Marked for Love 1 (2 page)

I let those memories wash past me, and I caught myself looking at the driver out of the corner of my eye. He had to be at least 6 feet, with the way his head nearly touched the ceiling of the cab and his right leg had to bend out, dangerously close to me, so that he could fit it under the steering column. His thighs were thick and very earthly, covered in faded denim with real tears in it; not the kind you buy for fashion, but the kind of tears that are accumulated over years of real labor. His shoulders had a strong build, and his face projected that he was probably in his mid-30s, although the salt and pepper hair indicated he’d been through a lot in his life. He definitely was a good looking man. His chiseled cheeks and jaw line wrapped in his beard made him even more appealing in a grizzly way. He had hairy forearms, a ripped plaid shirt, and sleeves rolled up to his bulging biceps. His shirt was unbuttoned a quarter of a way down, and I could see his buzzed and hairy chest. A massive, mouth-watering chest: the type you want to mount on top of or suck to please your man in any way that will drive him wild. It looked like he took good care of his appearance. For some reason, it made me think of the way some predators will make themselves irresistibly attractive to their prey, so that the prey has no choice but to be lured to their fate.

He had a brooding presence, the kind that had always turned me on, like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off at any second and you don’t know what would trigger it. One slip, and you’d be punished for something you hadn’t even thought would make him angry. It was both enthralling, riveting and dangerous -- just my type.

I couldn’t help but look at his thick muscular thighs and the huge bulge in between them.  At first I thought it was just the fit of the pants, but then he moved, adjusting himself, and I could tell that he wasn’t even hard. His package was massive and thick: it spanned from the top of his zipper to well in between his legs. The way it would flinch seemed almost animalistic, like it wanted to pounce on something but was biding its time.

We had just crossed over the bridge and were only two stop lights away from the first major intersection when I said, “I really appreciate the ride into town.” I partly wanted to really thank him for being so kind to me and partly needed to get my mind off of the goods I was just seeing, honestly hoping he hadn’t noticed my glances. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.” It was true: it would have probably taken me all night to make just half of that walk. I was desperate for someone to show some mercy. If no one had picked me up, I don’t know how I would have slept.

“It was my pleasure,” he said, shifting his weight around so that he was angled toward me. “Where you want me to take you?” Glancing at him sideways, because I was afraid to get caught under his direct stare, I could see a slash through his right eyebrow, dark, with a thin brim of blood, the same as the one on his pinkie.

“Oh, any old place is fine. I can find my way from here,” I said, though not exactly sure where my place would be or how I planned on paying for it. Max had driven off with everything I owned. It wasn’t much: a backpack of clothes and a few dollars. If this guy would drop me off at a club, I might be able to find a decent place to sleep.

“You got a place to stay for tonight?” he asked me with a mix of challenge and genuine concern.

“Oh, no, but I can...”

“Yeah, you do, I can take care of that,” he said, swinging a U-turn at the first stop light, too far away from the city for any people to see, and he drove us back towards the bridge and the river.

I held on to the door handle, thankful that my seat belt was fastened tightly, as the turn was so sharp. “Where?” was all I could ask. I had seen no house, no sign of life on this side of the river.

“With me,” he said, offering no further explanation, and leaving no room for me to question him. We shifted into a stronger gear to climb back up the hill that led back to the bridge.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, mister,” I said, slightly hoping he would reject my refusal. He did not disappoint.

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “Just lay back and relax. We’ll be there in no time. You can call me Buck.” I couldn’t help but notice that the tension went out of his shoulders. His grip on the wheel relaxed, and his arms came down to rest by his sides as he casually steered us away from the city lights. I wondered what had made him so tense and why was he suddenly much more at ease?

I was honestly touched by how kind he was being to me, but at the same time, I was nervous. I didn’t know this guy. Although there seemed to be a part of him that seemed familiar, as if it were a déjà-vu feeling, I knew I didn’t know him from Adam. There was a dangerous side of him; a controlling, possessive side of him that made me quiver in my boots. But somehow I knew better than to say no to him. Somehow I didn’t think he would like that.

We went back up over the bridge and across the river. He steered us off to the right of the highway, just as we made it back to the forested side, on a slender unmarked turn that I probably would not have seen on my own. I had no idea that people even lived on this side of the river. I assumed that everyone preferred to be hemmed in by the safe circle of city lights. Meeting someone who lived outside those bounds was fascinating. This was a much smaller road than the highway, packed with dirt, not pavement. The further we got away from the water, the more the trees grew up around us. A shiver crept up my spine. I was about to speak up, if only meekly, to ask how much further we were going. Before I could, the truck ambled into a large moonlit opening that extended away from us as far as I could see. Houses rose up, one beside each other, extending back with the opening. This small dirt road kept going, past each house with unassuming driveways to each one. None of the houses had a light on: at least, I couldn’t see one. This place looked like a ghost town, like old memories haunted it, and as if most people had totally forgotten about it.

We pulled into the first driveway, the very first house on this street. It was a classic Victorian beauty. Large maples grew on either side, providing the house with a screen to shelter it from the world. A white porch wrapped itself around the left side, going back farther than I could see. It was at least three stories from ground level, with two levels of bay windows jutting out of the front. White brick framed the porch and window sills, a classy addition to the light colored vinyl siding. I didn’t think they built houses in this style anymore. This house was older but well kept. Buck drove down the driveway that wrapped to the right side of the house. It sloped down to a lower level that
must be the basement. It looked like he had a two-car garage, but even though it was still raining, he made no move to open one of the garage doors.

He stopped the truck right there in the driveway, shut off the engine, and shoved his door open.

“Get out,” he said in a commanding tone. “Help me with getting a few things out of the back.” His commands weren’t questions, so I obeyed.

“Sure,” I said, obeying as I hopped out and shut the door. “Should I lock it?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a smile that made me feel like a truck robbery was the last of his worries.  He went to the back and unfastened a tarp that covered some tools and things. “Just grab that sports bag over there. Set it down right inside.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, reaching over the edge of the truck bed for it. When I got a good grip on it, I hoisted it back over the bed wall and ducked my head to avoid the rain. The bag was heavy
, with an uneven weight pulling down on the front, and it was half unzipped. I fell in step behind him on our way to the door. I couldn’t help myself and peaked inside the bag. All I could see was part of a thick rope wrapped around itself, tangled up but unknotted. Around the inside curve of one of the tangles I saw mud and a crusty red substance stained into the threads. I dreaded to think of what had caused that.

“Come on in,” Buck said, stepping inside the garage door that should lead into the basement. He was looking back at me again with that possessive look that made me feel like I was a piece of meat. Perhaps more like I was his piece of meat.

I followed him through a very dark garage. I had no idea if he had other cars parked in here or something else entirely. I tried to stay close behind him, as if I thought I was going to get left in here. On the other side of the room, he turned an unexpected corner and started up a flight of carpeted stairs. One loud thump after another, I followed his footsteps up to the main level. He opened the door at the top of the stairs and gave me just enough room to get past him.

“Come inside,” he said. I did what I was told and stepped into the immaculate foyer. I wasn’t surprised that he had few decorations on the wall. Not a single picture frame lined the entry way. He seemed like a simple man, and if he was staying here by himself, I imagine he had no reason to decorate. He did seem to have nice taste in furniture, though. He set his keys down on an antique white marble entry-way table. The slight crumble of the marble gave it character, instead of making it look cheap. I was immediately embarrassed for my shabby appearance. I was wearing just a hoodie and sweat pants which were soaked through to the bone, with my hair, clothes, and shoes dripping all over the hardwood floor. He was soaked too, though, and didn’t seem in a hurry to get cleaned up. I noticed the faint smell of wet dog and tried to look around for signs of an animal. I didn’t see anything - no leash or food bowls. Buck shut and locked the door behind me before I could say anything, and then said, “Just set the bag down there on the floor. We won’t need that until later.”

“Wha...?” I started to ask, but he cut me off.

“Thirsty?” he asked, making his way across the foyer to the dark open kitchen, past the center bar, to the refrigerator. His boots seemed to beat angrily on the tiled kitchen floor, drowning out the thumps of my pounding heart. I could enjoy a great view of his backside without fear of him catching me staring. His shoulder and back muscles rippled under his shirt in a way that hinted at subdued power. When he reached to open the stainless steel refrigerator, his triceps flexed out of his rolled
-up sleeves.

“Oh, I ..."  I was, but I didn’t want to be rude. His comment about the bag and the quick transition had completely thrown me off guard. He never tried to turn on the lights, and I felt it would be too forward to do so myself, so we stayed in the barely-lit darkness. The glass front doors let in the occasional lightning bolt illumination.

“Water, beer, wine?” he said, looking in his refrigerator without noticing the faltering look on my face.

“Um, yes, uh, a beer would be nice,” I said.

“Catch,” he said, tossing me one unexpectedly. “Take a load off.”

I started to take my hoodie jacket off, but it was getting caught on my shoulder. Before I knew it, I felt him come up behind me. His thigh brushed against my hip as he yanked the bottom of the hoodie up with such force that I let out a startled yelp. It almost seemed erotic to me, but I tried to shut such thoughts out of my mind. He was much too masculine, too large, too chiseled, to be interested in anyone like me. He crum
pled my sweater in one hand, and I sensed his eyes looking me up and down from behind, as if he liked what he saw.

“Mmm. Nice,” he murmured, almost too low for me to hear.

It took me a second to realize that with the force of him removing my sweater, the crack of my bubble butt was showing. I swear I heard him licking his lips as he looked at me.

“Nikes?” he asked.

“What?” I asked, getting nervous about his possessive tone and grizzly stare.

“Your sweat pants, are they Nikes?” he repeated.

“Oh,” I said, pulling my pants up. “Yeah.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“Do what?” I asked him.

“Pull your pants up. Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before.” Just the way he said it was turning me on, and I prayed that my erection wouldn’t grow too big or fast that I couldn’t hide it in the folds of my soaked sweats.

He pointed me into the living room. For the first time in his house, I led myself. This gave me a view that wasn’t obstructed by his silhouette. The foyer and living room shared the same ambiance. There was a fireplace across the room, just to the left of this entry. It was framed by the same colored marble pillars as those on the entry-table in the foyer. Still no pictures adorned the walls. I had a fleeting thought, almost just like it was a nagging at the back of my skull, that there were no deer heads mounted on the wall. In fact, there was no hunting paraphernalia laying around at all. I had never been in a hunter’s house that didn’t proudly display his trophies for everyone to see.
Maybe Buck doesn’t hunt deer
, I thought. There were burnt logs and ash in the fireplace, though, and that made me feel more comfortable: like this was a real house which was lived in by real people.

Coming in behind me, closer than would be normal for two strangers, he pointed me to sit down in a light brown leather armchair. He sat down across from me on an identical chair. The way in which the furniture was set up, with the long couch against the side wall out of the way, it made me feel like Buck was used to hav
ing single visitors as company. These two chairs were set up perfectly so that just two people could sit across from each other and talk. I leaned forward in my seat nervously as he casually leaned back in his chair. His hair was soaked, and I could see how wild and unkempt it was. Finally in his own home, he closed his eyes for a second, as if he was exhausted from a day’s work. He stretched his strong arms behind his head, which made his shirt lift up just enough to see his ripped and hairy abs. With his eyes still closed, stretched out like that, he looked like the statue of a long-dead Roman god. Hardened, muscled, timeless.