The Dust and the Roar Read online

  “Come on, Cheezer,” said Mick. “We got to get you up now. Thank fuck you were wearing your helmet at least, you idiot.” Cheezer only laughed.

  “A good time is a good time,” I said, “but your bike, man, you got nothing without your bike.”

  For years that was my burning personal philosophy.

  Chapter Ten

  “She’s beautiful, thank you,” I said to Ronny, the tattoo artist as he held a mirror so I could see the completed tattoo on my back, a bleeding eagle. Today he’d finished the coloring and inked Noah’s name on one of the bleeding wings. Willy had one too, and so did Mick, who was also a vet. We weren’t a formal club, but formal enough, and me and eagles had a special history.

  Willy and I met the guys outside the tattoo parlor in Deadwood where they waited for us. “We hitting The Tingle tonight? Can’t wait,” said Jump.

  “The Tingle? What the hell kind of name is that?” I said.

  “It’s a titty bar, Wreck,” said Jump. “You see the titties, and you get tingles all over.” Jump and Terry burst into laughter.

  “Bobby’s brother owns the place,” said Willy. “He needs some extra help this weekend, so Bobby said we’d pitch in and help out.”

  “What does that mean?” I let out a laugh. “We help the girls dance?”

  He winked. “After hours, we’ll do what we can for the ladies, but this is for security. Their two bouncers quit. They need muscle in there to keep things running and to protect the girls from all the enthusiastic farmers and ranchers. Hey, Shirley dances there. You remember Shirley, don’t you?”

  “I remember Shirley.” I wouldn’t mind seeing Shirley again, that was for sure.

  The Tingle was nothing more than a big shack with two separate additions on the extreme northwest corner of Meager with a large pink and blue neon light flashing its name shamelessly out there to the dark, dusty prairie and the road cutting through it. That night we parked our bikes behind the crowded front lot. So many cars, bikes, pickup trucks, even a couple of eighteen wheelers—it was obviously a popular destination offering a special something-something.

  Mick and Terry checked ID at the door and collected the entrance fee. The odor of smoke, sweet perfume, and old booze hung in the air and stuck in my throat. Cowboys, locals young and old, filled every chair, drinks covering the tables. Girls in sexy outfits traipsed around in crazy high heels. Three dancers—I recognized Shirley as one of them—were on a small runway stage shaking and grinding their tasseled assets, getting down to KC and the Sunshine Band whose current hit blared and thumped through the club. Colored lights flashed, cash flew.

  Bobby was busy behind the bar making drinks. He was all dressed up, wearing a light blue Western shirt and blue cowboy boots.“There you are. ‘Bout time. Things are crazy,” he said.

  “What’s crazy is your outfit,” said Jump. “You fucking match.”

  “I like coordinating. Nothing wrong with that. These are my new boots, man. Don’t diss my boots.”

  “You’re always getting new boots,” said Willy.

  “My boots are special. Y’all are jealous. You wear the same old black clunkers and dumbass sneakers over and over. Not me.”

  “Ignore them, Bobby,” I said, settling at the bar. “You look mighty fine.”

  “Thanks, Wreck. At least someone else has taste around here.” He loaded a waitress’s tray with colorful cocktails and tall beer bottles.

  The waitress picked up the heavy tray as a hand slid over her fishnet-stockinged ass. She jerked back, the beer bottles toppling over. “Hey!” her voice snapped.

  “Be nice, now,” said an older, long-haired, bearded man, a grin cracking his face.

  The waitress did a double take when she saw him. She knew who he was, and she swallowed the curse on her lips back down her mouth and took in a long breath.

  “Careful, I don’t like hearing no,” the man said on a low chuckle, his tongue swiping at his bottom lip. He was used to getting his way.

  “Hey,” I towered over him, his gaze lifted, hardening over me. He leaned back in his seat, big blue eyes taking me in, that grin growing. He was amused. There was something laid back about his attitude. An act he cultivated. He was a snake that waited to strike. “And who the hell are you?”

  I moved in closer. “Leave her alone. She’s working.”

  “That’s right, she needs to be working us,” piped up another guy sitting next to him wearing the colors of the Demon Seeds in nearby Montana. In fact, there were three Seeds at his table with him. All the Seeds laughed hard.

  I moved in tighter toward the Seed. “I’d rethink the attitude.”

  “Oh, ho ho, is this your territory? Your bar?” His gaze went to my jacket. “Bleeding Eagles, huh?” He let out a stiff laugh. “Aw, that’s real cute.” Everyone at their table laughed. “You all got yourselves a little hobby club going here? Riding after school?” He guffawed and snorted, his friends laughing loudly. The older man, the elder Jesus among his moronic apostles, only studied me.

  “Let go of the girl,” I said.

  The man’s eyes narrowed at me, and he let go of the waitress who scuttled off. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Wreck.”

  “I’m gonna remember you for sure now.”

  “How about a round on the house?” Bobby set a tray of long necks on the table for the Seeds and their Jesus.

  I went back over to Willy at the bar and drained my now warm beer. Willy bumped my shoulder with his. “Good one. No one usually says shit to him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “That’s The Shepherd, man.”

  “The dealer?” I’d heard of him, who hadn’t? The Shepherd had earned his name from his long hair and beard, the leather sandals and the long caftan robes he used to wear in the late sixties when he’d be dishing out weed, acid, pills, and LSD, having “free love” parties (as my dad used to call them) out in the woods. Now he was older, grayer, grizzlier, sporting ratty jeans and old sweatshirts instead of the robes. The vicious eyes and the leather sandals remained.

  “The Shepherd isn’t only a dealer or some cult leader anymore. He’s more mafia don and business entrepreneur. Owns a few businesses in Rapid and beyond. He’s got his fingers in all sorts of pies in the Hills. Still has a harem of women who are all his girlfriends living with him on that compound, but now he’s got a bodyguard too. Plays it all beans and barley, but he’s an empire. Even has the cops in his pocket. Who knows, maybe even the Feds.”

  Bobby got back behind the bar. “Shit, Wreck, you just talked down The Shepherd.”

  “Not cool,” muttered Cheezer as he inhaled deeply on his cigarette. “Gotta show the man some respect.”

  “Are you shitting me?” I said.

  “Does he come here a lot?” Willy popped peanuts in his mouth.

  “This is the first time, actually,” replied Bobby. “Should I be flattered? Not so sure. The Demon Seeds have been here before, but tonight they’re hanging with The Shepherd.”

  My gaze darted over to The Shepherd’s table once more. They were doing shots and getting lap dances. Shepherd was leaning back, soaking up the rays of female devotion. Cult leader? My pulse picked up. Arrogant fuck.

  “The Tingle’s open Thursday through Saturday?” I asked. “And you’re here bartending every weekend, right?”

  “Yep,” said Bobby.

  “And now you need bouncers…” I said. “How about we do it? We run security inside and out, man the front doors. Keep the girls safe from idiots. We make some cash.”

  “Free drinks too, right?” said Jump.

  “This here would be a good regular gig for us,” said Mick.

  “Wouldn’t cut into riding or doing what we want during the day. We come here a lot, anyhow,” said Willy.

  “We’d get laid on a regular basis, that’s for sure.” Jump grinned.

  “The Tingle is not your personal pussy party,” said Bobby. “The girls aren’t whores, they’re dancers. They wanna fuck
you, they’ll fuck you—same as any other girl.”

  “Exactly. We do this, we can’t get sloppy about it,” I said. “It’s a business.”

  “All kidding aside, Tingle is local, and we should be supporting our local businesses,” said Willy.

  “I’m sure my brother would go for it. I’ll talk to him,” said Bobby.

  An arm fell across my shoulders. “Hey, you.”

  Shirley smiled down at me, and I turned toward her, slanting my head. She slid into my lap, her silver tasseled tits crushing against my chest.

  “Hey yourself, pretty lady.”

  “Saw how you helped out Krista,” she said.

  “Right thing to do—”

  She shut me up with a deep kiss, a hand sliding up my chest. “You sticking around tonight?”

  “Oh yeah.” I plucked at a tassel, pulling her in for another kiss.

  Me and the guys spent the rest of the night at The Tingle, manning the door and keeping watch on the crowd, and things ran smoothly even with The Shepherd and the Demon Seeds there. Just before closing, Shirley took me by the hand and brought me to a small private room where Krista opened the door wearing nothing but a smile and a g-string bikini bottom. The ladies showed me how grateful they were for the save earlier. Very grateful.

  Although that night ended with laughter and cum and cash and booze, that night marked the beginning of years long problems for The Tingle and our club with The Shepherd and his flock. Problems that wouldn’t go away.

  Chapter Eleven

  Meager was a quiet, small town. Once a frontier outpost in the Dakota Territory and then a hub in the heyday of the Black Hills gold rush, the town had a whiff of history about it. But only a whiff. Now it seemed tired and forgotten. Traces of those ol’ glory days were still evident in the heavy brick building with iron detailing and its cobbled driveway that was the feed store at one end of town, and the two lone globe lampposts which stamped the ends of Clay Street, the main drag which stretched a couple of blocks.

  At one end of Clay stood Pete’s Tavern, the town bar, with its dark wood trim, sculpted columns in the facade, and two impressive high turrets marking the corner of the brick building. Almost every night we’d go to Pete’s. There was an undercurrent of pride when we’d walk in and settle at our table in the back or at our end of the bar. Willy and Mick had recently broken up a brawl between two young cowboys who’d busted up a few chairs and plenty of glassware, then some biker had gotten involved and that had made the pot boil over. Annie, the owner and a recent widow, had been really grateful when Willy and Mick had stepped in and thrown those assholes out and helped her clean up. She’d asked us to hang every night with booze and eats on the house. Who could say no to that?

  Dillon’s General Store was smack in the middle of Clay with faded gold lettering which had probably been hand-painted on the windows back in the day, and a big old fashioned square sign hanging overhead. The store must have been something in its time because it was the fanciest building of them all. Arched windows with heavy stone accents and black iron details. A double door with scrollwork marked the entrance. Locals referred to it as the “five and dime.”

  A little farther down was Kellerman’s Hardware, and Tibbet’s, a small grocery slash candy store. Pepper’s Boot Shop—Bobby’s favorite store—where you could get a fine pair of leather cowboy boots, and at the end of Clay, an old gas station on its last leg, the Prairie Pumper which had a 1930s vibe going with its prominent ceramic signage and one vintage gas pump still planted firmly in its yard. A small post office stood where Clay began to curve out of town. The two places to eat were Marla’s Luncheonette which had a neon sign in the window which screamed the 1950s, and Drake’s Cafe at the other end of town which had an impressive old fashioned bay window and a faded striped awning hanging overhead.

  If tumbleweed were to blow down Clay, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it did, it would add the perfect luster.

  “Get me a tuna on white, would you, Richie?”

  Every day at three o’clock, Steve would ask me to get him a tuna on white. And every day I’d reply, “You got it, Steve.”

  Marla’s was busy today. It was Friday, and the locals were out enjoying themselves after the long haul of the week. Noah’s sister, Josie, worked here, as Marla was her mother-in-law. We never really talked much outside of me placing my order. Josie would refill my soda without me having to ask as I sat at the counter and ate my lunch. We exchanged greetings and skirted around the stinking black abyss Noah’s suicide had left behind in each of us. Neither of us wanted to go there, but it was plainly visible in the heaviness of her eyes whenever she’d see me.

  I ordered Steve’s tuna to go and settled in at the counter. The roar and scream of bike engines cut through the air, and we all turned to look, the sound of chairs scraping filled the restaurant. All kinds rode through Meager on their way to Rapid, Sturgis, and Deadwood, and the great ride that was the Needles Highway with its narrow lanes twisting through granite tunnels in the Black Hills. Meager was but a pit stop for most.

  Ms. Marla brought over a small white paper bag. “Steve’s sandwich.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “If you got a moment, Richie, my generator out back is on the fritz,” said Ms. Marla. “You think you could take a look at it for me? See what the problem is?”

  “Sure. I’ll go bring Steve his food and grab a toolbox. Be right back.”

  Once I returned to the restaurant, I headed to the back and unbolted the cover of the old generator and examined the motor. Age and rust had gotten the better of it, but within an hour or so I’d cleaned it up and replaced several key valves and had it running. Here I was fixing and stitching, but now, no stench of blood, no oozing on my hands, no howling and groaning … no hoping. Just dirt, grease, rust, and beautiful metal.

  “You’re good with your hands, huh?” Josie handed me a bottle of cold beer as I packed up my tools. She smiled at me, and I blinked, wiping at the sweat around my eyes. I saw her brother in her smile, and that swell of bitterness inside me that was Noah softened.

  “I guess.” I gulped down the cold brew.

  “You doing all right hanging out with those bikers?”

  “Yeah, sure. Doing real good. You?”

  She dug the toe of her Keds sneaker into the gravel. “I miss him, Richie.”

  “I know, Jose. Me too.” I shut the toolbox and rose to my feet.

  Taking the beer bottle from me, she finished the brew, tossing the bottle into the trash bin next to her. She took my hand in hers and kissed my knuckles. I swallowed hard. Josie had always had a crush on me. Noah used to tease her mercilessly about it, but I’d never given it a second thought. Well, not really. She was a good looking girl, sweet. As she’d grown up, we’d started sharing longer glances than normal, and I started noticing what she was wearing and how it fit her, but I’d never considered—

  I jerked my hand from her. “Josie—”

  She unbuttoned the top of her uniform. Her bra-less tits spilled out.

  “Josie, fuck.”

  Her eyes flashed at me. “Yeah, Richie. Fuck me.” She embraced me, straddling my leg, writhing on it as her tits rubbed against me. Her tongue lapped at my lips, and I kissed her. I kissed Josie. My best friend’s little sister who we’d throw in our play fort made of blankets under the dining room table and claim as our helpless hostage when we’d play cowboys and Indians … the little sister who was now all grown up and married.

  I breathed hard, my hands digging into her arms, pulling them from my middle. “Jose, stop. You’re married.” But she kept kissing me, and I kept kissing her back. “Jose—what the hell are we doing?”

  “Living,” she said. Her lips sucked on mine, her tongue danced in my mouth, taking, taking all it could.

  Living.

  Her hands slid under my T-shirt, fingernails scraping my chest. My breath shorted, and at the sound, her eyes flashed at me. Noah’s eyes.

  Living.


  Noah was chopped up, smashed, and in the fucking ground. Noah couldn’t breathe or walk or talk. Noah couldn’t get hard and hold a girl up against a wall. Noah couldn’t fuck.

  But me and Josie could.

  My hands stole under her skirt, found her panties, and tugged them down. She let out a grunt as she maneuvered herself around my probing fingers, hips circling, and she got herself off quickly. Jesus. I unbuckled, unzipped, released. Her hand, still cold from the beer bottle, enclosed my cock and I let out a grunt. My body was tight with a surge of adrenaline, with pure need. She pulled on me roughly, scrambled into my arms, and I hoisted her up where she needed to be.

  It was quick, hard. We were animals doing an instinctive act.

  “Yes, yes,” she chanted through panting breaths, her eyes tightly shut as she jacked over me taking what she wanted, taking what I gave her. She came again, and my fingers dug into her sides as I thrust quickly chasing my end. I pulled her off me and came against her thigh. She plastered herself against me, our breaths loud and choppy. I averted my gaze.

  “Ah shit, that was something.” She let out a soft laugh, touching my face. “Hey, Richie, look, I’m after a good time, okay? And you’re not the only one I’m having a good time with. I’m so sick and tired of do this and not that from everybody. I just want to … breathe.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “Josie? You back there? Grab a few packages of napkins, would you?” Ms. Marla’s voice froze us against the brick wall like some magic ice laser.

  “Dammit.” She slid down off me quickly, and I tucked myself back in and zipped up. “I thought she’d left.” She buttoned up her uniform. “I got ‘em!” she shouted out. The packages of napkins were piled in an open box to my side. She ripped one open, grabbed a handful, and wiped between her legs. “You come back here whenever you want, Richie.” Her face flushed, hair flying out of her ponytail, she crumpled the used napkins and tossed them in the trash. She fixed her skirt. “Whenever you want.”