A Long Ride

  Razor

  Book 2: A Long Ride

  Henry Roi

  Copyright (C) 2019 Henry Roi

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

  Published 2019 by Terminal Velocity – A Next Chapter Imprint

  Cover art by Cover Mint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  Table of Contents

  VIII. Here We Go Again

  IX. A Long Ride

  X. We're Coming For You

  About the Author

  VIII. Here We Go Again

  I woke to several annoying things. #1, the couch cushion was stuck to my open mouth by a large puddle of mostly dried drool. And #2, I had the absolute worst I-have-to-pee-but-I'm-too-hard-to-do-so morning wood.

  I rolled over on my back, wiping my disgusting mouth. Sighed as I adjusted my Johnson to a less painful position. Rubbed my eyes. The smell of Blondie's shampoo made me look up. She stood over me, arms folded under her boobies, two perfectly shaped love puppies. I zeroed in on her red shirt. TRUST ME was printed on the front in white block letters between two white hands pointing thumbs at her.

  “Get up, Babe,” she sing-songed. “We have to meet everyone at the gym.”

  “Mmm-arck,” I replied, sitting up. Put my bare feet on the floor, gripping the carpet with my toes. I didn't remember falling asleep on the couch (#3). I looked over at the water bong sitting on the end table. I may have overdone it…

  I wasn't used to this new condo yet, even though we've been here for two months. We had to move after that shit went down at the garage. Talk about inconvenient. Our rent was free at our old place, courtesy of a landlord that had benefited greatly from our help in the past (We had persuaded the public works director to install new power poles and sewage lines for the entire apartment complex. And by persuaded I mean threatened his corrupt life with a large alligator). We had to pay full price for this place, something I haven't done, well, uh, since I started remembering things, apparently.

  I leaned my head back, frowning at the thought. Not like we can't afford it… Bluh! But banks… Suffering through all kinds of unnecessary social intercourse. Those greasy bankers are worse than loan sharks… Loan sharks might break your thumbs for late payments. Those will heal. Bankers will evict you… What an evil sounding word… I would respect them more-

  “Raz! Get up!”

  My eyes sprang open. I had dozed off. Damn (#4!). Well this won't do. We had business to take care of. “Sorry, babe. I'm up. For real this time.”

  “Yeah. For real. Here.” She dug in her pocket, some cute short white shorts, and produced a small Ziploc with a couple dozen dark brown/light brown capsules in it. 20 mg Dexedrine. She handed me two of them and said, “I already took mine.” She ran her fingers through my hair, leaned over and kissed my forehead. Walked into the kitchen.

  We were on what we called “Coke Break” for another month. So if we wanted to speed it had to be on something less detrimental to the body. Which means pharmaceuticals. Dexedrine was my preference. Though Adderall will do the trick just as well. I tossed them into the back of my throat and swallowed with a glob of spit. “Come on amphetamines. Brighten my day.”

  I stood and looked around. Pointed to the hallway. “Toilet. Shower. Right.” Definitely toked too much. I groaned in thought, staggering around the couch and table. We didn't have all our paintings hung yet, and the walls were naked white, making the living and dining rooms seem even more spacious. The hallway was a bland tunnel, the lack of detail the only thing my foggy head sensed as I floated into the bathroom.

  By the time I got out of the shower I felt the piquing of the drug. My eyes were slightly wider, body buzzing with euphoric alertness. Charged. I dried off, swiped on some deodorant, some product for my air, which was long enough to touch my eyes now. I shaved, trimmed my 'stache, put on white boxer-briefs and black Diesel jeans. A gray tee. Sheathed my razor on my lower back. Black belt. Black Rockports.

  Good to go.

  “Bitch.”

  Blondie stood in front of the stove when I walked into the kitchen, working a skillet. The omelet was huge, eggs sizzling with mushrooms, bell peppers, onions and cheese. Tomatoes. She turned the burner off, grabbed a spatula, cut the meal in portions - a third for her, two-thirds for moi – and loaded it onto blue and white ceramic plates. Handed one to me.

  “Good morning,” she purred, then kissed me. Handed me an orange and a fork.

  I smiled thanks, gave her rump a good morning slap and sat next to her on a stool behind our island counter. Set my plate down. We sipped milk and just took our time savoring the omelet while looking at the waves curling on the beach through the window behind the sink. Oak trees swayed in the median of the busy highway between our condo and the sea wall. We ate together most mornings, and nearly every night, enjoying the quiet comfort of each other's company.

  We were able to get our vehicles from the garage, and later, open it for business again, after talking to the Hancock county Sheriff's detectives, convincing them we had nothing to do with the gang fight that had taken place there. 211? OBG? Who are they? No sir, we didn't know six Asian gangsters had been shot by a high-powered rifle. Oh my God! Where they killed? No? Well, thank the Lord!

  I didn't particularly care for Gulfport, but in Harrison County the Coast was the same whether you were in G-Town or B-Town. One casino or condo looked like the rest. The simplicity and familiarity were comforting. I could live here, no problem.

  I walked into the parking area under the building, putting on my jacket. Climbed onto the Suzuki. Lifted my helmet off the handlebars, silently cursing myself for having left it outside overnight. No more bong hits for a while… I looked down the highway at a Regions Bank. The sign outside said, TODAY IS SEPTEMBER 8, 2014. TEMP 52°F.

  The ceaseless wind coming off the water made it feel unseasonably colder. I'd rather ride in the Ford with my girl. But here I sit, genius that I am, on a motorcycle, about to freeze myself retarded on the highway because I lost a bet to Blondie. I swear, I am a stubborn MFer. I couldn't let it go. I just had to bet she couldn't best me.

  The day we moved in here we found a bow and arrow in a box from storage. A 55 lb. compound bow. And, literally, one arrow. We were both damn good with it, though hadn't practiced in a few years. But who was better? A not-so-friendly wager motivated us to find out: Loser had to freeze their balls or boobies on 'Zuki for the entire winter.

  We set up a paper target in the living room, a piece of cardboard with a Sharpie bull's eye, a thick pillow behind it. It held up for all twenty shots we thudded into it. Best out of ten won. With great effort – focused breathing – I got eight bulls eyes. She got nine. Easily.

  You got hustled, my subconscious chuckled.

  Maybe, I replied, shivering from a gust of cold, salty wind. I straddle the Hayabusa. Keyed the ignition and thumbed the starter. Voom! 'Zuki greeted me. The Yoshimira racing pipes were especially loud when cold. I left the choke on, allowing the two hundred horses to warm their legs.

  Blondie walked past me, obviously suppressing a smile. I frowned at her pert walk. Checked out her goods. She had changed into black tights and red Puma cross trainers, shoes that matched her TRUST ME tee and gym bag slung over her shoulder. Needless to say, the tights held my attention. And she knew it, the vixen.

  Blondie stopped ne
xt to her truck, weight on one foot. She flipped hair off her shoulders, stuck a scrunchie in her mouth and pulled her golden locks into a loose ponytail. Wound the scrunchie around it. She unzipped the gym bag and took her keys out. Shifted her weight, unlocked the door. Without looking at me she said, “I hope staring at my ass gets you warm enough for the ride.” Then climbed into the driver's seat. Shut the door.

  I couldn't come up with a response before she deafened me with the 429's Flowmaster bellow. I put my helmet on and turned the choke off, tapped my machine in gear, foot stiff, calf still healing. Idled out onto the avenue and braked, facing Highway 90. Blondie backed out, turned and lined up next to me and rolled down the passenger window. The Ford's fresh coat of deep purple had been wet sanded and buffed to a mirror finish, reflecting the Hayabusa, the rider in black. She grinned at me, then held her hands up in front of a dash vent and sighed theatrically. Rolled up the window.

  We were still in the process of breaking in our neighbors. You know, marking our territory. Our morning tradition was my favorite part of the day. We revved our combined 800 hp, then, like one mind we engaged our clutches and gunned the throttles. The earth quaking roar and smoldering black marks we left behind were sooo let-me-hit-it-doggy exhilarating.

  Highway 49 was only a short jaunt up the beach. We hung a right there and weaved through ridiculous traffic, spotted the gym and turned into the drive. Shocker's El Camino and Ace's Scion blinged cleanly in the parking slots out front, among about fifteen other vehicles. We parked and went inside.

  My hands and face began to defrost as I soaked up the exercise-heated air. I rubbed my fingers, turned baleful eyes on Blondie. She bobbed her head to the music pervading the wide room of exercise machines. Too Close by Alex Clare provided motivation for the early morning gym rats. Weight machines and barbells tinked and clanked. Treadmills hummed, footsteps thumping conveyor belts. Men and women grunted and breathed heavily. It felt like home.

  Blondie took my hand and led me through the maze of equipment. She said hello to the muscle head that stood behind a tall counter sipping a protein shake while talking on the phone. Doug was immense, with a shaved head and too much spray tan. He looked at me and didn't blink, continued talking as if I didn't exist. His eyes moved to the blonde goddess in tights and his mouth snapped shut, teeth clicking, eyebrows racing to his hairline. He straightened to make sure she noticed his size, grinning, waved his shake. His eyes followed her ass as we walked past him into the back room.

  “Come on! Move your butts!” Shocker yelled from the corner of the boxing ring. She saw us, glared Hello, and looked at the stopwatch in her hand. “Time!” she told the guys in the ring, two black teenagers that were soaked and gasping for air, barely able to stand after the pace the girl-beast had set for them. “To your corners, guys. You have one more round,” she growled, reminiscent of our old coach.

  They nodded to her, walked to their corners, sucking in deep breaths as if they were about to die. Stools had been placed in their corners by fellow boxers, a Mexican and white dude waiting their turn to spar. The exhausted fighters sat and peered out of their headgear to see who was watching their performance. About a dozen people were in the room. Mostly guys. Three girls, including Shocker and Blondie. Jump ropes whirled like whips and heavy bags boomed like bass tubes. Several people seemed more focused on Shocker than on their own workouts. She had the coaching thing down pat, which was uncommon; talented boxers usually don't make good coaches. This girl's confidence and look radiated Alpha Bitch in an intense way. And she pulled it off while looking great.

  The fighters in the ring saw Blondie at the same time. She was facing away from them, stretching while talking to Bobby and Ace, her statuesque bod riveting their attention-and one by one the attention of all the men. Those not paying attention to Shocker's commanding presence had taken acute interest in my girl's twisting, bending form.

  Shocker glared at her trainees, turned to see what had captivated them. She looked to see how I was taking it. I shrugged, Comes with the territory, and we laughed together.

  She yelled to my girl, “Hey Blondie! You look like a naked black girl in those tights. How about standing ringside so my guys will double their effort?”

  Blondie turned and waved at Shocker, still pointing her ass at the men. “Nah, there's enough testosterone in this joint already. Let's not stir up any more. We may have to hurt these guys.”

  The third girl, an early twenties brunette with a coltish build, flexed her arms and mugged Bring 'em on! while everyone in the room laughed. Some of the men held their hands up in surrender.

  Shocker called time and coached her boys' final round. I grabbed Blondie's gym bag and went into the men's room to change. Shorts and tank top, both gray. Some old Grant boxing boots that came up mid-shin. White with red soles and laces. Put the bag in a locker with my clothes and went to take care of business.

  Bobby was working with Ace in front of a wall of mirrors. They both wore black warm up pants and blue camouflage tees, matching Shocker's outfit. What's up with the exercise uniform? Bobby stood behind the geek and coached him on proper form with dumbbells. Ace banged out some lateral raises, teeth gnashed, shoulders burning, Big Swoll spotting his last three reps. Ace gasped in relief, dropping the weights on the rubber mat. “Fried circuits!” he cursed, grabbing his shoulders.

  Blondie was shadowboxing a few feet away, watching herself in the mirrors, aware of all the eyes in the background and loving the attention. I stepped beside her and launched into a series of jabs to stretch my arms and torso, then proceeded to beat the crap out of my reflection.

  I didn't particularly care for shadowboxing; it was sort of boring. But it was an essential exercise for all fighters. You had to do it if you wanted to maintain fundamental skills and rhythm. Eddy was a stickler for it. He used to tell his boxers, “If you don't do anything else, run and shadowbox.” He preferred for us to shadowbox before and after a grueling workout, whether we were training for a fight or not. The discipline sticks to you after so many years. Every morning, six days a week, I run and box my shadow. Usually as a warm up, though sometimes it's all I do.

  My reflection was fast. I stepped up the pace and matched him blow for blow, stepping with every punch, weight in the center, then over my front foot as I shifted out to jab and hook. I mixed up the angles, pivoting left and jabbing, dipping down, double uppercutting the body. Pivoted right, throwing quick straight-rights and overhands. When I backed away from my reflection my hands were high, slapping down phantom punches, head weaving, slipping. I feinted jabs, throwing hard, fast straight-rights behind them. Then ripped combos to the head and body, over/under patterns that constantly changed so my opponent wouldn't know what to expect. Two to the head, one to the body. Three upstairs, two to the gut. Blazing jab to the face, powerful right to the belly, shoulders twisting explosively, legs thrusting me forward a split second before I tightened my fist against my shadow's form.

  After about ten minutes I was breathing hard, sweat running down my sides, sufficiently warmed up. I stopped and bounced on my toes, conscious of the uncomfortable burn and tug in my left calf, which wasn't anywhere near 100% yet. I think some nerves had been damaged. Injuries like this take a very long time to heal, if they ever do. The neural connections have to find new pathways between brain and muscle. Good thing it's not my right calf, I thought. I fight off my back foot. A weak back foot is devastating to a boxer.

  Blondie grunted out one last quick combo, stopped and grabbed a jump rope. Without break she began hopping foot to foot, spinning the plastic beads impressively, blue and white blur whistling over her head and under her toes with perfect timing and expert eye-hand-feet coordination. The mirrors showed her long ponytail flopping behind a determined face, breath rhythmic, boobies bouncing deliciously. She stepped around quickly, lithely, showing off moves she learned at dance clubs. Her effortless grace combined with her curvaceous form was intoxicating.

  “Keep staring like that and
Bobby might have to catch you again,” the Shocker said, suddenly at my side. I looked at her. She punched me in the shoulder. “Come on, stud. You said you were working today.”

  “I am,” I said, reluctantly dragging my gaze away from the sweaty goddess. “Working” meant sparring in boxing-ese. We walked toward the ring, passing Big Swoll and Ace. They were still slinging the dumbbells. One-arm rows. Great mass builders. Bobby's freakish forearms bulged, his left noticeably smaller, a result of the fractured radius he got catching my unconscious body.

  I couldn't believe I passed out while repelling down the garage. I fell like twenty feet. For once I'm glad Blondie didn't listen to me and waited instead of leading everyone to our emergency rendezvous. They saw me fall. Big Swoll was close enough and strong enough to catch me. Likely saved my life. For sure he saved me from future wheelchair races.

  I felt uncomfortable around him now. Not just because I felt indebted for my spine, but because he had to pull out of the bodybuilding contest he trained so hard for. And look at his arm. It was just now able to hold weight again. The old me wouldn't have given it any thought. Keep thinking like a lame and the girl-beast is going to tie you into a gay bow…

  “Let's work,” I said to the boxing legend. I began visualizing us already fighting, prepping my cortex, taking slow deep breaths to influx my muscles with oxygen. The drug came on hard, sharpening my senses to a laser fine precision. I ducked under the ropes, stepped into the battle zone.

  “Biatch!” she taunted, throwing her signature blurring combo. Her hands had tracers as she gave me an exaggerated angry face. She nodded, That's what's up, and climbed up the steps, ducked under the ropes behind me.

  Blondie and Ace took a break to attend to our gear. The red Ringside Products hand wraps went on quickly, Blondie's experienced fingers deftly winding the bone supporting material around my knuckles, through my fingers, compiling the last of it around my wrists. Ace was apparently a veteran of wrapping his wife's fists; he finished before Blondie.