
My clock said a little after nine. “Hey, Luke,” Evan said when I answered. “I just got a Rocket Three in, if you’re interested.”
“What kind of damage?” I asked.
Evan called his yard a motorcycle dismantler, although to me, it was just a muddy junkyard for wrecked bikes—many of which represented the starting point of one of my projects.
“Front end’s messed up, and the back too. The frame’s a total loss. The idiot got himself sandwiched—hit front and rear. Hope you don’t mind cleaning off blood.” He laughed.
Pretty much all of his inventory came with a history of mayhem.
None of that mattered to me. “And the engine?” At two and a half liters, the Triumph Rocket Three had the baddest motorcycle engine anyone made—bigger and more powerful than any Harley.
“Can’t speak to the drive-shaft, but otherwise it looks good to me, ’cept for the blood and guts.”
“You already said that. Hold it for me, and I’ll be up this afternoon.” The drive back from Baltimore in traffic would be a bitch, but worth it if the engine was good.
After we hung up, I rolled out of bed to check the surveillance footage from last night. The cameras were motion-activated, and a quick review showed only a raccoon and two cats, no thieves of the two-legged variety.
“One of these days…” I said to the video monitor before I shut it off and headed for the coffee machine.
I added a heaping spoonful of cocoa powder to the mug and stirred while I walked around the clothes on the floor to the bathroom. The cup came with me into the shower, and I sipped it while hot water ran down my back. Chocolate in my coffee was one of the luxuries I appreciated now that I was on the outside—that and not having to constantly watch my back.
After emptying the coffee cup, I set it on the ledge and fisted my cock. Morning jerk-off sessions were all the action my poor dick had seen recently.
In this area, too many people knew my name and thought they knew me. When my parole was up, at least I’d be free to move out of state, somewhere my past didn’t follow me around like stink on shit.
After getting out of prison, I’d indulged in a few women. They’d fallen into two categories: Most of them hit the road as soon as they found out about my past. The second category, the girls who didn’t leave as soon as they found out I was an ex-con, weren’t the kind I wanted around for long. The last one of those, Trina, had almost gotten me violated right back into prison, and no pussy was worth that risk. Trina had been a good lay, but she was dumber than my sister’s cat, and twice as vicious.
I braced myself against the wall and rubbed faster. Closing my eyes, I visualized Trina on her knees in front of me. This morning that wasn’t doing it for me.
Debbie from the Minimart replaced Trina in my mind. Instead of kneeling, she was bent over my couch.
Twenty seconds later, I had my release and was rinsing off the wall.
A good start to a good day, even if it was a fantasy.
That afternoon, I rolled up to the side entrance of Evan’s yard and honked. A minute later, his son unlocked the chain on the gate and let me through.
There it was, straight ahead. The once-beautiful masterpiece was in even worse shape than Evan had described. A chain-reaction crash usually totaled a car for insurance purposes, with bodywork front and back messing it up, but often left the occupants uninjured. That in no way compared to what had happened to this poor bike and rider.
I climbed out.
“See what I mean?” Evan asked as he walked up.
I stepped slowly around it, surveying the damage. “Yup. A real mess.”
He’d been right. The black stains of dried blood were everywhere. The key was still in the ignition.
I turned it, and the neutral light on the instrument cluster flickered to life. I shut the power off again, visualizing the scenario.
The poor rider had been idling in neutral behind a stopped car when he got hit from behind and squished up against the car in front of him. The poor fucker never stood a chance. Probably hit by a teenaged girl texting and driving—they were the absolute worst. A few seconds of someone’s inattention had cost this rider his bike and his life. Although I didn’t know that for sure, the evidence was pretty plain.
After a quick check, and seeing no oil leak to indicate a cracked case, I turned to Evan. “It sure is a mess. How much you want for it?”
We threw a few offers back and forth before settling on a price I could live with. I nodded, turned the key again, and pressed the starter button. The engine turned over. As I pressed the starter button on the handlebar grip, the engine rumbled briefly to life before I shut it down again and pocketed the key.
They helped me load the crumpled machine onto a pallet and into the back of my van. I settled up with Evan for a sum I wouldn’t regret when this engine had a new home. Before leaving, I checked for my travel authorization, as I always did. Better safe than sorry.
The drive back to Virginia in the afternoon traffic was boring and annoying. What made it worse was the smell from my cargo in back. Having the air conditioning vent blasting at my face mostly cured it, but the carcass of the bike needed to be hosed down before I let it sit overnight in my garage.
Dinnertime approached as my exit off the freeway came up. For a moment I considered taking a detour to Mama’s Minimart to see if Debbie was there, but decided against it. I’d already had my visit for the week. Keeping it infrequent meant I could keep the illusion of her in place. Any more than that might lead to a beer together, and her learning what I was. That would be the end of it.
Once off the interstate, I began counting the fifteen stop signs that remained between me and home, and I rolled down the window to keep the stench at bay.
With eleven intersections to go, I stopped behind a minivan at the four-way stop. I pulled up after it went ahead. A VW came from my left and slowed. The unpainted replacement fender showed it had recently been in an accident.
Unable to see the other driver clearly at this angle, I went ahead when she didn’t move.
The car surged forward.
I jerked right and slammed on my horn, waking the driver up. I could see her now—a brainless girl.
Miss Clueless screeched to a halt, just missing me. Another stupid teenager who shouldn’t have a license.
“Fuck you,” I yelled.
My words didn’t seem to faze her. I flipped her the bird and drove off. The fact that most traffic accidents happened close to home had almost been proven here today. The repaired fender should have clued me in to give her a wide berth—a lesson I’d remember for next time.
At home, I backed up to my garage door and parked far enough away to slide my cargo out. After pulling up the door, I opened the back of the van and maneuvered my ramps into place. The electric winch from the garage provided the muscle to get the pallet out of the van and to the ground.