Page 7 of Guitars and Cages

“Nephew?” she asked, and paused, pressed up against me, her eyes showing her confusion. I didn’t move; I was still waiting for the answer. The feel of her against me wasn’t the turn-on it used to be, but then, no one ever held my interest for very long. Sex was sex, you used it or it used you. Five years living on the streets taught me that.

“Yeah, I gotta work tonight and I can’t take him to the bar with me, so could you? I’ll be home around three; I’ll even bring dinner and you can stay the night,” I asked, knowing the offer of food would sweeten the pot.

“Like with you, in your bed?” she asked suspiciously. “You’ve never invited me up before.”

Pretty sure I was gonna regret this, but left with little choice, I grinned and ran my fingertips down her arm before sliding my hand around to cup her backside, pulling her flush against me.

“Then don’t you think it’s time we change that?” I whispered low in her ear, hoping like hell to convey sex, desire, and the promise of a night of fun. She bought it, thank the gods, ’cause I needed to work tonight, not just for the cash, but to talk to Morgan and maybe get some fucking advice on the kid who had spent the last forty-eight hours eroding my patience.

I needed wings—yes, that would help, wings and pizza bites and beer, lots of beer, I could almost taste the beer...

“So what’s his name?” Tina asked, snapping me out of my reverie.

“Beer,” I responded, and then shook my head, feeling like a fucking moron. “Err, Rory. Sorry, it’s been a long week.”

She laughed. “I was about to say that your sister-in-law must be a bigger drunk than you are.”

I tried to picture a drunken Kimber and failed miserably. Hell, the world might start spinning backward or stop altogether if Kimber ever brought a drop of liquor to her lips.

“Naw,” I said, slipping my arm around her and guiding her upstairs where Rory and my apartment waited, hopefully still in one piece. “No one’s a bigger drunk than me.”

She laughed and tugged at my hair, pulling me into a kiss, making me forget for a moment that I’d been considering finding another chick to hang around with. She ran her hand lightly over the front of my jeans, and I groaned and deepened the kiss. Damn. I wished I had the time to take what she was offering, but my shift started in twenty minutes and I always felt guilty about the marks down her back when I was done. Note to self: make sure the next fuck ain’t so goddamned skinny; they didn’t have to be plus-sized, but a little more meat was a must.

Up in my apartment, Rory was watching cartoons and the place was still standing. He looked up when I came in, and then frowned a bit as he looked at Tina.

“She’s gonna be my babysitter?” he asked skeptically.

“Yeah, and I expect you to be good.” I’d already bribed the kid with the promise of ice cream; what more could he possibly want?

“It’s gonna be two scoops to keep this from Mom,” he said, “with hot fudge on top.”

I almost chuckled. He had the upper hand, but I didn’t have to let him know it, so I pretended to think about it. “I don’t know; maybe I should tell your mom about the garbage chute.”

“This would so trump the garbage chute, and besides, she’d say it was your fault for not showing me the right way to dump the trash,” Rory pointed out.

Okay, I was well and truly beaten.

“Fine, fine, two scoops of whatever flavor you want, with hot fudge, but only if you’re on your very best behavior and go to bed at ten.”

“My bedtime’s at eight,” Rory pointed out.

“Which means you’re up at eight, too, so your new bedtime is ten, which will hopefully mean you’ll let me sleep ’til ten.” It was logical, or at least I thought so. I’d get up at ten, grudgingly, if he’d let me sleep that long.

He narrowed his eyes and looked like he wanted to argue or try for more ice cream.

“Tina, this is Rory,” I said, guiding her in and handing her the remote. “I’m sure you’re gonna get along great. I gotta get to work or Morgan will kill me.”

I turned to flee, but Tina caught my arm and stood on tiptoe, waiting for me to kiss her. I obliged, but only because I didn’t need my night of freedom ending before it could begin. Note to self number two: make sure new fuck isn’t so clingy and demanding. Soon as she turned me loose I was gone, bounding down the steps and onto the back of my Harley, taking a moment to listen to my baby roar when I turned the key. I’d missed this. Kimber called it a death machine and I’d tried arguing once that it had more maneuverability than those rolling cages she insisted on riding in, but in the end, she’d extracted a promise from me never to give Rory a ride, which meant I’d been walking since he got here.

I took the long way to Morgan’s, savoring the ride and the feel of the wind whipping around me like music. I always wrote better after a long ride. Wished I was playing a set that night; I missed the feel of my guitar in my hands, giving in to the music, letting go. I hated pulling up to the bar and ending the ride. Parking in the alley next to the ’65 Panhead Morgan had been riding since I was a kid, I gave in to a moment of self-pity, silently lamenting all the things I couldn’t do that night.

“You’re late, get in here!” Morgan thundered, holding the door open with his foot. I rolled my eyes, swung my leg over the bike, and followed him into the noise, smoke, dim lights, and music. For the rest of the night we worked in companionable silence, though apparently Kimber had called, because the old bastard wouldn’t let me have a single beer. When the last drink had been poured and the last drunken idiot sent out the door, he poured us each a shot, and then put the bottle away.

“That’s all you get,” he told me as he lifted his glass in salute and swallowed it down.

I knew better than to complain; he’d drink mine if I argued with him.

“Kimber called, didn’t she?” I asked after I’d slammed the tequila down.

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