Rock Chick Regret
Page 114
I went back to the bedroom and tore through my overnight bag. I’d packed heavy but I had nothing to wear to a roadhouse. Even if I had my whole wardrobe handy, I’d still have nothing to wear to a roadhouse. In fact, I wasn’t certain sure I knew what a roadhouse was.
Instead of calling downstairs and asking Hector (which might be embarrassing), I put on a pair of black, low-rider cords, my rose-stamped silver-buckled belt, a wrap-around lilac sweater with bell sleeves that showed some cle**age and my motorcycle boots. I figured the lilac sweater was pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable at a roadhouse but the boots balanced it out.
Then me and my boots clomped downstairs. It was dark outside but Hector had the overhead light on in the living room and, again, I admired the new walls. The difference was astonishing and it looked like our work took us leaps ahead in making Hector’s house a home. There was actual physical evidence that I accomplished something and that felt nice.
I found Hector in the kitchen sitting on the countertop sorting through mail.
His head came up when I walked in. He did a full body scan, hair to boots then up again, stopping at my br**sts.
His eyes lifted to mine. “You got a tank to wear under that?”
I looked down at myself. “Under what?” I asked stupidly for where else would you wear a tank?
“Your sweater,” Hector answered.
I looked out the window at the darkness. “Is it that cold?”
Hector didn’t answer me so my gaze swung back to him and I saw his face was the same mixture of hard and soft it was when he talked to Ralphie yesterday.
“Come here,” he demanded and, without question, I did.
When I got close he spread his legs and I took that as my cue and walked between them. When I felt his heat, I stopped, put my hands on his hard thighs and his hands came to my neck.
“I forget, with all the shit that’s gone down, we don’t know each other that well so I’ll explain somethin’ about me you gotta understand.”
Oh my.
I didn’t have a good feeling about this.
I decided to gird.
It was a good decision.
“What?” I asked.
His thumbs started circling on my neck which felt nice but even so, I did my best to pay attention when he started talking.
“You were just a beautiful woman. Now you’re my beautiful woman. What you got under your clothes is for me. No one else. They don’t look. They don’t touch. That’s the deal. Yeah?”
I stared at him, speechless, which was a good thing because if I had words, I would have said them so loudly the neighbors would hear.
“Now,” he went on, either not feeling or not caring about the badder than bad vibes emanating from me directly toward him, “go put on a tank.”
That’s when I found my words.
“Maybe I should go put on my ragged white dress and stone necklace and you can put on your leopard skin tunic and we can pedal in our stone car to the roadhouse before you go bowling with Barney and I go shopping with Betty, Fred.”
His thumbs stopped circling and his eyes narrowed.
“You wanna repeat that?” His voice was low with warning, telling me that, no, I didn’t want to repeat it, I wanted to run upstairs and put on a tank.
This, of course, I did not do.
“I’m referring to the Flintstones who lived in the Stone Age.”
“I know what you’re referrin’ to.”
“My point is, Hector and Sadie are not Fred and Wilma. We don’t live in the Stone Age. We live in the here and now, where women show cle**age and men don’t tell their women what to wear.”
“I asked nice.”
“You didn’t ask, you told.”
“All right, I told nice.”
I had no answer because this was true.
I still was not going to put on a tank.
Therefore, coming to a verbal stalemate, we locked eyes and went into stare down mode.
This lasted a long time, so long, I quivered internally and was about to give in when Hector blew out a sigh.
“You’re not gonna give in, are you?” he asked.
“No,” I lied, I was so going to give in.
He looked over my shoulder and muttered, “Fuck.”
I tried hard not to smile. It would be bad sportsmanship.
Instead, I said, “Painting’s hard work, I’m hungry.”
His eyes came back to mine and I was pleased to see he wasn’t angry but I couldn’t say he wasn’t annoyed.
I could handle annoyed.
“Let’s go.” He pushed me back, jumped off the counter in front of me and tagged my hand, walking me to the back of the house rather than the front where he always parked his Bronco.
We went into the little mudroom off the kitchen that was full of more boots (yes, more boots!), more renovation equipment and other masculine detritus. He reached up on a shelf and pulled down two, black, visored motorcycle helmets and he handed me one.
I stared at the helmet in my hand then up at Hector, my heart beating a little faster.
“You have a bike?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied.
My heart started beating even faster and I could feel my lips forming a smile.
“I’ve never ridden on a bike.”
His hand came to my neck and he lost his annoyed look.
“Tonight’s your night, mamita.”
Then he put a hand to the small of my back and turned me to the door.
* * * * *
“I’m gonna get us more beers,” I told the table which included Luke and Ava who were at Lincoln’s when we arrived. They’d only just sat down and got their drinks so Ava told us it was perfect timing. They did a seat shuffle, Luke sat by Ava at the tall table by the bar, her on the inside by the wall, Hector sat by me, I was across from Ava.
We ordered “Cajun Popcorn” as an appetizer (battered, deep-fried crawfish) and I got a meatloaf cheeseburger with fries. Even after the Cajun Popcorn, I ate every last bite of my burger and every single fry and I didn’t even care. Manual labor made you ravenous. Blanca would be thrilled.
I loved Lincoln’s. There were interesting people there, not just bikers but also urbanites, probably from the local neighborhood. It was worn in but not worn out and the waitresses were super friendly.
I also loved Hector’s bike mainly because it meant I could get transported from one place to the other with my front plastered to Hector’s hard, hot back, my arms around his tight abs and the wind hitting me everywhere. I decided the minute we hit the road and picked up speed there was nothing in the whole, wide world better than that.
Instead of calling downstairs and asking Hector (which might be embarrassing), I put on a pair of black, low-rider cords, my rose-stamped silver-buckled belt, a wrap-around lilac sweater with bell sleeves that showed some cle**age and my motorcycle boots. I figured the lilac sweater was pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable at a roadhouse but the boots balanced it out.
Then me and my boots clomped downstairs. It was dark outside but Hector had the overhead light on in the living room and, again, I admired the new walls. The difference was astonishing and it looked like our work took us leaps ahead in making Hector’s house a home. There was actual physical evidence that I accomplished something and that felt nice.
I found Hector in the kitchen sitting on the countertop sorting through mail.
His head came up when I walked in. He did a full body scan, hair to boots then up again, stopping at my br**sts.
His eyes lifted to mine. “You got a tank to wear under that?”
I looked down at myself. “Under what?” I asked stupidly for where else would you wear a tank?
“Your sweater,” Hector answered.
I looked out the window at the darkness. “Is it that cold?”
Hector didn’t answer me so my gaze swung back to him and I saw his face was the same mixture of hard and soft it was when he talked to Ralphie yesterday.
“Come here,” he demanded and, without question, I did.
When I got close he spread his legs and I took that as my cue and walked between them. When I felt his heat, I stopped, put my hands on his hard thighs and his hands came to my neck.
“I forget, with all the shit that’s gone down, we don’t know each other that well so I’ll explain somethin’ about me you gotta understand.”
Oh my.
I didn’t have a good feeling about this.
I decided to gird.
It was a good decision.
“What?” I asked.
His thumbs started circling on my neck which felt nice but even so, I did my best to pay attention when he started talking.
“You were just a beautiful woman. Now you’re my beautiful woman. What you got under your clothes is for me. No one else. They don’t look. They don’t touch. That’s the deal. Yeah?”
I stared at him, speechless, which was a good thing because if I had words, I would have said them so loudly the neighbors would hear.
“Now,” he went on, either not feeling or not caring about the badder than bad vibes emanating from me directly toward him, “go put on a tank.”
That’s when I found my words.
“Maybe I should go put on my ragged white dress and stone necklace and you can put on your leopard skin tunic and we can pedal in our stone car to the roadhouse before you go bowling with Barney and I go shopping with Betty, Fred.”
His thumbs stopped circling and his eyes narrowed.
“You wanna repeat that?” His voice was low with warning, telling me that, no, I didn’t want to repeat it, I wanted to run upstairs and put on a tank.
This, of course, I did not do.
“I’m referring to the Flintstones who lived in the Stone Age.”
“I know what you’re referrin’ to.”
“My point is, Hector and Sadie are not Fred and Wilma. We don’t live in the Stone Age. We live in the here and now, where women show cle**age and men don’t tell their women what to wear.”
“I asked nice.”
“You didn’t ask, you told.”
“All right, I told nice.”
I had no answer because this was true.
I still was not going to put on a tank.
Therefore, coming to a verbal stalemate, we locked eyes and went into stare down mode.
This lasted a long time, so long, I quivered internally and was about to give in when Hector blew out a sigh.
“You’re not gonna give in, are you?” he asked.
“No,” I lied, I was so going to give in.
He looked over my shoulder and muttered, “Fuck.”
I tried hard not to smile. It would be bad sportsmanship.
Instead, I said, “Painting’s hard work, I’m hungry.”
His eyes came back to mine and I was pleased to see he wasn’t angry but I couldn’t say he wasn’t annoyed.
I could handle annoyed.
“Let’s go.” He pushed me back, jumped off the counter in front of me and tagged my hand, walking me to the back of the house rather than the front where he always parked his Bronco.
We went into the little mudroom off the kitchen that was full of more boots (yes, more boots!), more renovation equipment and other masculine detritus. He reached up on a shelf and pulled down two, black, visored motorcycle helmets and he handed me one.
I stared at the helmet in my hand then up at Hector, my heart beating a little faster.
“You have a bike?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied.
My heart started beating even faster and I could feel my lips forming a smile.
“I’ve never ridden on a bike.”
His hand came to my neck and he lost his annoyed look.
“Tonight’s your night, mamita.”
Then he put a hand to the small of my back and turned me to the door.
* * * * *
“I’m gonna get us more beers,” I told the table which included Luke and Ava who were at Lincoln’s when we arrived. They’d only just sat down and got their drinks so Ava told us it was perfect timing. They did a seat shuffle, Luke sat by Ava at the tall table by the bar, her on the inside by the wall, Hector sat by me, I was across from Ava.
We ordered “Cajun Popcorn” as an appetizer (battered, deep-fried crawfish) and I got a meatloaf cheeseburger with fries. Even after the Cajun Popcorn, I ate every last bite of my burger and every single fry and I didn’t even care. Manual labor made you ravenous. Blanca would be thrilled.
I loved Lincoln’s. There were interesting people there, not just bikers but also urbanites, probably from the local neighborhood. It was worn in but not worn out and the waitresses were super friendly.
I also loved Hector’s bike mainly because it meant I could get transported from one place to the other with my front plastered to Hector’s hard, hot back, my arms around his tight abs and the wind hitting me everywhere. I decided the minute we hit the road and picked up speed there was nothing in the whole, wide world better than that.
