Chapter 2

Devil’s drive home

Bad to the Bone riffed across the club. The bone-rattling sound system was making my old fillings judder. My date, Fiona, didn’t look like a Fiona – more Aphrodite cast as a biker version of Calamity Jane. Either way, the hottest girl in the building – hell, the state – shuffled closer to me on the tatty, turquoise velvet bench. The club’s menu called it a chaise longue. Through cynical 50-year-old Midlands eyes, what a load of marketing bollocks. Judging by the stains, plenty of waitresses had stretched out on it and emptied the boss’s balls between serving burgers.

I was getting comfortable in Christendom’s crappiest club, somewhere deep in East Texas, hungry enough to order the only safe meat on the menu: a 16oz Buffalo Burger with fries. I gallantly ordered two of each from the disinterested cocktail waitress – one lazy eye on her notepad, the sharper one on her watch.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, if it wouldn’t kill you, love – a bloody smile?”

Her sullen face promised the food would land in my lap.

“Sorry, I’m British. It was a compliment.” I lied through a gormless grin.

Fiona shuffled closer, hollering into my ear: “Let’s go!”

Her warm, cocktailed breath zinged up my spine, landing between my cock and balls. We’d only met twenty minutes ago. I’d just ordered her food. I mouthed back: Why so soon? Don’t you like the music?

She nipped my earlobe, giggled, grabbed her oversized crocodile-skin purse. Whatever she yelled, I morphed into her willing shadow. Despite my hunger, I followed.

Out we went to Devil’s Gate Drive. My eyes locked on the cut of her black leather jacket, then the metal studs on her matching leather-clad arse. What a mover. Top to toe – black Stetson to heeled cowboy bootees – she hit 6’2“. I felt like her pet dwarf. I whistled the lyrics: Don’t mess me ’round, ‘cause you know where I’ve been – to The Dive down in Devil Gate Drive.

I clocked every scowling male tracking our exit. Nothing to worry about, unless one of the cowboys carried an Uzi and a grudge against lucky English fuckers. The waitress hadn’t noticed we’d ghosted out without paying.

At the lobby door, I held it for her – too long. It catapulted back, cracking my elbow. “Shit. Funny bone, my arse.” She was already striding into the car park. Shaking out me arm, rubbing on the tingling sting, I yelled back into the club: “Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m the luckiest bastard here. Nighty fucking night.” Nobody heard. Nobody cared.

The taxi rank – one beat-up yellow cab. The lanky, pale six-footer leaning on it took a deep drag when he saw his fare, and opened the rear passenger door. She walked past. Without turning her head, “I have a ride.”

“But you paid return from your place, lady.”

Not slowing, she looked back, offering a smile sweet as coconut butter. “Keep it. You’re my good luck charm.” She winked at him, then at me.

“Good night, ma’am.” He grinned thinly, Texan grace – then glared daggers as I walked past.

“What’s up, Frankenstein?” I asked, belligerent. “It’s what’s in your pants that counts.”

Following her to a red ‘58 Corvette, “That’s not mine, love. Keep going.“

In my crappy V4 Chevy hire, she gave crisp directions in smooth American – Fargo overtone: Left here, hang a right. Silence hummed. My fingertips tingled. Unlike the last Chevy which had literally shocked me, it wasn’t the wiring.

She caught me glancing, moistened her lips and looked out into the night.

“You don’t get asked out much?” It was my best effort. Jesus wept.

“Eyes on the road, mister!” Her smile could crash trucks hard-on first.

Distance grew between streetlights. “Couple more miles and hang a right. Good bye city limits, hello boondocks.”

“It’s a different world out in the wilds,” I said, determined to sound intelligent.

She nodded. “More different than most townies imagine,” she replied, cryptic, mysterious. “It’s going to be a magical night later when these clouds disappear.”

I nodded, clueless. “Where’d you grow up?” I asked. No answer, my just desserts for such a shite question.

Rural murk swallowed the car. Trees replaced cookie-cutter retail units.

Fiona cranked her window down, sparked a Marlboro Lite, exhaled into my tearing eyes. Giggling, “Sorry, forgot, you don’t smoke.”

I shook my head and blinked, one of those reflexes that achieves nothing.

She stared at me, faintly amused by my discomfort. Head tilted, eyes challenging. “You married?”

About to lie –

“Stop here.”

“In the middle of nowhere?”

“Yeah. Fucking stop!” The edge in her voice melted into a soft, “Pretty please.” She peered ahead, then behind. “Huh, the track’s fifty yards back, on the right. Trees all look the same around here. Just like back home.”

“Where’s that?”

“Finland. I’m Finnish.”

That’s so typical Yank, clinging to a romantic origin story. “Well, if we’re playing that game, I’m a fucking Viking.” I handbrake-turned into the woodland gap.

“Woo hoo, Mr Rally Man. I live up there – but that’s all you need to know, for now.”

She removed her bootees and lotus-legged toward me. “Nice and quiet here. Fancy some show time, handsome?”

Before I stammered yes, “Turn the car facing up the track. Screw the rubber-neckers.”

Tension boiled. I parked sedately. We locked eyes, her power oozing.

“I like you, Peter. Know what I liked first?”

“Flashy car? Short, old, ugly?”

“No, you blutty Brit. You don’t stare at my tits like most deadbeats.”

“I try not to be a disrespectful loser.” I stared at her breasts. “But sometimes…”