“I hope our baby is as close with me and you as you were to your mom,” she admits. “You had a beautiful relationship. I envy that, Eric. So much. My dad, wherever he is—dead I hope—he was a real bastard. He sold me. But you had someone who killed for you.”
“You have someone who kills for you,” I state, cupping her cheek with my palm. “I’ll do it again too. You don’t need him; you have me.” I let out a breath and lean my forehead against hers. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” she says, kissing the tip of my nose. “For saving me.”
“Jo-love, we saved each other.”
“Hey! Doc, I got a bone to pick with you,” Bullseye shouts from the clubhouse.
“Ah, shit.”
“What did you do?” Jo somewhat scolds.
“I might have left Bullseye’s test results under his door three days ago when I was really down in the dumps about mom. I think he’s done giving me time to grieve.”
“What’s wrong with him?” she asks. “Is he dying?” Her hand covers her mouth, and the way the sun hits her hair has me dreaming of a sea of chocolate.
“No. Well, he could if he doesn’t take care of it.”
“Oh, no!” Jo gasps, tears in her eyes. “Don’t mind me. Pregnancy hormones. Maybe. I don’t know. That’s so sad.”
Fuck. How did I make her cry and have a bull charging at me right now?
“He has diabetes. He’s going to be okay with proper insulin and diet. He’ll be fine. I’ll schedule an appointment with him today; I promise.”
“Leave him alone!” Knives says to Bullseye. “He’s visiting his mom. Have some damn respect.”
“Coming from the guy who won’t leave me alone,” Mary huffs her arms at Knives.
“Why did I bury my mother in the club cemetery? I should’ve taken her far away from the drama, Jo.” The wind blows, and I smell a hint of hibiscus. I turn around, searching for her, but nothing is there.
I swear I smelt it.
My mother’s perfume.
The wind blows again, and there it is. I inhale it and my scars, for a second, are soothed.
I glance down at the headstone and grin when I imagine her voice demanding me to tell her that I love her.
“I do, Mom. I love you,” I reply, kissing my fingers and laying them on top of the headstone.
“Come back and lay with me. The sun feels good,” Jo says, closing her eyes as the sun glows upon her flawless face. Her lips are red, and her cheeks are slightly burnt. Her hands lay on her stomach, and the ends of her brown hair dance in the slight breeze and tangle in the shadow of an oak tree.
Fucking beautiful.
“Now tell me you love me,” I try Mom’s slogan toward Jo to see what she says.
She turns her head just as I turn mine, and her green eyes have a golden hue around the iris from the sun gleaming against them. “Like I could ever stop,” she replies.
And I hope she never does.
THE END.
“Tongue, where are you going? Patrick is awake,” Slingshot tries to stop me from leaving out the door.
Patrick woke up about twenty minutes ago, and no one has left him alone. I’m glad he’s awake, but I’m going to see him later, when everyone is done bombarding him. Poor bastard was shot when the clubhouse got fucked up in a drive-by. He just had a liver transplant. The guy has the worst luck.
“I’ll see him when I get back,” I say, tucking the box under my arm. “When you guys are done bombarding him.”
Slingshot says something, but I don’t hear it. I don’t care to. I shut the door and inhale the fall air.
I love autumn and winter. People are always licking their lips because the cold dries out their mouths. Everyone else likes fucking leaves and pumpkin spice bullshit.
Not me.
I like the tease of a tongue peeking between the lips. Some are light pink, some are red, some are wet, some are dry. Some are pierced, some are split in half like a snake, and I love them all.
I strap the box of tongues on the back of my bike and make sure they are secure. They’re on ice and in a special box so they stay nice and cool. I want them to make it to NOLA okay. My swamp kitties must miss me.
Sigh. I miss them.
I swing my leg over the bike, throw on my bucket helmet, and crank the new beast of mine. The wind is cool against my cheeks and arms. I should’ve grabbed my leather jacket. Pulling out of the parking spot, I press the button I had installed on my bike for the gate and watch it swing open.
The vibration of the engine grumbles, tingling the spot under my balls and my cock starts to lengthen. Riding my motorcycle turns me on more than anything I’ve ever found. Porn doesn’t even do it for me. Nothing really does. I’m starting to wonder if something’s wrong with me. I’m not interested in sex.
I trust my hand.
It gets the job done. I don’t need anyone else to do it for me.
Never have. Never will.
I don’t do… people.
When the gate is open enough, I crank the throttle and speed forward. The fences surrounding the compound are getting replaced. Twelve feet high and six inches thick of electrified steel with barbed wire on top. Reaper’s sealing us in. Sarah is trying to convince him of a less drastic measure, but with what happened, he isn’t taking any chances.
Making a right, I travel down Loneliest Road for a ways, passing a few tumbleweeds. It isn’t long before I’m heading over the hill ten minutes later and parking in a spot in town. I unlatch my helmet and lay it on my bike seat and grab my box.
Oh, I’m so excited. I hope my swamp kitties know where their treats come from. There are twenty in here, I think. No, twenty-one. I cut out Brody’s tongue after Doc snapped his neck. Good fucking riddance to that asshole.
I walk down the street and a few people curl their lips as they pass me. I get that a lot.
People.
I fucking hate them. Unless they are my people, but my people get on my nerves sometimes too.
Shadows. Corners. Silence. Those are my friends.
And Sarah.
I’m in the more artsy side of town to go to the post office to see my favorite guy. He doesn’t ask questions, and he gives me a discount on shipping. He always stamps fragile on the box when I don’t even tell him he has to. Plus, he knows the address I send it to by heart, and I no longer have to tell him.
My boot hits the corner of a chalkboard sign standing up, but I can’t read what it says. The letters are in pink and blue, and the chalk gets all over my hands and black jeans.
“Damn it,” I grumble in annoyance.
I hate public places.
I bend down and pick up the sign and stand it up, then look to the right to see whose business this belongs to. People shouldn’t be putting signs in the middle of the damn sidewalk. I cup my palm over my eyes and peer in the window, seeing rows of books and a few tables.
Taking a few steps away, I glance up to read what the sign says, but I can’t. I stand in front of the glass again and press my nose against it. It’s cold, and my breath fogs it up.
Books.
Must be a bookstore.
Fucking hate books too.
I go to leave when something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and something in my brain tells me to wait. To stop. To slow down.