Stone - Big Girls & Bad Boys (13 page)

“You made it,” Rocky greeted us and then noticed Bobby wasn’t around.  I could see he was concerned.

“He’s in the back.  We had to give the Jamaicans his bike and they knocked him out,” I told Rocky.

“Ah, good.  I was worried.  I didn’t want anyone hurt, even that idiot,” Rocky said.  Ginger had hugs to go around and Enrique, who stayed behind too, congratulated us.  Bobby finally stumbled out of the back of the van.

“They wanted to kill me,” he exclaimed.

“The Jamaicans or these two?” Rocky asked, referring to Stone and me.

“Huh?” Bobby answered, still groggy.

“Doesn’t matter.  So, how did it go?” Rocky asked us.  I looked at Stone and then we both looked at Dusty.

“No biggie.  It went smooth,” Stone answered.  I grinned and Rocky could tell we weren’t telling him the whole story.  We would, later over beers.

“Whatever.  It’s good to see you all in one piece,” Rocky told us.

“Hey, don’t you care?  They wanted to kill...why’s my chair on the curb?” Bobby asked.  I hadn’t noticed but his chair was sitting on the curb.  Rocky walked over to him and before Bobby knew it, Rocky tore the patch off of his back.

“You’re out of the Knights.  You’re nothing but trouble and you’re kind of an asshole,” Rocky said.  Bobby looked around, confused.  That confusion turned to anger, as usual.

“Fuck all of you.  I don’t need this club anyway,” he said and then looked around.  “Fuck, I don’t even have a bike,” he complained.  Bobby just stood there for a moment at a loss as to what to do.  Finally, he walked off into the night alone.  I felt bad for him.  Maybe pity was more like it.  He deserved what he got and he was lucky to be alive.  He never even thanked us for sticking up for him and saving his neck.  I guess I didn’t really expect him to.  He was an asshole.

“Well, I’m tired.  We can catch up later,” Rocky said.  He began closing up the clubhouse.  Stone’s bike was parked in its usual spot already.  Goodbyes were said and most of the Knights went home to get some sleep.  Dusty left in his van after we got our stuff out of it.  Rocky wandered over with Ginger after closing up.

“Thanks,” Ginger said.

“Yeah, you guys did good,” Rocky told us.

“Thanks,” I replied and hugged both of them.  Stone hugged Ginger and then shook Rocky’s hand.

“With this behind us, we can start looking towards building the Knights,” Stone said.

“Good luck, kid.  No one wants to be part of this kind of club anymore,” Rocky told us.

“I don’t know about that.  What’s old is new again,” Stone said cryptically.

“Maybe.  See you around,” Rocky told us, as he and Ginger mounted his bike and rode home.

“We’re not going home, are we?” I asked.

“Aren’t you tired?” Stone asked.

“Hardly.  I’ve never felt so awake in my life.  I’m not working tomorrow,” I said.

“Really?  I suppose you want to ride to the beach, make love and maybe learn how to surf or something like that,” Stone said, playing along with me.

“Something like that,” I replied.  Stone wore that smirk again.

“I love you,” he told me.

“I know,” I said and walked away.  He chuckled and followed.

“You know, I have enough money to buy my own bike now,” I said, referring to the money Davy had given me.

“After you pay rent, of course,” he said. 

“Yeah, whatever,” I replied dismissively, teasing Stone.  I’d counted the money on the way back to the clubhouse.  It was fifteen thousand dollars but just a small fraction of the money in that bag Davy took with him.  I guess he had it to spare.  We climbed on the bike but before Stone started it, I had to say something.

“I thought they would be actual Jamaicans,” I said.

“Yeah, I was surprised too.  Rough bunch of potheads, right?” Stone remarked.

“Yeah.  Very strange,” I replied, still unsure of what to think about the gang of pot-smoking hipsters.  Stone fired up the bike and we rode off towards the ocean after stopping by the house to stash the money and guns and change clothes.  We wound up on a more secluded beach this time.  The moon was out and we made love, naked on the sand, in the wee hours of the morning.  We went skinny dipping afterwards and then sat on some rocks, still naked, as we dried off.  It was magical.  The ocean, the moonlight, Stone.  It was perfect.

Before dawn, we rode up the coast and found a small diner to eat breakfast at.  The hearty breakfast hit the spot and even though I’d been up for over twenty four hours, I wasn’t the slightest bit tired.  We went surfing too.  Well, Stone surfed and I made a valiant attempt on our rented boards.  By the time we were finished, I was wiped.

“That’s hard work,” I said after we returned the boards.

“Surfing is easy.  Falling is hard work,” he said.

“Very funny,” I replied.  I’d been wondering something and I had to ask.

“You said you left home at fourteen but also that you grew up surfing.  Did you surf before that?” I wondered.

“No, I learned after I left home.  I spent a lot of time around the beaches when I was homeless.  One day an older dude asked me what I was about.  I told him.  He bought me lunch and showed me how to surf.  I would go back and hang out with him often.  I learned to surf and he kept me reasonably well fed.  After that, I worked at a surf shop and slept in the back.  I went back to school and got my GED,” Stone explained.

“You’ve led an interesting life,” I said.

“Wait till I tell you how I learned to shoot,” he teased me.  I didn’t ask.  He could keep his secrets for now.  He would have plenty of time to tell me later on.

>>O<<

Life returned to normal after the episode with the Jamaicans...the new normal anyway.  Stone and I grew closer over the coming months and we shared a lot of adventures.  I eventually learned to surf and I got my new motorcycle and had enough left over for a nice pistol and my own surfboard.  We added racks to our bikes and spent many weekends down along the coast.

The Knights did grow as a club.  Stone told Rocky that old was new again.  He was right.  There were plenty of young men, and women, that longed for a different lifestyle.  They longed for the simplicity and freedom being an old school biker could provide.  They weren’t looking for mischief and they weren’t doctors and lawyers.  They were free-spirits, like the bikers of Rocky’s generation but different too.

Suddenly, I had a family, a real family.  No qualifiers like before.  The Knights was more a family than most so-called real families were.  We looked out for one another, we had fun together and even when there was drama, we still loved one another.  That was good enough for me, at least for the time being.  Stone and I were having too much fun to consider starting a family of our own.  Not yet anyway.

I came to the Knights by accident, a broken girl from a broken home.  Still, the tiny little club was all I had.  I loved it despite the flaws...namely Bobby.  But from that emerged something so much better.  Not just the love of my life but a new way of seeing the world, a new way of living.  Stone, who had so much in common with me, showed me there was a better way.  What better person to share it all with.

>>O<<

D. H. Cameron Presents

Letting Go

A Sexy & Sweet BBW Romance

~~~

I’ve added this bonus book to Stone for a couple of reasons.  It’s a great book and though it sold reasonably well, I want even more readers to enjoy it.  Secondly, the new payment scheme under Kindle Unlimited pays authors for pages read by borrowers, rather than for the book as a whole.  Hence, the more pages, the more I potentially earn but only if you read this story.  I hope you do.

Besides, the I made Jamaican’s look bad in Stone...sort of...so Letting Go will make up for it.  Enjoy!

Letting Go

I walked down the ramp towards customs. The line snaked through endless poles and ropes towards the too few windows that were actually occupied by officials. This would take hours. Some people found so-called “island time” relaxing. I just found it annoying, especially when I had another ninety minute ride to my resort, likely on a poorly air-conditioned bus. I thought a vacation would calm me but so far, my stress level was only heading higher.

“Next!” the middle aged Jamaican woman at window number seven called out. It had been an hour, less than I’d feared, standing in line with hundreds of other overheated tourists.

“Hi,” I greeted the agent, trying to be cheerful.

“Passport, please?” she asked curtly, as annoyed at the long line as I was. I handed her my passport and then my customs form when she asked. She looked it all over, filled in my return flight information, my destination and stamped the documents before handing them back. I looked a bit different than my passport photo, my light brown hair longer and now highlighted with gold. I’d gained a bit of weight since then too. I guess I still looked like me. She finally smiled at me. “Have a good time, Erin,” she said, getting my name off the documents.

“Thanks. Try to have a good day,” I replied and smiled back.

“I may come join you in Negril,” she told me, her accent thick.

“And leave all this?” I replied sarcastically as I walked away. The agent finally laughed and wished me a safe journey. That out of the way, I retrieved my luggage and then went to find my ride. As always, baggage handlers offered to help me for a tip, of course, but my small roller bag was more than manageable. I found the tour company window and they directed me outside. I thought it was hot and humid inside the airport but outside it was downright oppressive. I wasn’t complaining considering there was three feet of snow back at home.

I found the bus, handed my bag to the driver and went to find a seat. Inside, the air conditioning was surprisingly cold and refreshing. I settled in and ten minutes later, the driver climbed into his seat and we were off through Montego Bay towards Negril and three nights of paradise. “Welcome to Jamaica, mon,” the driver greeted his mostly indifferent passengers.

“We will be making a stop for Red Stripe and whatever else you might need to enjoy your time in Jamaica,” he announced a minute later once we were on the highway. The stop would probably be at a roadside shack, likely owned by the driver’s family or friends. The “whatever else” was probably weed, known locally as ganja, sold by some Rastafarian in dreadlocks that smoked ganja like most people breathed.

The ride wasn’t bad. I didn’t even get off the bus when we stopped. Weed wasn’t my thing. I just wanted to get to the beach with a frozen drink and a trashy romance to keep me company. I wanted to forget all about quarterly reports, staff meetings and training seminars for a while. Mostly, I wanted to pretend Chicago, the Allied Chemical accounting division and my demanding supervisor didn’t exist. If only for a few days, I wanted to be left alone.

The bus finally made it to my resort, a small independent place near the notorious nude resort that lay along the beach to the north. My resort was called The Palms. I checked in and then followed a bell hop to my room, upstairs with a view of the beach. I tipped the young man and declined his offer to sell me some ganja before he left. I couldn’t get out of my clothes and into my swimsuit fast enough. Over that, I wore a light beach cover up.

I wasn’t ashamed of my body but I wasn’t exactly proud of it either. I used to be thinner but long hours at the office, loads of stress, poor eating habits and no time to exercise had left me with a few extra pounds I found hard to shed. At least I carried it in the right places but that didn’t mean I was ready to wear the bikini I brought just in case. I was having a hard time identifying exactly in what case I might want to show off my body and to whom.

I guess it didn’t really matter. It wasn’t like I’d find some hunk who couldn’t keep his hands off the big girl, bikini or not and honestly, I wasn’t looking for one. I was here to unwind, relax and clear my head, not strike up some island romance. I didn’t want or need the hassle. Besides, I had my trusty vibrator and a full pack of batteries to share my nights with. It didn’t talk back, it didn’t care if I wasn’t in great shape and it never, ever said no. I doubt I could find a guy that could top that.

I made my way down to the beach with a trashy romance novel in hand, grabbing a drink from the bar along the way. I found a lounger under a broad tree so as not to burn my winter white skin. I settled in, sighed deeply and let the fact I was finally on vacation sink in. I opened the trashy romance novel and began to read. Soon after, the words became muddled, the page became blurry and my mind wandered. I promptly fell asleep.

A few hours later, I was awoken by a group of partiers from the nude resort. They walked past my resort, minimally clothed and undoubtedly on their way to the bars further down the beach. One woman, probably in her fifties, flashed her obviously enhanced breasts and shouted something incomprehensible at me. The group laughed and continued past. I shook my head as I watched them go. They looked like they were having fun.

I picked up the book I’d dropped in the sand as I dozed and began to read again. My drink was now warm but I was too lazy to get up and get another. I read until the sun sank low and then I returned to my room, showered, dressed and went to the restaurant on property to eat. By nine that evening, I was back in my room and in bed. Some vacation so far. I guess I needed the sleep but this wasn’t what I had planned on.

Back in my office in Chicago, I’d dreamed of lounging in the sun, bronzing my body to a healthy golden hue, shopping until my credit card was smoldering and maybe even a snorkeling trip. But here I was, in bed at nine and fading fast. Even my trusty vibrator was still carefully tucked away in my suitcase. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, after a good night’s rest, I’d hit it hard and vacation my ass off.

>>O<<

I woke up at ten thirty-seven. Really? Well, I was fully rested now and there was no excuse. I showered, did my hair, put on some shorts and a tank top and finally my flip flops. I left to grab some coffee at the restaurant and catch a bus into Negril. I discovered that breakfast ended at ten and the coffee was cold. No matter. I’d survive.

“What time is the next bus into Negril?” I asked the lady at the front desk.

“Two hours,” she told me.

“Two hours?” I asked.

“Yes, that is what I said. I can call you a taxi or you can walk down the beach. It’s not far,” she offered. I guess a walk wouldn’t hurt. I could carry a few bags of clothes and jewelry back. She said it wasn’t far. I should have known better.

“I’ll walk, thanks,” I said and returned to my room to put on some sunscreen and then I set out down the beach. They called it Seven Mile Beach but it wasn’t that long. It was maybe three miles to the southern end where the bulk of the shops and restaurants were. Three miles of hot, soft sand and Jamaicans trying to sell me ganja, cigarettes and homemade jewelry.

I hadn’t exercised for real in months. I walked from my apartment building to the bus stop and then to the elevator in my office building. I was dying out there among the beach resorts and sunbathers. I spotted a small bar and made my way there for some much needed refreshment and rest. I considered strongly just calling a cab and heading back to the resort but only after a Red Stripe.

The bar was called Beachside Bar & Grill. It, like many other establishments in Jamaica, was little more than a shack. It had no doors or windows, just a thatched roof, a bar and a cinder block wall that formed the back of the place. Picnic tables sat in front and the smell of jerk chicken drifted from the steel drum turned barbeque.

“Red Stripe, please,” I told the guy tending the bar, feeling like I’d just found an oasis after traveling the desert.

“Comin’ right up, sexy,” the man told me in a thick Jamaican accent. He was a cute, thirty-something Jamaican man with a big smile. Sexy? I kind of liked that.

“Is the chicken ready?” I asked him as he bent to pull a bottle of beer from the cooler.

“Yes, ma’am. You want some fries wit dat?” he replied.

“Yeah, sure,” I told him. He removed the bottle cap for me and slid the beer across the bar.

“I’m, Willy,” he told me.

“Erin,” I replied and extended my hand. Willy wasn’t having it. He leaned over the narrow bar and hugged me. Jamaicans were a friendly bunch but not usually this friendly.

“Nice to meet you, Erin. Have a seat and I’ll bring da jerk chicken and fries out when they are ready,” Willy told me.

“Thanks,” I replied and found an empty picnic table. The Jamaican beer was ice cold and tasted fantastic. Several minutes later, Willy brought me a heaping plate of jerk chicken and fries along with a bottle of jerk sauce.

“What do I owe you?” I asked.

“Um, let’s see. Red Stripe, chicken, fries comes to twelve dollars,” Willy replied. I pulled a twenty from my pocket and handed it to him.

“Keep it,” I said.

“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” he replied and bowed before heading back to the bar. I tested the jerk sauce in the bottle and not finding it too spicy, I squirted some of it on my fries. I tried one and found it still too warm to eat. Instead, I pulled some moist chicken off the bone and tasted it. Damn, that was good stuff. I pulled some more and popped it into my mouth and took a sip of beer to wash it down.

“Excuse me,” a man said to me, suddenly standing at the side of my table. He was in his early thirties with wavy blond hair, cropped close above his ears but longer on top. He wore a beard, trimmed close to his square jaw. He was tall, muscular and tan with brown eyes. He wore an unbuttoned camp shirt adorned with palm trees, cut off denim shorts and not much else other than the shark tooth that hung from a leather cord around his neck.

“Uh, yeah?” I answered.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked me. I looked about. Two of the other seven picnic tables were empty.

“Uh, I guess not,” I replied.

“Cool,” was all he said. He sat directly across from me and offered me his hand. “They call me, Rick,” he said. I held up my hands covered in jerk sauce.

“Sorry, I’m a bit messy. I’m Erin,” I replied.

“Nice to meet you, Erin,” he said. I felt a bit self-conscious. What did this guy want? He looked like he’d been wandering the beach a long time but his shirt probably cost a hundred dollars. He just sat there.

“You want some chicken?” I asked him trying to be polite.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said and picked up the chicken leg and tore a big chunk of chicken off. This was kind of weird. Was he homeless or something?

“I don’t mean to be rude, but what do you want?” I asked him. Rick stopped mid bite and looked up at me.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you,” he said and began to get up.

“Wait! I didn’t tell you to leave. I was just wondering what you wanted. I mean there are other tables. Why sit with me?” I asked. Rick sat back down.

“Just being friendly and you looked like you could use a friend,” he said. That surprised me.

“Do I look that lonely?” I joked.

“As a matter of fact, you do,” he said.

“Really?” I asked more seriously now.

“You don’t have any friends with you, no boyfriend, no wedding ring,” he told me. He was right.

“I came here alone...to Jamaica, I mean,” I replied.

“Why?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I just wanted to get away,” I replied.

“I know the feeling, Erin,” he said and took another bite of chicken. I nibbled on my fries, the half chicken way too much for me to eat.

“So where are you from?” I asked Rick. I was sure he’d tell me he was from California or Florida. There was no way he got that tan up north.