Swallow the Moon (7 page)

"I've got a reputation!" 

"I don't give a shit about your reputation." Jake grabbed the skinny rat by the metal ring around his neck. He felt the strength and power of his alter ego take over his body as he gave himself up to the act. "I want her now!"

"Okay! Okay! As she stands, fifteen, no need to go postal!" Van's eyes darted towards the office door. "Wait here. I've got a sales contract in the office."

"Get me the papers and the keys." Jake let go of the miserable rat. He was high with anger and it felt wonderful. It was going to feel even better when he got on that bike. He didn't like the muttering he heard from the office.

Jake paced the floor. The bean-counters were going to shit themselves at the price. He shrugged; that was their problem. Shaking down this scum-bag artist was a righteous start to building his 'street-cred.' Word would spread and no one would screw with Jake the Snake. The scratches would be part of the cover story. The repairs wouldn't come cheap, so he could say he needed to raise the money. Another artist could fix her. Regardless, he was getting her away from this creepy scumbag. The thought of that man's hands on her turned his stomach. After he had busted the scumbags he could fix her up. Show her off to all the guys on the force. She would be his trophy.

"Here," Van Man Go shoved a clipboard at him. "Standard contract."

Jake scanned the top page, then signed his cover name at the bottom of the page. There was nothing but greed in Van Man Go's eyes as Jake handed him a wad of bills.

"She's all yours," Van Man Go smiled, showing his fangs.

Jake took the paperwork, the bike and left before Van found out there was three grand in bad counter-fit cash in that wad of bills. Jake laughed as he drove down the road.

Disoriented from the crazy dream, Eric's mind didn't function at first. He hurt all over. Had another bomb gone off? He was warm, but he didn't smell dust or machinery. Automatically he reached for the M-16 he always kept next to him. When it wasn't in reach, he came fully awake. Where was he?

It was a room, with white walls and a low ceiling. He remembered crashing the bike. He must still be at that woman's house. The pain pills had worn off; he felt the full effect of the crash. He groaned as pain shot through his back. He tried to sit up, which set his shoulders and arms on fire.

He heard the clicking of dog feet and a yap outside his door. He was just levering himself up when the door opened. June stood framed in the light.

"Need help?" she asked, coming in and lending a hand. It took both of them to get him to the door. He could only put a little weight on his right knee.

"Oh shit, I hurt." Eric complained, hopping on one foot. "I didn't get the 'script filled. "

"This way," June helped him to the bathroom. She hesitated for a moment. "Let me fill the tub with hot water."

Eric stood on his good leg as she started filling the tub. Then she measured out three handfuls of crystals into the water. The air immediately took on a sweet scent.

"What's that?"

"Epsom salts for the pain, lavender oil to relax the muscles; between the two, it should take the edge off." She looked at him. "Can you take it from here?"

"I'll manage." Eric was not going to let her 'help' him. He shooed her out. "I'll be fine." He shut the door behind her before he attended to his most pressing need. Then he was able to ease into the tub. The hot water stung his skin and felt damn good.

Another freaky dream to add to the collection. In most, he was back 'in the sandbox.' He always forgot them – something about his motorcycle. Whatever – dreams didn't matter.

He soaked, adding more hot water until he could move. He was black and blue from hip to knee then from shoulder to elbow. Getting out of the tub was hard but he managed. She had placed a pair of sweats by the sink. The pants were okay, but there was no way he could squeeze into the shirt.

He left it off. 

Eric hobbled down the stairs, to the right was a massive brick fireplace, a couch and a recliner. June was curled up on the couch reading a book. The dogs were on the floor beside her.

"Hi," June said. "Feel any better?"

"I'm still sucking air." His voice was caustic. "That's as good as it is going to get for a while."

She raised an eyebrow at him as she got up. He felt bad for snapping at her but didn't apologize.

"That doesn't sound good. Have a seat." She did a double take at the bruises on his arm. "Oh crap, what a mess," she said. "You have to be in a lot of pain." She came over to take a closer look at him.

"Once it stiffens up, it hurts twice as bad." Eric lowered himself into the recliner. "I need pain pills. Is there any place open this time of night?"

"No." June shook her head. "The town shuts down at night. I can get you to a pharmacy tomorrow. Until then, let me see what I can dig up for you."

"Just get me to a motel," Eric said to her back. "I'll get out of your hair and worry about it tomorrow."

"Let me see what I can do." She left the room; he heard her rummage around in the kitchen. She returned with a cup of tea and four pills.

"Make sure you drink the tea. There's a shot of vodka in it."

"A shot? That's not going to help," he complained. "I'm going to need a pint to get comfortably numb."

"The herbs are for pain." She gave him a little smile. "The pills are ibuprofen. The combination should make you comfortable."

"Not nearly enough." He wanted to fill the 'script and find a bar.

"Give it a chance," she urged. "It's a special blend of tea."

Eric chased the pills with the tea. He'd suffered though worse; this was going to have to do.

"Is your boyfriend going to have a monster fit about me being here?"

"No." She blushed, which was cute considering the bold way she'd checked him out.

"You don't have a boyfriend?"

"Not for a long time." She opened a jar of green stuff. "Let me put this on the bruises."

"Why not?" he asked while she smeared the salve on his arm.

"Let's just say that my last boyfriend is the reason I bought Tasha." She hid her blue eyes under dark lashes. "He was a biker, too."

Eric twitched away from her.

"Oh, no." Eric crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't deserve that tone of voice. I love my Hayabusa, but that doesn't make me a dirt bag." He shook his head, irritated with the stereotype. "I was active duty for two years in the sandpits of Afghanistan. You can call me a 'weekend warrior' or better yet, a soldier, but I'm not a 'biker.'"

 "Sorry." June turned away, her face red. "I didn't know you were in the war."

"There is a lot you don't know." Eric vented his irritation. "Since I came back from 'Stan, I've lost my wife, my home and my job. Everything I cared about is gone." He was playing it too hard, pain screwed with his common sense. Gritting his teeth together, he forced himself to stop the tirade.

"It sounds like you've had a rough time of it." Innocent eyes looked at him with pity, which was worse than the contempt she had for bikers.

None of this was her fault; he shouldn't have snapped at her.

"Cora is all I have left." He lowered his voice, hoping she would understand.

"I am sorry." She lifted her chin, looked him in the eye. "Don't act like he did and I won't lump you in with him."

"Fair enough."

"I'm going to make dinner soon. You can stay if you want."

"You offered me a ride to a motel." This was going to be a rough night. He should get the hell out of here before he did or said something he would regret.

"You slept the day away; may as well stay the night." June shrugged.

"It's a bad idea to let a strange man sleep in your house." Eric wished he felt well enough to take advantage of her offer. But he was in too much pain to flirt, or attempt to sweet-talk her into sleeping with him.

"You're too beat up to be a threat to me." June gave him a sly, sassy once over. "Some other time I might be worried."

"You're destroying my ego." Eric joked, pleased that she flirted with him. "I'm supposed to be a bad-ass."

"Some bad-ass you are." She handed him the TV remote. "I'm going to start supper."

Whatever she gave him eased the pain until he nearly dozed off in the chair. Listening to her move around in the kitchen brought back memories of happier times – before he'd gone overseas – before his marriage had gone to hell.

Before something in him had changed, leaving him lost in the very places he had longed for most.

Ironic how he felt at home, here with a woman he barely knew. The feeling grew on him as the smell of supper cooking threaded the air. He ignored the television, laying back in the recliner, thinking of better times.

They ate in the living room. He slipped part of his dinner to Tasha, drifting through the evening, tired, the pain dull and in the background. She gave him another cup of tea before she walked him upstairs.

As he settled back into bed, he longed to have her with him, to know that he wasn't alone. Instead of June in his arms, Tasha curled up by his feet.

It wasn't the same.

~^~

October 2, 2005

Rags stood on June's stomach sniffing the air and whining. The noise downstairs told June that Eric was up.

She dressed before she followed the scent of coffee down the stairs. Eric was in her kitchen. The man could hardly hobble around, but he'd made coffee.

In fact, he was cooking breakfast.

"Good morning." He smiled at her as he poured her a cup of coffee. There was mischief in his eyes as he set the cup on the breakfast bar.

"You didn't have to do this." It was disconcerting to have the roles reversed. Had a man ever cooked breakfast for her?

"Habit," Eric said. "I always cooked Sunday breakfast when I was married."

The undercurrent of loneliness in his voice touched her.

"What happened to your wife?"

"I came back from my first tour – everything had changed. I thought it was her. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe I could have fixed it. But I didn't know how. By the time I got back from my second tour, it was too late."

"I'm sorry." June could see his pain. She looked away. "How are you feeling?"

"I hurt like hell." Eric ran a hand down his flank. "My ass is black and blue."

"I'll drive you into town," June promised. "We'll get your prescription filled."

"This is a nice place." He indicated the house.

"It's been in the family a long time. First my grandparents lived here, then my Aunt Lizzie, now me." June shrugged to hide the fact it still hurt to talk about it. "I took care of Aunt Lizzie when she got sick. Then I inherited the house and five acres when she passed on."

"This is a big house for one person."

"Yeah," June shrugged. "I hear that a lot."

Eric raised an eyebrow.

"My sister has been after me to sell the house to her. She's got a husband, three kids and a dog all crammed into an apartment." June sighed. "I take a lot of crap from her."

"It's a buyer's market," Eric shook his head. "Down by Cincinnati houses are cheap. It's finding a job that's hard."

"Here, too," June agreed. "I'd love to get a better job, but there aren't any jobs within 50 miles. I'd have to drive to Cleveland or Erie."

He served her eggs and potatoes with a side of toast.

"Thanks," June said as she sipped her coffee.

They chatted more as they ate, then split the clean up. It was clear to her that he was feeling the full effects of the crash. As soon as they were done, she offered to take him to the pharmacy.

The shortest way into town was down State Road. June drove down the winding hill into the Gulf, a huge ravine where the Ashtabula River ran amongst the trees. The leaves were turning, bright against the gray shale cliffs and the rippling water.

"It's pretty here," Eric remarked. Later, as they wove through town, his attitude changed. The houses were old, the streets needed repairs, there was an air of being run down and tired. "Is this town stuck in a time warp?"

"The town dried up in the 70's." June shrugged as she navigated around the pot-holes and crumbling streets. "The drug-store was the first place built in maybe 50 years or more. The mall went in next, but even that isn't doing well."

"I've seen third world countries that looked better than this. The sky is cloudy; the streets have pot-holes as big as man-holes. The houses look neglected. Doesn't anybody give a damn?"

"My Aunt Lizzie used to say that Ashtabula was cursed," June replied. "There was a railroad accident back at the turn of the last century. The bridge collapsed and hundreds of people were trapped in burning rail cars." She shook her head. "The story is the residents came down into the Gulf, but instead of saving those trapped inside, they robbed them and left them to burn. Aunt Lizzie said a dying preacher cursed the town. Nothing has been right since."