Chuck gave a disgusted snort. “The aunties insisted on burying him next to their parents in the First Baptist Church of Brooks cemetery.”
“Like Dad ever went to church. The two harpies haven’t changed at all, have they?” They’d never liked Slade much. Cutting ties with drug users left him few friends back in his hometown, except for Moose and Badger, until Badger found religion and Moose got caught stealing cars again.
Nothing left in Brooks for Slade but Chuck.
“I’m afraid not.” Chuck fixed a “serious talk coming” glower on Slade. “Look, are you sure there’s nothing you can do? I mean, if you had therapy… There are even counselors you can see online.”
This again? “I don’t need counselors.”
“Which is exactly what ninety percent of people who do need counselors say.”
Slade glowered back.
Chuck tried another tactic. “Look, bro, I don’t like the idea of you being out on the road all alone, ya know, nothing but your Harley for company.”
“You brought my SUV,” Slade reminded Chuck. “Besides, my Harley is pretty good company.” Didn’t talk back, ask to borrow money, or become too good to associate with him.
“I didn’t know what else to do. Our cousins were squabbling over who got what. I had to break out the title to prove you owned the Durango.”
Now Slade needed a motorcycle trailer instead of the little one he’d pulled behind his Harley. Constantly being on the road didn’t leave much time to spend money, allowing him to build comfortable savings. He could even pay cash for a house if he wanted if given the option of staying in one place.
“All I’m saying is, I miss you. I want you back.” Chuck, the one person always at Slade’s back—no knife in hand.
Judith and Vern supposedly made his curse breakable, but in ten years, he’d not found anyone he’d give his heart to. Oh, he’d enjoyed plenty of fucks, but no conversation deeper than,“Your place, my place, or this alley?”
“I miss you too, brother. How long are you staying?” Maybe they’d shoot pool, drink beer, hang out for a bit.
“I’ve got class on Monday. My bus leaves at four.”
Fuck.
Slade sat behind the wheel of his Durango in the middle of the cracked asphalt road, fingering his wolf’s head pendant. Chuck brought the vehicle, the tools of Slade’s trade loaded into the back. He’d also brought legal papers. Slade signed his house over to his niece.
Little risk of anyone driving by on this neglected strip of pavement. The sun beat down, causing sweat to trickle over his brow. He rolled up the window and turned on the A/C.
The highway stretched before him, long, flat, endless, the occasional tree, telephone pole, or cow breaking the monotonous scenery. Some of his former clubmates dreamed of a life like his: few responsibilities, drifting from place to place. At one time, he’d have agreed. Now?
Now, he served a sentence for something he’d done over a decade ago. Hell, even Dalton got out in another ten years.
Oh, to rest from the endless roaming. To settle down, at least for a little while. Bed the same man longer than a week or so.
But no. Stupid to get attached when counting the days.
He’d love to find the son of a bitch who’d cursed him and either beat the asshole to a bloody pulp or apologize and beg,“Enough!”
The mutherfucker probably sat in a mansion somewhere, boy toy in his lap, laughing his ass off at the poor fool dancing to his tune.
The city limit sign appeared in his rearview mirror way too often, no matter where Slade went. One more town before he ran out of state. Another state to check on licensing requirements. More apartments, trailers, or houses he’d stay in for a month. People to meet he’d say goodbye to before getting to know them.
Names, faces. All a blur. Too many places made him think,“Oh, yeah, something is down there…”only to realize, nope, the wrong town. Or raise a hand to wave at someone. They’d look his way, bearing only a passing resemblance to who he’d mistaken them for.
Each time caused heartache.
Hadn’t he paid his dues already?
So many ways to end his misery, like down a fistful of whatever drugs he found first. The old itch returned, memories of getting high. Such sweet relief, even if for a little while.
His art, his life, plus sixteen years of sobriety said, “oh, hell, no.” So, he’d count his blessings and keep on keeping on.