59. 1980s
Jason rode hard out of Ohio.
It wasn’t so he didn’t change his mind. A man didn’t meet a woman—even a solid one like T—and suddenly rearrange his whole life after a couple of good days.
She was hard to wring from his head though, especially since he still smelled her on his clothes. Insisting she wear his jacket and helmet on the bike, he hadn’t thought about how much of her scent she’d leave behind.
He was a millionaire. He could buy new gear.
What did she really think anyway? That he was going to buy a big house on a pond in Ohio and start putting down roots? He wasn’t built to stay in one spot.
Leaving wasn’t the right thing, it was the only thing. Crossing the border into Indiana, getting some distance between him and Theresa, was a relief. He felt more like himself, and less on a detour in another man’s life.
It wouldn’t take long, he guessed, before she replaced him. Problem was, she had a nasty habit of picking the wrong men, and he was proof. He’d probably treated her better than any of the gearheads who were too in love with heaps of metal to love her properly, but they did one thing Jason couldn’t.
They stuck around.
He was headed his usual way to Arizona—a route that was as much a rut as any man could carve on the open road, where things that shouldn’t be familiar across so many miles marked the way.
A cluster of trees around a bend, graffiti on a road sign, the same hovels in the same towns and the same bruisers tending bar.
All roads west led to Billy.
You have ten million dollars in the bank. You never have to work again if you don’t want to. If this job is so bad, why take it?
It wasn’t just a job. The Demons meant security. Legacy. Billy. Taking Bear up on his offer was never about needing money.
A few bucks for gas and a little more for his ma, and Jason was fine. If he threw fifty grand in her bank account, he’d set Eleanor Young up for life.
He thought about stopping to call her—which he should’ve done days ago and T ragged about whenever the check came up. Fuck, that woman was a pain in his ass.
Pain in his head, too. He pulled over long enough to take his helmet off and strap it to the seat behind him. Fresh air would keep him from thinking about the way Theresa’s curls felt in his hand.
After that, there was no more stopping. No calling his ma. No taking a piss. Just pavement. Pure, uncomplicated yellow lines and a way out. He pushed the Panhead until it sputtered and coughed, then finally died a few miles into Illinois.
A farmer on his way to Decatur offered Jason a ride and managed to fit the bike into the bed of his pickup truck. At a used car lot in town, Jason offered the Panhead for scrap metal toward a trade he paid for in cash.
A few hours later, he drove out of Decatur on a 1978 Electra Glide T would’ve loved.
It didn’t clunk or sputter and had a proper back seat for a passenger.
She’d still have to cling to him, still have to ride with her arms around his waist, but it’d be smooth and comfortable enough to go more than a few miles between her place and work. They could go anywhere. Everywhere.
Nowhere, he realized, striking her from his thoughts once again.