CHAPTER 7
Truman
Gunning had been drooling over Alessio’s Electra Glide the whole way to Livermore. Of course, the bikers were taking turns passing us, grinning like lions every time.
A lot more blathering came from the monkey mouth in my passenger seat.
I only listened to about half of it really, being so absorbed in my study of Alessio’s achingly long legs, his lanky thin arms bare to the violent sun when he’d chosen to wear just a black leather vest, stolen from the seat of another Harley parked near my house.
He sensibly rolled his shaggy mane into a cowboyish wild rag he knotted at the base of his neck.
I could name the various parts of Alessio’s mouth-watering self—aquiline nose in perfect profile against the rich cobalt sky, outlaw moustache barely moving a hair in the wind—but Gunning ruined my reverie with his yammering.
We’d all decided to go to Livermore. I figured I could be a calming influence on Alessio, in particular that loose cannon Denmark, currently boasting an intersex flag behind his seat, yellow with a purple circle in the middle.
I wondered if Denmark knew what it stood for, having stolen the bike, naturally.
I decided not to pull his coat. Let him find out the hard way.
On the other hand, it would make us way more noticeable if anyone were to follow us.
Follow us? Why would anyone do that? Well, in the first place, Denmark had fought his way out of a cluster of dying, shitstained inmates . . . and Alessio was his road dog . . .
On the outskirts of Dublin, Gunning cried, “They’re pulling into that gas station!” Like life and death eternal.
I allowed some exasperation to color my voice. “Well, we could use some gas too.” Not really—we drove a Honda.
Gunning tore open his door before I’d even pulled to a stop. I closely followed Alessio’s luscious ass as he entered the Quik Stop. I barely shoved the fuel nozzle into my tank, I was so busy eyeing the store entrance. I could use some Fritos.
I was replacing the nozzle when Alessio exited the store, both hands full of candy and chips.
Recovering addicts tended to go for the junk food, and my counseling brain reminded me to lecture him about diet.
He definitely smiled widely at me, and me alone, but Denmark accosted him first, making sure to whip a few Twixes out of Alessio’s hands before jawing at him.
What the fuck does he want . . . Probably refining their approach to Mr. Leonard Skinner.
“Hey Truman!” bellowed Gunning, who had suddenly become my worst nightmare. “Check out this chic batwing fairing!” He looked about to hump Alessio’s stolen ride.
I had more basic things on my mind than batwings as I strode toward the two felons.
I just caught wind of Denmark saying, “How many times he rape you? He’s a big ol’ diaper sniper, that’s what, and I’m sure he keeps doing it to this day.
” When Denmark saw me approach, all the fire drained from his eyes, his hand gripping the candy dropping to his side.
I said, “That’s okay, Denmark, it really is.” I couldn’t be the narc of the group, the pig, the downer—although I did want to continue being the voice of reason. “I get your anger against this guy. Alessio. Gunning is all in a lather over your ride. I know how personal rides are—”
“—but I just stole this one, so it’s not—” Alessio mumbled through the crunch of chips.
“—but I was wondering if you could let him finish the road to Livermore. It’s only about another five miles—”
“Ten miles.”
“—and he seems to really know a lot about Harleys. You could ride with me.”
Was it my imagination, or did Alessio’s beautiful Sicilian face show a glimmering of joy at this suggestion?
My dreams were confirmed when Alessio shoved junk food at Denmark without even looking at him.
He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Sure enough.” He strode back to his Electra Glide, and I snatched a bag of Fritos from Denmark.
He had a crooked grin. “We straight.”
I gave him a corny thumbs up and returned to my car, parking it near the charging stations while Alessio gave Gunning advice on the Harley.
I’d had other options than to ride along to Livermore.
I could’ve said no to Alessio’s offer. Then my cohort Gunning wouldn’t be driving a stolen bike.
I wore my own clothes, but the two felons were stuck with an array of stolen things, Denmark oddly wearing a black leather studded visor that made him look like a Village Person.
In a way, I was participating in a life of crime. A strange job for someone who’d founded an addiction recovery clinic. Yet I knew I wanted more adventure outside the clinic.
Alessio wanted to control me. I wanted more excitement. We matched up perfectly.
Tingling warmth flooded me when Alessio opened the passenger door and clambered in. He had to move the seat back to accommodate his lanky legs. “Okay, go,” he urged. “I know the way.”
Of course he did. “Don’t you want to make sure Gunning knows how to drive your Harley?”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. I stole it.”
I couldn’t argue with that, so we were back on the highway. I said, “I checked on your Les Paul.” His guitar was in my trunk. “It’s doing fine.” I didn’t mention there were two Les Pauls. One was the thing I hadn’t touched in years, hiding in my own closet.
“Good, good.” He slapped his thigh rhythmically, as though keeping time to an orchestra in his head.
I wondered if he was jonesing. “You’re doing a good job, Alessio. Don’t go back to using. You’re emotionally resilient. The best thing that contributes to that is social connection, support. You’ve got that now, especially with me and Gunning.”
Alessio’s words spilled out, bursting like thunder in a downpour. “Well, you know, the people against drug use are denying their own chemistry. It’s a natural part of humanity to want to numb the pain.”
I dared to pat his thigh. “That’s why we have alternatives. After you see this guy, we’ll stop by a marijuana dispensary. Get you some gummies.” I had to glance sideways at his face to see if he was grimacing at such a childish idea. He wasn’t.
But I wasn’t expecting his answer. “Already done. Denmark and I robbed a dispensary.”
I actually had to chuckle at how he’d ripped off a dispensary, but was elite enough to say “Denmark and I.” “Did you like them?”
“I don’t know if it was my thalamus or my amygdala, but the pain gummies seemed to work on my hip.”
“Good, good. We’ve got to get you a job so you don’t need to keep robbing people. Unless,” I said warily, “you like doing it.”
“No no no,” he said with determination. “I don’t like it at all. I’d like to get back into composing.”
I smiled. “That’s one of the few fields where having a dodgy background could actually help and not hinder your job search. You’re still in contact with those folks?”
“Yeah, yeah. A few of them want some music from me. But I have nowhere to work. I’d need a piano, and space.”
I’d actually thought about that, how he could live at my house. But there was really no room for a piano.
Maybe Alessio read my mind, because he blurted, “Hey, I don’t want to be a burden on you, Truman.
I shouldn’t have even asked you along on this ride.
I’ve got to tell you.” But it seemed he didn’t have to, because he stuttered and licked his lips, swallowing with what seemed like nerves for the first time since knowing him.
“I’ve really developed feelings for you, Truman.
The last thing I want to do is piss you off, or irritate you.
After I molly whop this asshole we’ll go back to normal, hide out, get back in the cut.
I swear like a preacher’s son, this was never the life for me.
” Exhaling, he fell back into his seat, almost talking to himself.
“I just don’t know what is the life anymore. ”
“Hey.” Now I was the assertive, aggressive one. It was as though we took turns, like boxers exchanging blows and landing shots. Was I a switch? I’d heard men call them that, when they could easily slip into each role, the Dom and the sub. “You’ll get your life back. But it won’t be the same life.”
I dropped him off at Leonard Skinner’s curb.
As I’d imagined, it wasn’t in the best neighborhood, speckled with homeless tents.
Those always riled me. Those people should be in institutions, not on the street.
Denmark pulled up in front of us, Gunning behind.
Gunning made sure to rev his engine with a flourish.
“Do you want me to come in?” We hadn’t discussed that.
Alessio’s reaction was immediate. “No, no! I shouldn’t have even fucking asked you to come along.” He rubbed his face with his palm as though wishing to erase it. And his hand trembled. “I just did because…you’re a calming influence, Tru. I need someone stable like you.”
Although it sure didn’t prove any stability, I took his chin in my fingertips, my thumb parting his lips above the soul patch. “And I…need someone brilliant and intoxicating like you.”
I kissed him, sucking his lower lip between my teeth.
He fell right into it, no holds barred, sinking his fingers into my hair at the skull.
I threaded mine between the black vest and his ribs, thumbing the silken arrow of down that led to his navel and beyond.
We kissed like the sloppy, hungry bears that we were, Alessio snorting hot breaths against my face.
My fingers nearly scorched when I stroked the hairline that led to his jeans button.
A sharp knock on the window ripped us apart.
Denmark’s breath fogged the passenger glass. “Hate to tell you. But I just saw the curtains in them windows moving. We best get in there before he makes a break for it.”
Alessio breathed deeply to reorient himself, stuffing a nonexistent shirt into his pants. “Or it’s another abused kid dying for us to save him.”
“Good luck,” I said.
He said, “I’m going to fuck you in your cherry ass when I’m done here,” and left my car.
I hadn’t noticed he had a handgun in his back pocket.