Hard Corps (Selected Sinners MC #7) (29 page)

Karter Wilson: *coughs* Hurry. I’ll be on the floor. *coughs again* If I appear lifeless, it’s your fucking fault. Perform CPR as necessary. *crawls and unlocks door*

As I drove toward downtown, I found it odd out of everything we had discussed the previous day, we neglected our jobs. Although I purposely didn’t ask her of hers, she offered the fact she painted. At the time I had no idea if it was a full-time job or a hobby. The fact Karter now mentioned she couldn’t paint and was home during the work day led me to believe it may be her job.

I was reluctant to offer my employment history because I didn’t want her to determine my age - at least not yet. If she was in her latter twenties as I suspected, I was at least ten years her senior. If we continued along the same path, it would stand to reason after six months of further developing attractions toward one another, age would never become an issue. I felt if she provided me an opportunity to show her who I was and how I was capable of caring for her, she’d accept my age as being just what it was - a mere number.

As I exited the highway into downtown, I chuckled at applying the government’s position on gays in the military to our age difference.

Don’t ask - don’t tell.

It had been a little more than twenty years since I spent any time in Wichita, but it didn’t matter much. The downtown area remained unchanged for the most part. I was well aware of where her apartment building was located as I had viewed them when I arrived to town a matter of a few days prior. Whether it would prove to be a blessing or a curse was yet to be determined, but I lived three short blocks from her location.

I had grown up in a small town thirty miles outside of Wichita, and had gone to school there from kindergarten to my senior year in high school. During my initial training, my mother relocated to Wichita and remained there. This made my selection of a location to retire rather easy. I had no intent of visiting my home town or anyone in it, and as far as I was concerned if I lived in a city of almost half a million people, no one would know or recognize me. In a sense, I was obtaining a fresh start in a new city.

I parked my truck in the street outside her apartment building. After a precursory glance in the rearview mirror, I decided it really didn’t matter. I couldn’t change anything if I wanted to. I was without any cologne, brush, comb, or clean clothes. I had no idea my morning would have eventually led me to Karter’s apartment. Surprisingly, I felt comfortable seeing her covered in sweat and dressed in my PT gear.

As I knocked on the door of her apartment the sound from inside resembled a herd of elephants being assembled for a circus. Eventually, the door opened and Karter stood before me dressed in paint covered sweats, canvas sneakers, a Rolling Stones tee shirt, and a beanie. The shirt appeared to be something she had used for years, as it was covered in both wet and dry paint. The beanie rested atop her head more as an adornment than a necessity. As she swung the door open she waved her free arm toward the ridiculously colorful apartment.

“Mi casa, su casa,” she said softly as she waved her arm.

I quickly surveyed the very large open area and couldn’t help but grin at the furnishings and her choice of decorative accents. Three unmatched sofas sat in the front room, but they worked very well together. Various paintings littered the walls; most I now assumed were the result of her mind’s creative talent. Each wall was painted a different color, all bright and colorful. In the far corner sat a wooden trunk with an old glass screened television lying on its side. Numerous light fixtures hung from the ceiling, all at different elevations. After a split second inventory, I turned to her and smiled.

“Su casa es muy colorido. Me gusta su elección de ropa, eres muy linda,” I responded without thinking.

She raised one eyebrow, “Huh?”

The look on her face was clear. She didn’t speak Spanish. I asked anyway, “You don’t speak Spanish?”

“Negative Ghostrider,” she said flatly.

“What the fuck did you say?” she asked as she released the door.

“Well, I said your home is very colorful, and you look cute. Well, I actually said I like your choice of clothes and you look cute,” I said as I stepped past her.

“Me or the clothes?” she asked the instant I finished speaking.

“Both. Your tee shirt choices are great. I’ve seen two so far, and I like them both. Your sweats are, well,” I paused and looked down at her skin tight sweats which were cut off right below her knees.

Her calves were tan and smooth. She didn’t appear overly athletic nor did she seem out of shape. I guessed her to have naturally good genes which afforded her a well put together physique of average proportions. As I found myself lost in my admiration of her legs, she snapped her fingers loudly.

She wagged her hand in the air in front of her face, “Dude, snap out of it. I’ll change the cocksucker’s if you don’t like ‘em. Hold please.”

She no more than finished speaking and bounced through the apartment like a deer chasing after a mate. Swiftly, she disappeared into an open rear bedroom. After a few seconds of grunting and what I assumed was rustling through her available clothes, she stepped into the opening of the bedroom door.

She raised her arms parallel with the floor and motioned toward her torso with her index fingers, “Tadahhh.”

She stood in the doorway wearing a relatively paint free Bod Dylan tee shirt, shorts with more holes than actual available material, and a curved bill baseball style cap with the phrase
Fuck Off
stenciled across the front of the crown. Now barefoot, she performed a slow pirouette in the doorway, revealing a fabulously rounded ass, some of which was exposed by the six-inch rip in the rear of her jean shorts immediately below her left butt cheek.

I shook my head in disbelief. The entire event, from my comment to her reappearance didn’t take thirty seconds.

She frowned, “No likey?” 

“Actually, I loved what you were wearing.”

As I paused she quickly turned toward the room.

“Stop!” I said sternly.

Having realized the military man in me was coming out, I softened my tone, “But I like what you’re wearing now more.”

“I love this hat. It keeps the creeps away,” she smiled as she turned and sauntered into the living room area.

“So, you paint?” I asked as I admired the numerous paintings.

“We’ve been over this already, Jak,” she snapped as she stepped over the back of the largest couch in the room.

I walked to the couch and lowered myself onto the cushion at the opposite end, “Well, I wasn’t sure if it was a hobby or a profession. I guess I still don’t know, but it appears you’re a very talented woman.”

She pressed her back into the arm of the couch and widened her eyes, “So is this how we’re going to do it now?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

She raised her index finger and pulled down on her lower lip, “Me sitting on this end and you on the other. The only way we could be further apart is if you sat in the street. Do you want to sit in the street, Jak?”

I shrugged my shoulders lightly, “No, I…”

“Then scoot the fuck down here. Jesus, Jak. Did you forget what I said? I’m dying. D. Y. I. N. G.,” she released her lip and slumped into the lower cushion of the couch.

I smiled and stood from the end of the couch. As I stepped toward her she looked up, grinned, and batted her eyes repeatedly. As I walked her direction, I stared at her obsessively. Not watching where I was walking, I became tangled in newspapers which littered the floor in front of the couch and stumbled. I looked down at the pile of old papers and shook my head.

“Sorry, I read the obituaries. It’s the only part I read. I like knowing the names of people who die. I do it every morning when the paper comes,” she said as she kicked the newspapers aside.

I shook my head lightly as I stood over her and admired her beauty.

“I like it that you’re taller than me. I hate short guys. Actually I hate guys, period. All guys. I suppose we just as well go over this now,” she sighed.

I sat down beside her feet and turned to face her. Now almost lying flat on the couch, she raised her head and rested her cheek in her palm. Upon meeting a person, it’s difficult to know for certain if the actions and expressed personality of a person are genuine or an act. Without a doubt, sometimes it’s a combination of both. Strangely, I felt with Karter what I witnessed was exactly who she was. I cocked one eyebrow comically, “All guys? And go over what?”

She sat up slightly and pushed her feet under my right thigh, “Okay here’s the deal. I hate men. I always have. It hasn’t prevented me from being in relationships, but it’s prevented me from lasting for any period of time. All men are turds and I use them when I need to. Never for money and never for material things, but I’ve used a few for sex.”

“A woman has her sexual needs. I’ve fucked a handful of dudes and eventually they fuck me over. But don’t mistake what I’m telling you. I’m no slut, and I’m not an easy lay, Jak.” she paused and sat up a little more.

“Men have no depth. They have no appreciation. They want laid, and that’s it. I’m a complex person, Jak. I’m not high maintenance in a sense of fashion or finance, but my mind goes a million miles an hour and the world spins slowly. I can’t slow it down, I’ve tried. So, what you’re seeing? This girl covered in paint and wearing the
Fuck Off
hat? This is me. I’d be doing this and wearing these same clothes at some point in time if you weren’t here. I might do something eventually to piss you off, but I’ll never do anything intentionally to impress you. It’s not how I roll,” she hesitated and straightened her knees, pushing her feet further under my thigh.

“Well, I like it that…”

“I wasn’t done,” she said as she raised her index finger in the air.

“Fair enough,” I chuckled.

She rolled her eyes and lowered her hand to her chin.

“So I meet guys and eventually I settle for one and whatever. You know the deal. But I’ve never felt like they cared, or I cared, or that there was a real attachment. Nothing ever lasts longer than a few months. Maybe three. But in
here
,” she rubbed her hand from her waist to her neck.

“In here, I feel nothing. I never have. Not one time. Not fucking once. I’m not shitting you, Jak. Not one fucking time have I felt anything in here,” she continued to rub her hand up and down her torso.

I nodded my head and waited as patiently as I could for the rest of the story she planned to tell. What I hoped to hear was that she felt the same way I felt - an extremely strong attraction for merely having met someone and really knowing nothing about them. I struggled after we had eaten with whether or not it was simply a fascination, but settled on it truly being an attraction. I realized I preferred to be in Karter’s presence - and for me - having the desire alone was enough to cause me to believe it was an attraction.

“Now this may scare you or it might excite you. Who fucking knows? But I decided last night I was going to tell you the honest truth. My mind tells me things, and not like you’re probably thinking. I hear voices in my head - not the devil or dumb shit like that. But my brain talks to me. I think I’m a genius, but some people think I’m crazy. Maybe everyone is like me and I’m the only one with the guts to admit it, I have no idea,” she paused and sat up slightly.

“Yesterday after we ate, you picked me up and held me. When you let me down onto the floor my brain decided it liked you. Like a lot. So, I want to see you as much as you want to see me. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable and I don’t want to freak you out, but I want to be with you as often as possible. I work from my home and sell this shit to a few studios and individuals who are dumb enough to buy them. I’m always here and I’m always available,” she hesitated, raised her finger in the air, and took a deep breath.

She hears voices in her head.

Well, she’s not alone.

“So, is this the last I’ll see of you?” she asked as she pulled her feet out from under my thigh and pressed her back into the arm of the couch.

I extended my arm and gripped her left ankle in my right hand. As I pulled her toward me, she allowed herself to slump into the couch and slide my direction. I raised my leg and positioned her foot under my thigh. Without speaking, she smiled and pushed her right foot beside it. I lowered my leg and pressed her feet into the cushion of the couch. As I slid my hand along the smooth skin of her calf, I smiled.

“I’m afraid not. My brain decided it liked you too.”

KARTER.
It was 98 degrees and not even noon yet – a typical June day in the Midwest. Sitting at the green light waiting for traffic to inch forward was always a difficult thing for me to do. I rode responsibly, and not doing dumb shit while on my bike was difficult if not sometimes close to impossible. I wanted to twist the throttle and pass each and every car sitting in front of me. Instead, I inched forward and absorbed the sound of
Jimi Hendrix’s The Wind Cries Mary
through the earbuds of my iPod and the sweltering heat from the 1340 cc engine between my legs.

Jak and I met on a Monday, and had seen each other every day for the week which followed. Now Saturday, we had agreed to meet for lunch at
Adrian’s
, a Mediterranean restaurant on the east side of town. It seemed Jak had as much free time as I did, and although I felt a need to keep my mouth shut about what he may do for a living, part of me wondered. Actually, I wanted to know everything about him.

As traffic opened up, I sped north on Rock road toward the strip mall. By my watch I would be ten minutes early. Not bad for douchebag infused traffic. As I slowed down and changed into the turning lane, I instinctively checked my mirror. As I rolled to a stop, I watched the reflection of a car rapidly approaching behind me.

Slow it down fuck head, you’re coming in kinda hot. 

I revved the throttle hoping to get his attention. I looked ahead for a break in traffic.

Shit.

I glanced into my mirror.

Double shit.

Through the windshield of the car fast approaching behind me, I could clearly see a man texting on his phone. He appeared to have no idea I was in his lane or even in front of him. After alternating glances between oncoming traffic and the mirror, I decided I had only one option short of allowing him to plow into the back of my bike. I revved the throttle and shot forward between two oncoming cars, launched up the entrance ramp of the strip mall, and came to a stop a few feet before hitting the landscaped area which separated the entrance from the parking lot. As I pulled off my helmet, I heard his tires screech to a stop. Angry and shaking from the adrenaline, I kicked the kickstand of the bike downward and climbed from the seat. I hung my helmet on the left side of the bars, pulled my earbuds from my ears, and turned to wait for him to enter the parking lot.

As he slowly drove up the ramp, I stood in the entrance and waved my arms. He rolled his driver’s side window down partially as he approached, still holding his phone in his hand. I rolled my eyes and began screaming as soon as he was beside me.

“You fucktard. You almost hit me,” I screamed.

“Well, you’re standing here flapping your fucking arms, what do you expect,” he responded.

“No, out in the street. I was turning in here. You were fucking texting and I damn near got hit just trying to get out of your way. Pay attention to driving, you piece of shit,” I yelled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shrugged.

You motherfucker. I ought to cut you.

I reached for my knife and pressed my palm against the outline of the frame in my pocket, “You don’t know what I’m talking about because you weren’t paying fucking attention. You locked up your brakes to stop, douchebag.”

Still holding his phone, he shook it at me through the window, “You mouthy little bitch.”

I slapped the phone from his hand, forcing it onto the pavement at my feet. As his jaw dropped, he looked out the window at his phone – now positioned a few inches in front of my right foot. I smiled, kicked his phone across the entrance, and turned toward my bike.

Fucking punk.

“You little cunt,” he said as he opened his car door and started to get out.

Cunt?

I pulled my knife from my pocket and flipped the blade out. As it snapped into the locked position, he quickly glanced down at the knife and then up into my eyes. He was considerably bigger outside of the car than he was inside. Standing in front of me it was easy to see he was all of six foot two and probably two hundred plus pounds.

“Get in your car before I stab you so full of God damned holes…”

“What’s going on?” a voice said from behind me in a stern tone.

I turned my head slightly to the left.

Shit, it’s Jak.

“Jak, this douchebag almost hit me. I was explaining to him the benefit of
not
texting and driving and he called me a cunt,” I said as I turned my head to face the walking turd.

“I called you a cunt because you kicked my phone,” he rocked his head back and forth as he spoke.

“Whatever, dude. Come pick it up if you’re that worried about it,” I grinned as I motioned toward his phone.

Jak stepped in front of me and picked up the phone. As he studied the douchebag standing in front of me, he slowly stepped toward him with his arm extended. As the man reached for the phone, he said his parting remarks.

He tossed his head my direction, “Maybe you should keep her on a leash.”

In an instantaneous move, Jak dropped the phone, pulled the man’s arm toward his chest, and spun him half around. Now with his back at Jak’s chest, Jak immediately slammed the man’s body against the door of the car and pinned his right arm behind his back. As he lifted the man’s arm upward, the douchebag screamed.

Holy shit!

Fuck yes. Jak’s a bad-ass.

I fucking knew it.

“Owww. What the fuck?”

Jak moved his face to beside the man’s left ear. As he spoke he had a tone of authority to his voice that couldn’t be easily dismissed.

“Listen to me and listen carefully,” Jak insisted.

Break his arm, Jak. Snap it off and toss it in the street.

“Leashes are for dogs. She’s not a dog. She’s my fucking wife. Now, when you see her again, and you very well may, her name is Karter. I’m Jak. My best advice to you is this,” he paused and looked over his shoulder.

Wife?

He turned and pressed his chin into the man’s shoulder as he pulled upward on his arm, “I’m going to release you. Get in your car and go do whatever it was you were planning to before this happened. Look at it as a lesson. I saw what happened from my truck, and you damned near hit her. Don’t text and drive, and don’t be disrespectful to people. You never know just who it is you might encounter.”

“Understood?” Jak asked.

“Yeah,” the man grunted.

Jak pulled upward on his arm.

“Fuck dude.
Yeah
,” the man screeched.

Jak pulled up on his arm again and with more force.

Oh fuck, that looks painful.

“Yes,” the man screamed.

I closed my knife and slid it into my pocket.

Jak released the man’s arm, immediately stepped to the side and stood with his knees slightly bent and his hands raised to his chest. The man slowly lowered his arm, rubbed his shoulder, and bent down to pick up his phone. As he stood and opened his car door, he turned and nodded his head once toward Jak. As the man slowly drove away, Jak walked backward slowly between the car and where I stood. Jak continued to watch as the car disappeared into the parking lot, and then turned to face me.

“Move your bike before someone hits it. I’m parked over there,” he half demanded as he pointed toward his truck.

I stood and stared, still in awe at what had happened. As he straightened his shirt, I saw a portion of a tattoo under his sleeve – on his bicep. As he tugged his sleeve downward and slowly walked toward his truck, I stared at his ass. He was gorgeous, any idiot could see it. But there was so much more to Jak than his looks. He was a complex person, and I wanted to know more about him. I needed to know everything. As he took the last few steps to his truck, I smiled at his methodical walk.

I want to see you naked, Jak.

I hopped onto my bike, put on my helmet and slowly maneuvered through the parking lot to where Jak was parked. As I parked beside his truck, he opened his door and got out. As I draped the chin strap of my helmet over the handlebars, he stood beside me and shook his head.

“Who taught you how to handle a knife?” he asked.

Oh fuck. Here we go.

Bring the criticism.

“He was a douchbag,” I sighed.

“Douchebag or not, he could have slapped that knife from your hand in one stroke. After we eat, we’re going to have a lengthy discussion about that fiasco,” he snapped.

The thought of upsetting Jak made me feel uneasy. I didn’t know if he was actually disappointed, but I knew one thing for certain; I didn’t want him to be, at least not with me. Even
considering
how he was feeling was new to me. 

I never really cared what anyone thought about me or the choices I made. I had been responsible for my actions since my emancipation from my mother at the age of sixteen. Although I now realize I wasn’t always right, I took responsibility for the decisions I made, and suffered the respective consequences when I made mistakes. How an outsider perceived me was never an issue I felt I needed to consider. People who didn’t know me may have perceived me as immature, foolish or selfish, but I saw myself as strong and capable. I never felt I needed anyone’s approval or opinion to make a decision.

If someone didn’t like what I was doing, as far as I was concerned, they could simply fuck off. This attitude and strong willed personality gave me the courage to begin questioning my mother at a very early age. My challenges of her means and methods were not without merit.

As early as I could remember, all I ever wanted my mother to provide me with was an explanation of who my father was. As I got older, what would have sufficed grew smaller and smaller. When I was a young pre-teen girl, I had countless questions and expected many lengthy answers. As I approached my teenage years, a simple explanation of who he was would have satisfied me greatly. Immediately prior to my emancipation, I would have been content if she simply provided me with his name. Knowing my father was dead but not knowing
who
he was never settled well with me.

In the end, my mother and I separated and I changed my name. Despite the fact she lived a mere half hour drive from me, I didn’t speak to her. As far as I was concerned, she was no longer my mother.

I followed Jak quietly into the restaurant and tried to come to terms with how I felt. As the waitress seated us, I began to consider the depth of my feelings for Jak could be some form of puppy love. In the more realistic world of Karter Wilson, I wouldn’t give half a fuck what Jak thought. But for some reason, at least lately, I wasn’t living in my world.

We stepped through the front door into an almost empty restaurant. I glanced around.
Eight booths on the left and ten on the right. Nine tables.
Seventy-two plus thirty-six.
One hundred and eight. 
The restaurant was spacious. Larger spaces allowed me to relax and feel comfortable where smaller more cramped spaces made me extremely uneasy. It was one reason I lived in an apartment with a large open floor plan.

“You can seat yourself. Wherever you like,” the waitress smiled.

Jak motioned to a table in the center of the floor and shrugged. I grinned and sat down. As Jak pulled his seat from the table, he surveyed the restaurant. After his quick study, he lowered himself into the seat. I considered the fact he may count things like I do.

Hell, maybe everyone counts things.
 

“Can I get your drinks coming? Would you like a wine list?” the waitress asked as she placed the menus on the table.

Jak raised his eyebrows and waited for me to respond.

“Unsweetened tea?” I asked.

“Same,” Jak smiled.

The waitress nodded and turned away.

“I’m going to wash my hands,” I sighed.

Jak nodded and smiled as I stood from my chair.

As I walked back from the bathroom, I noticed Jak watching me admiringly. I smiled at the thought of him being pleased with me. The last thing I wanted to do was start this relationship off on the wrong foot. It seemed all I did was piss people off and drive them out of my life. This was one person I hoped to keep happy. I felt I was willing to make adjustments to me and my attitude if need be. As I pulled my seat from the table, Jak grinned his dimple grin and stared through me.

Keep that shit up and you’re going to have to take your clothes off.

“I like it when you smile that smile,” I said softly.

“I didn’t know I had variations,” he said as he raised his hand to his face.

“Well, you have at least two - one with dimples showing and one without. I like the dimples,” I nodded.

He covered his mouth with his hand and continued to stare, “You know Karter. I have this thing I do. I study people as they walk. I don’t really know why, but I do. I’ve convinced myself I can tell a lot about a person by how they walk. So, it’s become a habit. Your walk?”

He shook his head lightly, “You walk lightly. You almost float. But you do it with authority. Your shoulders tell it all. I love watching you walk.”