Page 16 of Rough

“I bet you fuck her.”

“I’m not going to fuck her. She wrecked my fuckin’ bike.” I waved my hand toward it. Normally spotless and polished to a mirror finish, it looked like it belonged in a salvage yard. “Look at it. Looks like someone kicked it out of a truck while they were going down the highway.”

“Damned sure does,” he said. “Now shake my hand.”

I extended my hand, hesitated, and then pulled it away. “I’m not saying I’ll never fuck her. I’m just saying I ain’t planning on it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“What’s what you thought?”

“That you’re going to fuck her, dumbass.”

“Motherfucker,” I said, then let out a sigh three times louder than it needed to be. “I said I wasn’t planning on it, and I ain’t. I’m talking about maybe tossing her a little cock way on down the road.”

“Ohhhhh.” He widened his eyes. “You mean a couple of weeks from now? Like, if you just happen to slip by your Pop’s place after a couple of beers, and you get there mysteriously just before she packs up her stethoscope and gauze wraps? Then, you might just pitch her some dick, huh?”

I shrugged. “Something like that. You think she’s got a stethoscope?”

An image of her wearing her maroon scrubs with a stethoscope hanging from her neck came to mind. The scrubs weren’t the ones she was wearing on the porch; in my mind, she wore another pair with a low neckline, one that allowed her boobs to bulge out.

Within a few seconds, I was mentally bending her over an operating table and shoving her full of cock while several doctors and a handful of nurses watched in shock.

Each stroke of my cock took $1.00 off the $3,500 she owed me. After $20 or $30 worth of dick, I’d pull out and come all over her pretty face.

“You’re an idiot,” Crip announced in a low, gravely tone.

I snapped out of my daydream.

He took a drink of beer. “And, who gives a fuck if she’s got a stethoscope.”

The sound of Cholo’s approaching bike echoed through the shop.

Cholo had a Hispanic mother and a white father. His father left before he was born, leaving him to be raised by his mother and his half-dozen siblings. Rejected by the Hispanic community as being a half-breed, and looked down upon by the white community for being a wet back, he’d found a place where he fit in perfectly.

With the Fuckers.

He rolled through the open doors and came to a stop beside my bike. Wearing his trademark weathered jeans, worn out sneakers, and a clean white tee with his vest over it, he looked like a bald-headed skateboarder more than he did a biker. He stepped off his bike, pulled off his glasses, and glanced at my once glorious machine.

“What shakin’, motherfucker?” I asked.

He looked up. “Nada.” He shifted his eyes to my bike, and then whistled a long, low whistle. “Dumb cunt just tossed her door open, huh?”

“He’s gonna fuck her here in a few days,” Crip said.

“Gonna fuck who?” Cholo asked.

“Peeb’s gonna fuck the chick that wrecked his bike.”

Cholo rapidly punched the air in a shadow boxing expedition. “Fuck her up, maybe.”

“No,” Crip said as he turned toward the fridge. “She bashed up his bike, and then he hired her to look after his Pop. She’s over there drinking root beers and playing parcheesi right now. He say’s she’s got a banging body, though. Guess that makes it okay.”

He handed Cholo a beer. “Here.”

With his eyes locked on me, Cholo took a drink of the beer, and then shook his head. “Hijo de la chingada. You hired this bitch to be your Pop’s nurse? The one who wrecked your shit?”

It sounded much worse than it was. I glanced at Crip, and then looked at Cholo. I was being attacked from both sides and none of it was called for. I wasn’t planning on fucking anyone.