Otis (12 page)

SAM

Squatted in the corner of the back bedroom, I began to dig through a box I had found in the closet marked
Samantha School.
As I pulled each item from the box carefully, I realized just how much my participation in school activities meant to my mother. Report cards, photographs of me, and various newspaper articles announcing my successes in track, basketball, and debate were amongst the items I was surprised to find.

As much as I enjoyed the memories the newfound items brought to the surface, I realized I could spend nothing short of forever digging through the boxes in my mother’s home. Although she was a very neat woman, it was apparent she was somewhat of a pack rat, boxing up everything her life produced, keeping it for future reference or simply for the joy it brought her.

I glanced around the room as I dropped my 4
th
grade report card into the box. My mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotion, I tried to comprehend not only the work which was in front of me at my mother’s house, but the fact Otis was now back in my life.

Living in St. Louis wasn’t an option now, and although I knew after receiving my inheritance I didn’t
need
to work any longer, I felt I should to keep my sanity. Moving back to Wichita was going to take a little time, and thoughts of where I’d live and when I’d be able to move began to swirl in circles in my head.

I stood, stretched my aching legs, and gazed at the doorway.

“Meow…”

You disgusting furball.

Realizing my only way out of the room was blocked by the fuzzy varmint, I stomped my foot on the floor in an effort to scare her away. Although it appeared to initially startle her, she immediately settled into her sphinx-like posture again and stared at me with her golden glassy orbs.

As she stared at me, she blinked her eyes slowly a few times.

You nasty cretin.

I glanced around the room for something soft I could throw in her direction, and eventually decided it didn’t necessarily
need
to be soft. After some thought, I reached into the box, removed one of my brass medals from playing basketball, and slid it across the wooden floor, past her, and into the hallway.

Being the utter idiot she was, she quickly turned and ran toward the medallion, assuming it was alive. 

While she attempted to bat the medal across the floor with her disgusting paw, I escaped the room, stepped past her, and down the hallway toward the living room. Feeling as if I needed to try and assemble a plan for my near future, what I was going to do about moving, and where I intended to live, my mind instead began to think of Otis and what little precious time we had spent together. As I sat on the loveseat recalled my best version of our pool room sex, a loud rumbling sound from outside caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.

It sounded like the world was coming to an end.

Curious as to what the noise might be, I stood and walked across the room. As I got closer to the window, the level of the sound increased and seemed to become closer and closer to the house. As the noise reached an all-time high, I pulled the curtains to the side and peered outside.

Immediately, my stomach filled with butterflies.

Is this even possible?

You still have it?

I ran to the front door and yanked it open. In the driveway, grinning from ear to ear, Otis was seated in what appeared to be a very nice likeness of the 1969 Camaro he drove throughout the latter years of our relationship. There was no doubt he had the ability to excite me sexually, but his car absolutely drove me into an entirely different type of sexual frenzy.

His car made me wet.

“Looks just like your old car,” I shouted over the sound of the exhaust.

He turned off the car and stepped into the driveway. Standing beside the car in a tee shirt, jeans, and his sneakers, he looked just like he did when we were in high school. As I stood on the porch admiring him and the car it seemed as if we had never been apart.

“It
is
my old car,” he grinned.

“You still have it?
Seriously
, is it?” I screeched.

He nodded his head proudly.

I jumped from the porch, ran to the passenger side of the car, and carefully opened the door. A quick glance of the glove box provided all the confirmation I needed to see. The
Sublime
sticker I had affixed to the center of the glove box door remained right where I had stuck it in 1996.

The lead singer of the band had died of a heroin overdose the day before we graduated high school. Paying tribute to him and my love of the band, I had stuck the sticker on Otis’ glove box while I waited in the car as he and Axton discussed our after graduation plans.

I glanced over the top of the car.

“It’s still there,” I said.

“Right where you left it,” he grinned, “I wanted to kill you for sticking that fucker on there, but I could never bring myself to remove it.”

“The memories this thing brings back,” I sighed as I glanced up and down the side of the car.

“Good ones,” he said as he walked around the front of the car.

“Take me for a ride,” I said as I reached for the door handle.

He turned around and walked back to the side of the car.

“Get in,” he said as he opened the door.

As the engine started, it startled me. The sound of the rumbling exhaust, thoughts of all the times I had sucked his cock while we’d driven to the movies, and the sheer excitement of seeing the car again caused me to begin to shake. I held my arm to the side and flattened my hand as he backed out of the driveway.

“Look,” I said as he shifted the car into gear.

“What?”

“I’m shaking,” I said as I nodded my head toward my hand.

“Why?” he shrugged as he released the clutch.

I shook my head, “This car, you. Memories. Jesus, Otis. This is just crazy. I can’t believe…”

“Well, believe it. I’m not letting you get away this time,” he said over his shoulder as the car inched along the street.

“Promise?” I asked.

He released the gear shift, held his right hand at his side, and extended his pinkie finger from his otherwise clenched fist.

“Pinkie promise,” he said.

A chill ran down my spine.
He remembered
. We had made dozens of pinkie promises as kids, but he would never pinkie promise we would be together forever because he said he couldn’t
guarantee
it. According to Otis, and to his father, breaking a pinkie promise was punishable by cutting off the pinkie of the one who broke the promise.

I pointed my extended pinkie finger at him, “If you break a pinkie promise…”

“I’ll let you cut the fucker off with my dad’s pocket knife,” he said before I finished speaking.

“You sure you want to do this,” I asked.

With lightning-like speed, he reached for the gearshift, shifted gears, and thrust his hand into the air, locking my pinkie with his. Now with our hands in the center of the car with our pinkies intertwined, everything I had sat in the room and worried about no longer mattered. Now, I had Otis right where I wanted him.

In my life forever.

“There, now you’re stuck,” he grinned.

I stared down at our locked pinkies.

“Couldn’t be happier,” I sighed.

He released my finger and shifted gears again. I gazed at him admiringly, and realized he wasn’t wearing his motorcycle vest. Maybe, I decided, it was because he wasn’t riding his motorcycle. To let him know I noticed, I opted to mention it.

“Not wearing your biker vest today?” I asked.

He shook his head as he turned the corner onto Central Avenue, “Not allowed to wear them in cars. The vest is called a
cut
. And we call cars or any kind of vehicle a
cage
. And there’s no cuts allowed in cages.”

I nodded my head as I glanced down at my pinkie.

“I see.”

Considering Otis was now in an
actual
motorcycle gang made me a little nervous. Although he and a few friends - Axton included - had ridden motorcycles since they were kids, he was never in a gang in the past. My experience with motorcycle gangs was limited to what I saw on the news, and although I hadn’t seen much, I couldn’t help but see the nationwide coverage the biker gunfight in Texas was given.

“So, this gang you’re in, do you…”

“It’s a
club
, not a gang,” he interrupted.

“Okay,” I shrugged, “Your
club
, what is it that you guys do?”

With his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he responded without emotion.

“We ride bikes and drink beer.”

“That’s it?” I asked, somewhat relieved and slightly shocked.

“Can’t really say, Sam. It’s like this,” he said over his shoulder and he changed lanes, “We’re a private club. Club business is
club
business, and no one else’s. We don’t discuss it with anyone. It’s nothing against you, and even though you’re the only woman I truly trust, for sake of the club and everyone in it, I’m sworn to secrecy so to speak.”

I turned to the side and faced him directly, “Secrecy? So we’re going to keep secrets?”

“Sam…” he sighed.

“You aren’t like those guys down in Texas, are you? The ones that got in a gunfight?” I asked.

I stared at him as he gripped the steering wheel in his hands. Obviously he was slightly offended by my question - the muscles on his biceps flared as he clenched the wheel. After swallowing and giving his response some thought, he glanced in my direction.

“There’s motorcycle clubs, and there’s 1%er motorcycle clubs. The 1% club is a name that dates back to World War one, and is indicative of the belief that only one percent of people who ride motorcycles are outlaws. A 1%er club is called an outlaw club. They were an outlaw club,” he explained.

“Are you…or is your club an
outlaw club
,” I asked.

He nodded his head, “Yes we are.”

“So how long until you guys decide to shoot up a bar and go to prison,
Otis
?” I asked sarcastically.

“We don’t shoot up bars, Sam. We’re not like that,” he said over his shoulder.

I glanced up as he turned the car into the parking lot of a Starbucks coffee shop. Although I’d been to the intersection, the last time I had been there, there wasn’t a coffee shop, but a gas station.

“When did they put this here?” I asked.

“Ten, maybe twelve years ago,” he shrugged.

As I glanced at the building over my shoulder, I realized in my time away a lot of things had changed. I turned toward Otis and crossed my arms.

“Well, I don’t like the secret thing,” I huffed.

He raised his hands to his head and rubbed his temples for a long moment. As he lowered his hands, he sighed. 

“Look at it this way, Sam. I just made a pinkie promise with you. Do you think I’ll break it?” he asked.

“No, I sure don’t. I know how you’re weird about promises. I like that about you,” I responded.

“Okay, look at it this way. I took an oath with the club. I made a promise, under oath, to never discuss the intricacies of the club or club business with an outsider, all in an effort to protect the club and the men in it. For me to break that promise would be no different than breaking my pinkie promise with you. I gave my word. It’s all I’ve got, Sam.”

As much as I didn’t like it, everything now made perfect sense. Otis was a prideful man, and he had always been a man with tremendous moral values. I’m sure he took great pride in being able to offer the club his absolute silence when questioned of their activities.

“Okay, I’ll respect that,” I said with a nod, “What are we doing here?”

“Well, now that we’re done arguing about that, I’m going to get a cup of coffee. I thought we’d relax out here in the sun before it gets too hot, maybe get lunch, go to a movie, and then we’ll see,” he shrugged.

“You going to let me suck that big cock of yours in the movie?” I asked.

He reached for the door, opened it, and turned to face me.

“Does a shark shit in the sea?” he responded.

“Sure does,” I nodded.

“Answer’s yes,” he grinned.

As thoughts of sucking Otis’ cock in a half filled afternoon movie filled my mind, concerns and worries about his involvement in an outlaw motorcycle club slowly vanished. One thing about being in a relationship with Otis was that all the time I had spent with him was filled with love, sex, and passion, leaving very little time for anything else.

And, as love, sex, and passion were on the top of my relationship priority list, I didn’t complain one bit.