Chapter 24
Road
I’m on fire.
I hate driving cars, and I did have plans for the evening—an action movie night with a few of my buddies, but when Clyde told me he has the night off and can meet me in a motel two hours away, I canceled the watch party, showered, and borrowed a vehicle from Luna. He also insisted I remain inconspicuous .
No colors. No bikes. And as per our usual joke, no knives. Nothing that could let people put two and two together and find out who we might be. Prophet seemed disappointed with my sudden change of plans, but when I told him I’m spending the night with the girl I’ve been seeing, he gave me his blessing.
This way, the guys will leave me be unless the whole settlement is on fire.
Driving down the highway is boring, and I keep getting distracted by thoughts of Clyde stretching in the sheets, of my cum on his back, of the way his cock tasted and how much I enjoyed laving it with my tongue. But I managed to avoid crashing on the way, and by the time I reach the roadside bar he’s picked as our meeting spot, I’m so hungry for him I could spend the next hour calming down by smelling his hair.
It’s a little place that calls itself a tavern and has neon signs advertising alcohol brands in its windows. The building’s wide, covered with yellow wooden panels, and while they apparently serve ribs, it’s not barbecue I’m here for .
I hear footsteps speeding up on the gravel behind me, and just as I turn around, Clyde jumps on my back. He hangs off me for a short enough time for it to seem like two good friends being idiots. When he slides off me, grinning like a maniac, I forget all about the war brewing between our clubs and see him as he is.
Long, dirty blond hair, a band T-shirt that fits him snugly and shows off his tattooed forearms, and blue eyes that in the light of the neon seem to glow. He smells good enough to eat, and I wish we were fucking in my car already.
“Hey,” he says, his gaze focused on me as if I’m the only thing that matters.
Heavy metal buzzes in the background, and a car drives by, but my senses are so very blind to anything but the man I’m holding. It’s not really a hug, there is still space left between us, but one of my hands rests on his arm, the other on my shoulder, and my fingertips touch his bare nape.
I’ve missed him.
“There you are, creeping like a coyote,” I say, smiling, because if I don’t do something with my lips, they’ll end up pressed against Clyde’s warm mouth. I see no rainbows on this bar, and I don’t want any problems when we could be having fun instead.
Clyde pulls away from me, even if slowly. “Says the Vulture.” He seems so… happy, which in turn fills my stomach with butterflies. I’d drive two days to see him. Two hours was nothing. “Our motel is a few miles down this road, but the room won’t be ready for an hour or so. I thought we could grab a drink before…?”
Before we fuck. I’m impressed by his self-control as I’d gladly dry hump him on the side of the road, given half the chance. Then again, after waiting two weeks, maybe it will be nicer to have a place where we can be together in peace, without the worry that someone might see us and report back to one of our clubs.
So I give his cheek a playful pat, which could be mistaken for a bit of teasing between friends, and nudge his back. “Good idea. It’s been a tough two weeks,” I admit, but when he takes a step toward the door, I grab his wrist. As my fingers lock around it, we both look at one another, time standing still. For a moment, I can’t remember why I stopped him in the first place, because I’m drowning in his pretty blue eyes. I can’t remember ever feeling this kind of longing, and somehow despite him standing right in front of me, that weird ache inside is still there.
My hand is overstaying its welcome—we’re in public after all—so I let go before he can pull away, and show him the little gift I made for him. We might not always be able to see each other, or send messages, but nobody will suspect anything if he pulls out his keys and holds the wooden cockerel attached to it.
It’s not my best work, as I tried to make it quite small, but what I really want is for him to have this little wooden figure to remember me by. Made instead of the stag I’d initially whittled for him, it shows I know his secrets. That I’m more than an acquaintance. “For you,” I say as I place it in his palm.
Clyde’s attentive blue eyes dart from the chicken to my face. “Is there… a reason?”
I should have expected this question, but I don’t have an immediate answer and stall before offering him a wide smile. “So you always have something to remind you of my cock.”
He shakes his head. “It’s on my mind any time I close my eyes.” My heart skips a beat when he pulls out his keys and attaches the charm. “But I’ll enjoy thinking about it even more.”
Clyde wants to kiss me. I don’t know how, but I can sense it in the electric charge between us, the tingling in my lips, the longing in his eyes.
He can’t, and he doesn’t, but I still enjoy the desire reflected in them.
We don’t linger after that and enter a large space with a billiards table on one side, and a long bar manned by a thin man with gaunt cheeks and long hair. The air smells of beer and smoke. Regulars look up to take in who entered their space, only to go back to whatever they’d been doing. This is familiar. I’ve been to hundreds of places just like this, and my shoulders relax.
But as at ease as I am with the setting, I don’t know how to act around Clyde. His closeness is causing little jolts all over my body, and I itch to have him touch me, to touch him , push him to the padded seat in the darkest corner and slide my hand into his pants, like the old me might have done with a girl.
But the people around us are watching the two strangers, even if discreetly, and I feel at a loss for words.
“You look good,” Clyde whispers, as he leads me to a quiet corner by the bar. It’s also the farthest from the TV where most people hang out. “What are you drinking?” he asks and pulls out his wallet.
The lump in my throat is back as I try to find my footing in this new situation. Being bought a drink feels different than Clyde sharing his whiskey with me at his shack. But if he’s offering, I’m not going to say no. “Vodka,” I tell him, letting my gaze glide along the dense strands of hair, which I long to bury my face in already.
I’ve dressed in brand-new jeans, and a Henley shirt, which accentuates my muscular shape, pretty much what I might wear to a wedding or a funeral, and I’m wondering if it’s too much, even though he seems to like the outfit. “I—you look better than I remember,” I tell him, and I know it was the right thing to say when his features relax into a wide smile.
This man will be the death of me, but I regret nothing.
He’s silent when we get our shots, but as soon as the bartender walks off, he kicks my foot playfully. “That’s possible?”
I chuckle and rest my foot on the front of his boot, pressing down enough to make him feel it. “Goldfish memory. That’s what you get when mom keeps getting high while pregnant with you. But then, I get a very nice surprise every time I meet you,” I say and down the liquor. The sharp bitterness of it makes me scowl, but who needs something to wash that down when the man next to me is sweeter than syrup?
Clyde laughs, and I feel like the most entertaining guy in the fucking state. As much as I want to be in bed with him already, this is nice too. Very nice actually. He lowers his voice.
“Imagine forgetting how good I am at giving you head and getting that surprise every time.”
I catch myself nodding and clear my throat, leaning closer to catch his leathery scent. He’s making me feel such weird things, and I’m as lost as I was without him. “That would be something.”
Clyde glances down the sticky bar counter, but we’ve got enough privacy here. “Have you ever been to a gay bar?” He winces after his shot, and I can’t help the chuckle bubbling up my throat. I would have leaned in and nipped his neck if we were alone. Instead, I allow myself a discreet stroke across his hand.
“No, never. You?” I ask, imagining him in such a place, young and wide-eyed. Nah, someone would have snatched a fruit this juicy if they had the chance.
“No. We could openly touch there, but what if someone hit on you?” Clyde frowns at me, like I’m already being chatted up by some hunk. He’s ridiculous. “They’d kick us out in no time. ”
“They can try all they want. I already have my eye on someone,” I say, meeting his eyes, even though admitting to such a thing drops a heavy weight inside my chest. Sure, it could be the usual flirting, just talk, but I even dream of him now.
He taps my chest with the back of his hand, that dick-hardening smile in place. “And do they even have darts at a gay bar?” Clyde points to the board hanging behind us.
I snort. “In a hurry to lose?”
Clyde’s eyebrows rise. “You’re very cocky for someone about to be knocked down a peg. Hey, bartender? Can we get the darts?”
“And another two shots,” I add.
I give his back a gentle pat, so I have an excuse to touch him. “You think someone who’s as good at throwing knives as me will lose to you at darts?” His nape looks so warm, so inviting, and I restrain myself from kissing it at the last moment, because the barman is there, placing shots in front of us along with some darts and a strong warning to not throw them at people. Seems like it’s something that’s happened before.
As soon as he’s away, Clyde shrugs at me with a smirk. “It’s a different skill, babe.”
He grabs some darts, downs his vodka and moves to stand in front of the board. I pull him back behind a line on the floor. Another excuse to touch him. The second shot of vodka already burns the back of my throat.
“Now you’ve got something to prove. How about we make this more interesting? Dart truth or dare,” I say because there are things I don’t know about him yet, and with the peace between our clubs crumbling, I don’t know how much time we have left. I’m not going to be a baby about the inevitable, but I will gorge myself on his company for as long as I can.
Clyde smiles. “Sure. Go first. Whoever's closer to the bullseye wins.”
The darts are different from the ones I’m used to, lighter, and their weight is not evenly distributed. So maybe I was overly confident when I shot my first shot, without taking my time to assess what I’m working with, and it drops too fast, almost avoiding the target altogether. Smug as a peacock spreading his tail, Clyde takes his time, and while he’s also far from the bullseye, his result is better.
I end up asking for a dare, a little intimidated about him being able to ask anything . I’m told to drink herb liquor, which he knows I hate, but I guess it wouldn’t be a dare otherwise.
“I see your strategy,” I grumble. “Getting me an extra drink first, so my aim is off.”
Clyde spreads his arms. “Got me there.”
But I’ve got a strong head for booze, so I’m not worried, and I win the next one. Again, I have this itch to ask him about things I haven’t gotten to yet, but when he too picks the dare, I demand that he does a handstand by the nearest wall. I half-expect needing to help him out, which would be yet another sneaky opportunity for touch, but while it takes him three attempts, he does manage to fulfill my request. His T-shirt rolls down, exposing the treasure trail of dark hair. It beckons me to follow it, either up or down, but before I can make up my mind, Clyde lands back on his feet, his hair in a delicious mess.
“We’re only getting started.”
“Okay, big shot, next round? Facing away.” Clyde’s a little flushed after the handstand, and it only makes him hotter. Before I know it, he faces away from the board and throws the dart over his shoulder.
It doesn’t even touch the wall, let alone the board.
He frowns at me when I laugh. “Let’s see how you do, smartass.”
I smirk, because this is something I practice on a regular basis. With knives, of course, but it still should make a difference, and my dart manages to strike the target. I offer Clyde a smug smile. “What will it be this time, Blue Eyes?” I ask, resisting the urge to trace the scar cutting across his brow.
Clyde rolls his eyes. “Go on. Truth.”
Yes.
I’m almost embarrassed of the way my heart skips, but my voice is even when I speak. “Why did you join the Butchers? What’s the history there?” I ask, leaning against the bar.
I need to know if I’m to ever have a chance of disentangling him from their clutches.
Clyde groans. “Oh, fuuuck… Dare?”
I shake my head. Looks like this story needs a beer, because he orders another drink, and only with his hand full, Clyde leans against the wall next to the dart board.
“Because of my dad I was prepared for it, or at least the idea that it could be my future. I wasn’t as big as Roy, and didn’t know if I’d prospect, so it was all up in the air as my time in high school was ending. I’ll have you know I actually graduated at seventeen.” He wags his finger at me, but it’s a digression, so I nod and don’t let him change the topic. “But then…” Clyde stares down into his beer as if he’s counting all the bubbles in it. “I got beat up real bad around that time. My dad was furious that I wouldn’t tell him who did it, but it was winter, the guy’s face was half-covered, and I didn’t see shit, just some in k on his hands. My dad thought I was covering for the fucker, that I didn’t want him dead, or was afraid or something, and I was sick of being seen as weak. Being weak. What that fuck did to me…” He takes a swig of beer. “It made me realize I need to be tough. That if I have people like the Butchers at my back, no shithead will dare fuck with me. So I stopped being weak, and joined as a prospect.” Clyde glances up at me with a cocky glint in his blue eyes. “And a month later, I broke your finger.”
I remember. We had a run-in, and he broke my finger with an emergency window breaker. Good, innocent times. Back then, he seemed vicious, like a rabid dog finally allowed to run free. It’s enlightening to find out he joined the Butchers because he wanted safety in numbers.
“Didn’t expect that,” I tell him, opening the top button of my Henley, because the collar feels oppressive.
Clyde drinks more, stiffening his shoulders. “What did you expect? That I wanted to please Daddy? That all I ever dreamed of was to follow in my big brother’s footsteps, like in some fucking Disney movie?”
I shrug, surprised that he’s so defensive. “No. I just figured you wanted a piece of the pie, that’s all.” But it’s not all, and I sigh, meeting his gaze again. “It pissed me off that you had it easy, joining because you were the prez’s son.”
“While you… what? Had to make a human sacrifice for Prophet to let you join? Drink your witch’s blood?” he asks, but stands closer, curiosity in his eyes, not malice.
A chuckle tears from my throat, and I shake my head. “And meditate under an icy waterfall.” His eyes widen, and when I’m pretty certain he believes me, I poke him in the ribs. “I’m messing with you. No. I’m from… far away. After I ran away from home, I just roamed the country, hitchhiking, or catching rides on cargo trains. That ended when this guy who gave me a lift and I had a scuffle”—he beat me unconscious—“and he threw me out of his car, at the side of the road. That’s how Prophet found me. Just a stray. Roadkill,” I tell him and wink, because I’m not sure if he knows the root of my nickname.
Clyde’s hand hovers over mine for a moment, but then he pulls back when a new group of people entering makes the bell over the door chime. “And he just took you in?” He cocks his head, seeming to disbelieve Prophet’s good heart.
I shrug. “He only just started the club, they were all teens, playing grown-ups, but they were serious about it. Made me do all of the nastiest work, but I got food, and clothes, and a bed. It was fairer than anything I ever got before that. I was scared shitless of Brigid though until I realized she’s not actually a witch. Felt like finding out Santa’s not real all over again.” I chuckle at the memory.
Clyde punches my shoulder. “I’m… glad they found you. Even if you ended up in the shittier club.” His eyes spark with that mischief I like so much.
“You wish you were one of us! You get your fortune read at least once a month,” I tell him, because there’s no point arguing whose club is better. It’s the Vultures, of course, but that conversation would take us nowhere.
Clyde finishes his beer and puts away the bottle. “And what’s your future? You think you can win three rounds in a row?”
My gums itch. He’s so damn beautiful like this, with eyes focused only on me, open mouth, and hair still messy from the handstand. I want him.
“I always do when it matters.”
Clyde steps closer and leans in to speak straight into my ear. “Win three rounds, and you can top me tonight.”
He might as well have poured gasoline over me and set me on fire.