Chapter Text
*****
At night we ride through the mansions of glory in suicide machines
Sprung from cages out on highway nine,
Chrome wheeled, fuel injected, and steppin' out over the line
[Born To Run - Bruce Springsteen]
The bub on the bike, leather jacket, jeans. Somewhat out of place and then not at all. Like that innocence does not belong there but the stark contrast it creates making it even more fascinating. It ups the ante. And that scares the shit out of me. That perfection this side of dangerous. It appeals to me, my feral self, the Wolverine. That's when I run. Again.
I don't remember much of my past but I've been reminded by others often enough that I left mayhem and destruction in my wake. My family, Victor – gods know where he is now, doing what –, a woman – my wife, maybe... all messed up, dead even, because of me. The damn story of my life.
---
The engine roars, the deep humming somewhat soothing. The leather of the seat feels perfect under my ass. Not at all as if it was made for someone else. The image of his ass snuggling into the leather, clad in stone-washed blue instead of the usual brown or dark grey comes up unbidden. Not that I'm complaining, I always had a thing for this ass. It's the prissy boy-scout it belongs to that raises my hackles. This mixture of Mr-know-it-all-I-am-the-leader and all-american-boy is irritating as hell, to say the least. It makes the animal in me longing to lash out. Hard.
To think he will be raging mad because I took the bike without asking, again... I grin. It satisfies me.
The Canadian boarder is not far now. Might cross it by noon tomorrow. The sky turns red already so I decide to stop at the next possible place.
Reardan, WA, is ya typical run-down village this side of the boarder. The main road is framed by cheap stores and a gas station that has seen better days. The only motel is at the far end. I park the bike in front of the larger building, take my duffel-bag and head for the entrance. My steps are muffled by the dirty carpet as I walk up to the reception desk. A sixty-something man with a moustache and a baseball cap is watching a game of football on a tiny screen.
“No smoking allowed inside the buildings” he barks, looking up. I growl but stub out the cigar on the inside of my palm. He tries not to notice then asks “One night?” as if that's all I'll get here.
“Yap. The one at the far end, like ta keep ta meself.”
“You don't say” he almost grins. “Please sign here, Mister...”
I don't give him my name but sign the paper. He does not seem to mind, guess he's seen all kinds 'round here through the years.
As I turn to leave I ask “Any chance of getting a beer somewhere 'round?”
“No drinking inside also but there's Chip's bar just down the road.”
I nod my thanks and put the cigar between my lips again as I exit.
The room is as dingy as this place implied but the sheets are clean and there's a shower in the bathroom. I dump my bag on the bed and decide to check out the place the porter recommended in search for a beer.
It is almost cliché. Dimly lit and filled with smoke despite the 'no smoking' sign above the bar. I order a beer and vodka and sit down in one of the far corners. There are only a few residents and a muted baseball game is playing on the screen.
I empty the beer and down another shot. I set the glass down and order another. I know I can't get drunk. I don't drink to forget. Don't need to as I don't remember half of my life anyway. Sometimes I can't say what is worse: not remembering or not being able to forget. I drink because it gives me something to do.
---
I wake with a start, my own scream echoing in the dark room. My breath is coming in short pants, the sheets are messed up, and my claws are out. There are three distinct holes where I must have stuck them into the mattress in my sleep. Another piece of furniture I'll have to explain in the morning. Great. I get up to take a piss. The sweat on my skin is cooling from the nightly breeze that comes through the half-open window. No chance of going to sleep again, so might as well take a shower now.
I hiss as the hot water hits my body. Every muscle in my neck and shoulders aches. The nightmare must have been a rough one. Nothing new there. Sleep rarely comes easy to me and never on soft wings. Good thing I don't do soft. Soaping up I take myself in hand and start a fast rhythm. I grunt through clenched teeth as I near a fast peak to the unbidden image of a lithe body pinned under mine. When it hits I see stars and lean against the tiles, the water still falling in a hot stream. Taking a moment to catch my breath I run a hand over my face. I know where this came from but it does not mean I am comfortable with it. I can appreciate a well built body and it does not matter if it's male or female. However, to come harder than I can remember to the mental images of this certain body is disturbing to say the least. It makes my blood boil. And not in a good way.