Chapter 7 Grudge
GRUDGE
When the early morning alarm goes off, I slap my hand around on my side table and hit the snooze button.
It might be the weekend, but Mom doesn’t like it when we’re late to visit Dad.
Yet the dream I’m having is too good to walk away from.
I flop onto my back and grab my aching cock. As much as I hate that I’m thinking about Lucy, fuck, that woman can turn me on harder and faster than anyone else I’ve ever been with.
It wasn’t even a memory I was dreaming about. It was what would have happened if I’d gotten on my bike last night, pulled up in front of her, and persuaded her to get on the back instead of riding off with my brothers and getting obliterated in the bar when we returned to the clubhouse.
Not even sure how I got to my room, but I’m grateful I thought to set my alarm before I started drinking. I feel like it was probably Jackal and Shade who poured me into bed.
But the dream…
Yeah.
“Fuck,” I gasp as I rub my hand the full length, from root to tip. If I focus on the head too soon, I’m gonna blow too quickly.
My pulse races, thumping in the side of my head like a drum.
But my dad always told me the way to cure a hangover was shoot, shit, shave, shower, and shovel. In other words, jerk one out, clean yourself up, and eat some goddamn food.
Works every time. But I find I don’t want to just rush through them to clear the banging in my head. In my semi-lucid state, I want to stay with Lucy for a little while longer, before cold hard logic comes knocking and tells me it’s a terrible idea.
In the dream, I took her to this place we used to go down by the river.
A bit of a hike up the trail, but it’s easy to navigate on my bike.
We’re both clearly the adults we are now, and I gloss over the logistics of how we get into position, because who the fuck cares in a dream?
But the bottom line is, I’m sitting on my bike, and she’s riding my cock.
My boots are planted firmly on either side of the bike, and she leans back over the gas tank, her hands reaching for the handlebars. Stretched out, her torso is even leaner, yet her tits stand high and proud like they always did.
And…
“Fuck me,” I huff.
In the dream, I run my hand between her breasts, over her ribs and the hollow of her stomach. In bed, I allow myself to remember what it felt like to be inside her snug pussy. The way her lips had to stretch to accommodate my girth.
Been told plenty of times my cock veers on the side of too big. Had some girls tell me they couldn’t take it. Luce, as tiny as she is, never said no. Said she liked the burn and stretch.
Lube was always our friend. Even when she was wet.
Didn’t wanna tear her up or leave her out of action for days.
The stranglehold of her pussy was so damn good, it was hard to constrain myself, but dream me doesn’t have that same problem.
I thrust up into her so hard that when I place my palm over her mound, up to her stomach and press down, I can feel myself moving inside her.
As one hand pumps, I slide my other hand down to my balls and tug on them as my strokes get faster and faster.
I focus on the visions in my head.
There’s no way my hand is even close to how good it would feel to be back inside her for real, but it’s enough to drag me over the edge.
“Fuck, Luce,” I call out, huffing as my body shakes and my world tilts before righting itself.
Cum is everywhere. My stomach. My chest.
And as I catch my breath, I realize the best part of it all used to be the way she would wrap herself around me afterward.
She never cared about the mess, or wiping my cum away as fast as she could. She’d slide her finger through it and dip it into her mouth. She’d write her name on my chest in it.
She’d tell me how much she loved it; how much she loved me.
And we’d kiss each other, holding each other. Tasting each other. Letting what we did bloom and dissipate between us.
I look up at the ceiling as my heart rate slows, and for the first time in a really long time, my bed feels empty.
Worse, so does something deep inside the cavity of my chest.
Throwing back the covers of the bed, I regret allowing Lucy to creep into my thoughts like I did. For some reason, I feel dirty, cheapened. It’s like I’ve been used, even though I’m the one who just jerked off to memories of my ex.
I take a moment in the shower to try to get myself back under control. To lose the shame of what I just did and set myself up for the day. Some food and two cups of coffee put some perspective on what just happened.
Perhaps it’s stress, likely connected to having too much to drink. Perhaps it’s the high of the adrenaline release from the fight last night and the morning after comedown.
Or I can just admit that, like Butcher said, Lucy has stirred up some unfinished business. And perhaps the best thing I can do is stop ignoring the problem by trying to drive her away and talk to her.
Try to understand, or at least find out the reason why she bailed on us.
And accept why the only reason I’m committed to sleeping around for the rest of my life is I can’t face a future with someone who isn’t her. Who doesn’t match me and fit like she did.
It takes another fifteen minutes to ride out to Mom’s in my truck to pick her up.
She’s ready, sitting on the porch chair, with her hair done and in a cute dress that makes her look younger than her fifty-five years and a thick winter coat she hasn’t buttoned against the cold yet.
Ninety-five percent of the year, she doesn’t look like this.
She wears jeans and Birkenstocks and T-shirts with different slogans on them like They Couldn’t Burn All of Us and Lover, Not a Hater.
She jumps up when she sees me pull up by the curb.
After Dad went to prison, she sold the large property they shared a few minutes’ drive from me.
It was too big, needed too much work, especially in the winter, and was too expensive for her to heat.
And there was only so much I could do for her.
So, she moved closer to town. It’s a nice street with nice neighbors.
Mom often tells me she feels suffocated by the perfect lawns.
“Hey, Mom,” I say when she jumps in the truck.
“I brought snacks,” she says, balancing a clear bag of cookies and granola bars and fruit on the cupholders. “Morning, sweetheart.”
She leans over and kisses my cheek. “Did you sleep okay?”
I pull away from the curb and head toward the correctional facility. “I’d love to say yes, but I was too drunk to remember.”
Mom chuckles. “You boys. One day, you’ll learn that drinking that much all the time plays havoc with your body. Don’t come crying to me when you have a fatty liver by the time you’re forty.”
I want to argue that I’m not always getting drunk but…well, that would be a lie. It happens a lot. Worse now that I’m at the clubhouse more.
The phone rings, and I answer it as the whip of a snow flurry hits the windshield. “Catfish. I’m in the truck with Mom.”
“Hey, Mrs. Williams,” Catfish says, like he’s some kind of goodie-two-shoes choir boy. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing good, sweetheart. Were you drinking too much with Zachary last night?”
Catfish laughs. “Yeah. Maybe I was. But I’m up and at my business today, in spite of feeling like I slept in a desert.”
“Drink some water,” Mom says. “Lots of it.”
“Will do,” he says.
“Want me to call you back? I can pull over,” I ask.
“Just wanted to see if you’d made a decision over the thing we discussed with Butcher, but it can wait.”
I glance over to Mom, then answer. “Keep it. For now. Leaner times in January and February, right? So, hold.”
It’s slightly coded. But Catfish knows what I mean as I relay Butcher’s advice.
“Sounds like a plan.”
Mom sighs as I hang up. “You sound so much like your father, it’s scary sometimes. I’m proud of you, but I worry about you too.”
She doesn’t need to explain it. I already know.
We’ve talked about it multiple times. She fully embraces the life, understands what it means.
Heck, she does her own thing her own way, always has.
She’s a freelance social media manager for a bunch of different companies.
Comes up with campaign ideas and makes all the graphics.
But she also quilts and makes jewelry that she sells online.
I place my hand on her knee and squeeze it, for a second. “I know.”
I don’t need to add that it’s because of what happened to Dad. I don’t insult her by saying she doesn’t need to worry. Because we both know what my life is like.
As we pull up to the foreboding correctional facility I was once incarcerated in, I remember how dehumanizing it can be.
Prison is a black hole, because it sucks the humanity right out of you.
You lose access to the most basic of rights.
You lose control of how much food you eat, how often you exercise, how often you sit outside with the sun on your face.
You lose control of your personal safety, because it’s way too fucking easy for people on the outside to buy off guards, and to pay off families on the outside for those inside who will do damage on someone’s behalf.
In the cold winter air, blanketed by gray skies, it looks bleaker than ever.
And yet, for all it is, trips to see my dad are the highlight of my mom’s week.
Prisons make it hard. You can only have twelve people annually registered to visit.
You can only visit for a finite time. The state currently doesn’t allow conjugal visits.
You can hold the hand of the person opposite, but in my parents’ case, they’re allowed one chaste kiss when Mom arrives, and one when she leaves.
But Mom? She smiles all the way up to that door.
She’s still proud of him.
She still loves him.
And she tries every day to live in a way that would do him and his name proud.
“Cherub,” Dad says when he sees Mom.
She grins like a schoolgirl. “Sweetie,” she says before they kiss briefly.