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“Hey Mr. Cantu, is Whit home?” I ask, eager to get this little stand-off over with. To talk to my girl, hold her.
“She is, but you won’t be seeing her today.” I roll my eyes and he narrows his. “It’s been a week, Dean. A week since you bothered to call her or knock on this door to check on her. Her momma and I have been here, watching her wither away. Watching the guilt and heartbreak consume her. Where the fuck have you been?” He asks, and I want to tell him that I’ve been dealing with my own heartbreak, but would that make me look like less of a man? Whitley isn’t the only one feeling this loss. I am too. I grip the back of my neck, anxious and annoyed.
“I just really need to see her,” I start, and he shakes his head, taking a step towards me and lowering his voice.
“No, what you need to do is turn around and leave. For reasons beyond me, my little girl loves you, but she loved that baby more than life. If she could have, she woulda’ sacrificed her own life to take Everly’s place. She would have died to let that baby live and I’ve been holding her every night while sobs wrack her body, for the baby she lost and for the boy that can’t get his shit together. Hear me now and hear me good, boy. You leave. You do what you gotta do, but don’t you dare come back to my house until you’re the man she deserves, do you understand me?” And with that he turns and goes back inside. I hear the door lock behind him, and the porch light goes off and I’m left standing on that front porch, alone and heartbroken.
I deserved every word he fired at me. Every hurt he sliced back open when he told me to leave. I didn’t understand it back then, but he was right. Whitley deserved so much better than me, so I left. I left with every intention of staying gone. But it’s been too long, and I can’t live without her any longer. Of course, I’ve had other women while I’ve been gone, but none of them lasted longer than a handful of nights and none of them ever compared to Whit.
I’ve been working and saving as much as I can, ready to go back to Alabama and get my girl, I just need a little more time. Which is what brings me here. To this moment. In the parking lot of a biker bar in the middle of nowhere, Colorado. I exit the truck, determined to land the job.
Present
And I did land the job. Spoke to the owner who was desperate for another male bartender that could handle the bikers when they got a little too rowdy. He hired me and I started the next day. Jim taught me everything he knew, from working the bar to running the payroll. He became one of my closest friends, no matter the thirty-year age difference.
He didn’t ask questions when I came to him six months ago and told him I had to leave. Told me he knew I couldn’t stay forever but he was happy to have me while he did. On my last day, he gave me an envelope and told me not to open it until I made it to where I was going. Which is why I’m sitting here, in the office of my bar, staring at his crooked handwriting on the envelope in front of me. I tear it open and unfold the letter.
Dean,
I’m not so good with the words but I wanted you to know how much the time we’ve spent together has meant to me. I always saw you as sort of a kindred spirit, cus ya see, I’ve spent half my life running from my past.
I lost my wife and my son in a car accident thirty years ago. Drunk driver, which is pretty ironic for the fella that owns the only bar in a sixty-mile radius. Guess that’s the penance I pay for not being in the car with them, for being too busy at work to meet them for the dinner I swore I’d be at. Spent a lot of years feeling guilty, wanting to die myself. Thought about killing myself more times than I care to admit. Actually had the suicide letter written, had hung up a help wanted sign for the bar, and was ready to put my plan in to action. But then you walked into my bar.
Saw myself in you, boy. So sure of yourself. The way you talked about your past life and the life you’ve lived over the last handful of years, I started to realize that maybe I was left here for a reason. And that maybe that reason was for you to show up in my bar and turn into the closest thing I have to a friend. Now don’t you worry about me running off and killing myself now that you’re gone. I’m in a much better headspace than I was before. Been seeing’ a therapist and he’s helping me realize that I’m worth being here, living and breathing.
Go get your girl, son. You deserve every part of that life you’re fighting for, but just know, you can always come home to an old man and his biker bar, even if it’s just for a visit.
Jim
I drop the letter and let Jim’s words settle over me. Suicide. Never in a million years did he ever let on that he was struggling or hurting. Why didn’t he tell me? I fold the letter back up and go to slide it back into the envelope when something else catches my eye. I slide the slip of paper out of the envelope and my eyes bug out of my head. It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.
Holy shit. In the memo line he wrote ‘get your girl’. I shake my head and laugh. Crazy old fucking man. I’m getting ready to dig my phone out of my pocket and call him when Kolby pops his head into my office.
“Hey boss, need you in the kitchen to sign off on this vendor.”
“Be right there,” I say, and he leaves the doorway. I drop the letter and check into my desk drawer. Calling Jim will have to wait until later.
Whitley
“Get a move on it, slugger!” I shout as I thread my ponytail through my Monroeville baseball hat. Today’s the day for the annual co-ed softball tournament. It’s Deans first since he moved back to town and it’s something that started years ago while he was gone, so he has yet to witness the madness that is tournament day. I bound down the stairs of his old farmhouse as he strides out of the kitchen looking deliciously sinful in a pair of black basketball shorts and a gray cutoff. He stutter steps to a stop when he sees me, his eyes dragging a path from my ball cap all the way down to my sneakers.
“How am I supposed to play softball with a fucking erection, Whit?” He grits out, his blue eyes zeroing in on my spandex shorts. He scrubs his hand over his mouth. “Turn around.” He demands. I cock an eyebrow, challenging him. He makes a spinning motion with his finger and I oblige. “Stop.” He grunts out when my back is to him. I feel his heat hit my back as he walks me towards the front door and presses his cock against my ass.
“These fucking shorts should be illegal,” he says, dragging his palms down my sides and nudging my legs apart with his foot. “Hands on the door, sweetheart,” he murmurs in my ear and I do what he says. He presses his cock against me and snakes his hand to my pussy, running his finger down my seam over my shorts before dropping to his knees behind me and tugging my shorts and panties down my legs. Dean nips at my ass cheek and drags his finger through my wetness, causing my breath to hitch. He fills me with two fingers, and I drop my forehead against the door, circling my hips over his fingers that are inside of me.
“This cunt,” he says, slapping me on my ass and the sting of it feels incredible, “this cunt is mine. All fucking mine, right Whit?” And I nod my head, words lost because I’m already teetering on the edge of my orgasm. He uses his hand that isn’t finger fucking my pussy to spread my ass cheeks. “What about this? Has this belonged to anybody?” I tense
a little when his thumb drags across my puckered hole and shake my head, because no. No one has, and I’m not sure I would even want that. He grunts his approval at my answer. “Good, because I want to be the first. But that’s not happening right now. Save that for another day when we have time to play.” He presses his nose to my pussy and inhales. “So sweet,” he murmurs dragging his tongue from my clit to my asshole and my legs practically give out.
“Turn around,” he demands again, and I oblige, facing him and propping my back up against the door, my chest rising and falling with each breath. I glance down to take him in, him on his knees worshipping me like I’m some sort of goddess. As if he can read my mind he says, “I could spend the rest of my life worshipping that pussy and it still wouldn’t be enough.” He proves his point by using his thumbs to spread my folds apart and dives right in, sucking my clit into his mouth and biting down. I cry out, slapping my hand against the door and fisting his hair.
“Dean,” I whimper, and his hooded eyes meet mine while he eats me out, not breaking eye contact as he tongues me, lapping up all my juices. His fingers join his tongue and pretty soon I’m on the brink of my orgasm, grinding my hips against his face. I can feel the tingle starting to build and I’m close, so fucking close when he stops suddenly and stands.
“What the hell, Dean?” I snap, pissed that he’d bring me that close to the edge and just stop. The motherfucker grins at me, wiping my juices from his face.
“Patience, baby,” he murmurs, fingers hooking into his shorts to release his cock. It bobs free and he slides his hand up and down it a few times, still taking my body in, his eyes heated.
“Wanna come inside of you,” he says, lifting me and I wrap my legs around his waist, his cock sliding against the seam of my pussy. “Wanna know while we’re out on that softball field that my cum could be dripping down your thigh. Want everyone to know you’re mine.”
