And all of this seemed just so Deke.
Deke living isolated and on wheels. He sets that trailer to his truck, he’s good to go.
I loved that about him. I loved that he was a man like no man I’d ever met and all of it was interesting, a lot of it was sweet, some of it was funny, the entirety of it good.
I felt a smile play at my lips as I glanced around and noted he was not only good to go but good to do it in style.
The interior of the trailer was like a museum of the road and an inner guide to Deke’s psyche.
There were posters of rallies, music festivals and concerts glued to the walls. And if these posters were any indication, he not only had really good taste in music, he’d traveled far and wide and back again about fifteen times.
Just like me.
There were also stickers tacked everywhere for everything from bike shops to bars to diners to coffee houses.
Further, there was a bevy of bumper stickers that ranged from the hilarious to the profound. Like one that had a Star Wars Storm Trooper face on it and next to that “I had friends on that Death Star.” And another one that said, “The gene pool could use a little chlorine.” And another that said, “Contrary to belief, no one owes you anything.”
Then there were the random quotes, like Walt Whitman’s “Resist much. Obey little.” And Kurt Vonnegut’s “I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you can see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.”
I saw Clint Eastwood behind the long barrel of a gun. Bruce Lee in the zone. James Dean leaning against a car. A fake baseball card with Will Farrell in a Cub’s uniform.
All this was intermingled with liberal Americana. Eagles. Flags. Stars. Uncle Sam. Rosie the Riveter. “Don’t Tread on Me.” “Liberty or Death.” Not to mention, the every real biker’s maxim, “Ride free or die.”
And this was Deke’s wallpaper, from living room space to bedroom space and even in the miniscule bathroom.
It.
Fucking.
Rocked.
“Your trailer fucking rocks,” I told him and his gaze went from the frying pan to me.
“Come again?”
“Your trailer…fucking…rocks,” I repeated, grinning at him. “I could say the Storm Trooper bumper sticker is my favorite but I could also say Coelho’s ‘Don’t waste your time with explanations…’ is my favorite because people do only hear what they want to hear.”
Deke stared at me.
“But, just to say,” I kept gabbing, “the fact you went for an Airstream already made it total cool.”
My smile got bigger as I indicated the space with a sweep of my hand, at the same time biting back the flinch that motion gave me because after the nap, my body made it clear it was protesting against nearly being strangled to death.
It had survived, that was the good part.
But it was reminding me of the toll that took.
I ignored the pain and finished, “It’s just that with all this, you made it infinitely cooler.”
Deke made no comment to my compliments.
What he did was take the skillet off the burner, go to the fridge, grab a bottle of brew, uncap it and open a cupboard. His hand went up and came out of the cupboard with two white bottles.
He then moved to me, handed me the beer and ordered, “Give me your hand, palm up.”
I lifted my hand palm up.
Deke opened the bottles and tapped out two aspirin and four ibuprofen.
I was not averse to the power of legal pharmaceuticals.
However.
“Deke, that’s a lot of pills.”
“Take ’em,” he commanded.
“But—”
“Take ’em or I give you your sandwich then put your ass in my truck and take you to Carnal Hotel. They got tubs. You can’t even wave your goddamned hand without wincing. You need ibuprofen or you need a soak. Your choice.”
Okay, I had to admit that, after all the cuddling, I had a feeling sex with Deke would be freaking astounding.
Still, his brand of friendly that included looking out for me in his badass way, I’d definitely take, even without the sex (though that last was given up begrudgingly).
“Leave your kickass trailer before I’ve read all your stickers?” I asked, lifting my hand and popping the pills in my mouth. All of them. I sucked them back with a tug of beer, and after I swallowed, unnecessarily gave him my answer. “I pick Airstream. And just to say, if I have a choice of here or pretty much anywhere on earth, except the room at my dad’s house where he keeps his guitar collection, I’d pick here.”
Something slid over his face that I really wanted to decipher but at that moment, my phone rang.
I looked down at it on the couch beside me and saw it said Mr. T Calling.
I looked back up at Deke. “Mr. T.”
His eyes went from the phone to me. “Yup.”
He started moving back to the kitchen (this journey taking Deke all of two steps) and I hit my screen to engage the call and put it on speaker.
“Hey, Mr. T. You’re on speaker,” I greeted.
“And who all would I be speaking to?” Mr. T’s voice came back at me.
“Me and Deke.”
“Deke Hightower?” Mr. T asked and my gaze shot to Deke.
His last name was Hightower?
Of course it was.
It was a cool-as-shit name.
But how did Mr. T know that?
“Uh…yeah, uh…” I stammered.
“I’m right now on my way from the Carnal Police Department, heading to the Carnal Hotel,” Mr. T broke into my thoughts to say. “I’ve spent the last half an hour getting briefed by the mercifully capable-sounding Lieutenant Keaton. And Lieutenant Keaton informed me that you’re currently in a Mr. Deke Hightower’s charge.”