Savior Ch. 16

Rand's residence was large for a camper, but tiny for a home. With one large room comprising a living area, dining area, and kitchen encompassing the front three-quarters of the trailer, his bedroom with its queen-sized bed and the tiny bath took up the rest. The trailer was what I guessed was typical camper chic, with fake wood floors, cheap cabinetry, Formica counters and tabletop, and undersized appliances. The furniture was built-in and reasonably comfortable, there were plenty windows for light, and there was room to move around, at least in the main room, though every available space had been devoted to use in some form. Though the living area and kitchen were comfortable enough, his bedroom had barely enough room to squeeze around the bed, and the easiest way to get into the bed was crawling into it from short hall formed by the bathroom and bedroom closet. The bath was even more tiny, so small I was glad I wasn't claustrophobic, and its shower was so minuscule I marveled he could even turn around inside it.

I was looking for a place to lay the bag of clothes when he stepped in behind me, took the bag, hung it over a cabinet knob above the couch, and then pulled me in close, holding my back snuggly to his chest.

"Let's get you of these wet clothes," he murmured as his fingers began to open the buttons on my shirt.

He was two buttons in, his lips caressing my neck, when a wave of guilt slammed into me. What kind of mother am I? my mind screamed. I should be out looking for Garrett, not doing this! I can drive my car well enough now! Thinking with my pussy is what got me into this mess in the first place! I'm nothing but a whore and a terrible mother!

He must have sensed the change in me. "What's wrong?" he whispered.

"Nothing," I murmured as I pulled out of his arms and began to rebutton my shirt. "I should go."

"Hanna," he said softly, his eyes kind. "We've got everyone in town looking for Garrett. What more can you do?"

"I don't know!" I cried softly. "But I feel like I should be doing something!"

"You are. You're doing the hardest thing possible. You're waiting for news."

"That's not good enough."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll drive around, looking for Carl's motorcycle. We know he's here."

"Do we? Do we know he's staying in Bayport? How do we know he's not in Wakonda Beach, San Marine, or Newport... or Eugene for that matter?"

I pursed my lips so I wouldn't cry. He was right... and I knew he was right... but that didn't make the guilt any less real. "I don't."

"I can only guess how you must feel, but if you wear yourself out, what good will you be to Garrett?"

"I just feel like I should be doing something."

He pulled me into his chest. "You are doing something. You try to rest as much as you can, so when the time comes, you're ready. I need you sharp... Garrett needs you sharp. If you're exhausted, you may overlook some small clue, maybe not notice a motorcycle you otherwise would have, that could lead us to Garrett." He tipped my face up. "Do you hear what I'm saying? I know it's hard, but you've handled worse."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For not... wanting too."

"That's nothing to apologize for."

I snuggled deeper into his chest. "Can you just hold me?"

His embrace tightened slightly. "For as long as you want."

He held me for a long time, allowing me to soak up the comfort of his embrace before I squirmed out of his cuddle. "I'm sorry," I whispered again. "I should go."

He held my gaze with his kind eyes. "Stay."

I wanted to stay, but I felt guilty for shutting him down, and guilty for wanting to feel his touch, and especially guilty that I wasn't at the police station, standing on the chief's desk demanding he find my son, or out tearing Bayport apart looking for Garrett myself.

I whimpered. "I don't know what to do!"

"You stay here, with me, so if we hear even a whisper, you're ready to go. You try to rest so when word comes you're ready to fight. You let me, me and the rest of the Riders, help carry your load... and you stop apologizing for what you want and doing what you think is best."

I held his gaze for a long moment. I was emotionally exhausted, and I wondered what it would be like to have someone to help me. "Take me to bed and hold me?" I asked, my voice almost begging.

He brought his lips to mine for a gentle kiss. "I'd like that," he whispered.

As we prepared for bed, my mind whirled with conflicting thoughts and emotions. I felt like I was falling for Rand. It was ridiculous, and I knew it, but the attraction I felt for him worried me. I knew, knew, it was his kindness, and his willingness to help me get Garrett back that was the root of my attraction. It was purely infatuation, and I knew it, but that didn't make the attraction any less real. This was how it started with Carl, and that had gone to shit in a big way.

I tumbled into his bed and snuggled in close. I had no sleepwear, and he either didn't have any or didn't bother with it. He wrapped me in his arms and kissed me gently. I sensed the desire lurking in his kiss, and there was no missing his hardness, but he didn't try to seduce me.

"Try to get some sleep," he murmured as our lips slowly parted.

I nodded slowly, snuggling in a little closer. Rand wasn't Carl, and he was completely unlike him in every way. If I'd pushed Carl away as I had Rand, he'd simply taken what he considered his. He'd done that exact thing several times. Rand, however, had understood, and not only had he not forced me, he'd supported my decision. He was so unlike Carl I was having to completely revise my opinion what a relationship should and could be. Maybe Mom and Dad weren't as boring as I thought they were. Maybe they had all the passion without the conflict.

My lips tightened as my mind whirled in ever tighter circles. I was considerably older and, hopefully, wiser now. I should be able to make better decisions, but I worried my judgment was clouded by Rand's kindness. Carl hadn't been a complete asshole in the beginning, either. In hindsight, there were little clues, clues I'd ignored because I was in love. I worried Rand was giving me clues, hints to his true personality that I was also ignoring because I needed him. I had a hard time accepting Rand was helping me simply because I needed it. Lying still and comfortable in the gathering darkness, his hand slowly caressing my back, I wondered if, or when, a different side of Rand would appear, as it had with Carl.

The other problem was distance. It was a hard four-hour drive from Prineville to Bayport. Even if Rand turned out to be everything he seemed to be, two hundred miles and four hours would make it hard to maintain a relationship. Not to mention Garrett. Would he even want to date a woman with a kid? I was torn, wanting to believe in him and that he was something special, but I was afraid what I was seeing was just a façade, or even if it was real, that we wouldn't be able to overcome the obstacles.

I shoved the thoughts away. It was far too early to be thinking about dating and relationships. I needed to focus on getting Garrett back and getting my life in order before I should even think about dating. A smile tugged at my lips. Even as I tried to force myself to not think about it, the memories of how he made me feel last night, and again this morning, surfaced. Panty-wetting handsome, kind, and a devastatingly good lover... did I really want to push him out of my life if he was willing to be part of it?

I felt him relax into sleep, his cock still hard as his breathing became deep and regular. I sighed, again feeling his pull as the spiral of thoughts started all over again. I reminded myself, yet again, it wasn't love, but his generosity and kindness that made me feel this way. Even though I knew it to be true, I held him, wanting to feel this way every night.

My mind buzzing in the darkness of his bedroom, I resolved nothing. I lay still and quiet, listening to the static my head, until long after he'd gone to sleep, I joined him slumber.

"Hold this," Rand said, moving to the other side as I held the rear bumper. "Got it?"

I nodded, bracing to catch the weight, but when it came free, I was surprised it weighed next to nothing.

He took the bumper from my hands and set it aside. "Thanks. This is a lot easier with two, so I don't have to deal with the bumper flopping all around."

I was helping Rand part out a car. Being alone with my thoughts was making me crazy, so after I'd prepared lunch for the men, I'd tracked Rand down in the shop and offered to help. I didn't know how much help I was, but it kept me occupied and prevented me from thinking too much.

The little Honda was a mess with its entire passenger side caved in. It was clear this car was unrepairable, but apparently even in its death it was giving life to other cars. He lowered the car then began working on the driver's door. There wasn't a lot of useful in the car. The driver's front seat, the two driver's side doors, three of the wheels, the trunk lid, and the rear bumper. That was it. Everything else was clearly mangled beyond repair.

He worked on the driver's door a moment, then stood. "Here, come take this last bolt out," he said, holding the wrench out to me. "That one right there." He gripped the door as I put the wrench on the bolt and squeeze the trigger. He sat the door aside. "Thanks."

After he took the wrench back, I was going to move door and place it next to the bumper, but I could barely lift it, so I left it. He handled the door like it weighed no more than the bumper, so he was clearly immensely strong, and yet his touch could be incredibly gentle.

"Tell me about the race your club runs," I said as he attacked the second door.

"What do you want to know?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Everything, I guess."

"You remember what Doug said, how we run the race twice a year?" I nodded and he continued. "The race is divided into four classes. Under six hundred, six hundred to seven-fifty, over seven-fifty, and unlimited."

"Those are the size of the engines, right?"

"Right. With the exception of the unlimited class, the bikes have to be licensed, largely unmodified, and ridden to and from the event. We do a tech inspection on the bikes to make sure they're mostly stock. That helps prevent people from running a ringer in one of the other classes."

"If you can't ride it on the road, you can't race it?"

"Except in the unlimited class, yes. If you have this superbike, but it's tuned so tight that it isn't streetable, the ride to and from the track with the slow speeds and traffic are going to cause problems for the bike. Same for riding it back. If it can only survive one lap of the track, and you can't ride it back to Doonz, then you forfeit your win. If you want to race a pure race bike, put it in the unlimited class where you can compete against other pure race bikes."

"Do you compete?"

He held the wrench out to me. "Yeah."

I zipped the bolt out. "But not on your Harley?" I asked as he placed the door beside the other.

He grinned. "No. I race in the unlimited class."

"Really?" I said, drawing the word out. Mr. Tauper was full of surprises.

"Yeah. A few years ago I started modifying a BMW S1000RR. I've been working on it ever since." He started working on the trunk lid. "I wanted a MotoGP, but those things are almost impossible to buy, and even if I could, they cost like a hundred grand... used. So, I started building my own."

"MotoGP?"

"You heard of Formula One car racing?" I shook my head. "Come hold this." I gripped the trunk lid as he moved to the other side and started taking bolts off. "Basically, it's Formula One racing for motorcycles. Like with cars in F1, MotoGP is where the best technology goes. They're the lightest, fastest, bikes on the planet. There might be several bikes in the race in the over seven fifty class that are faster on the top end than my bike, but none of them will be able to keep up with an unlimited machine on the course. The Green Hell isn't about straight-line speed... it's about cornering, acceleration, and braking."

"And, yet, you ride a Harley."

"So?"

"So, I didn't think Harleys were exactly known for tearing up racetracks."

"No, but compared to my BMW, everything feels slow, and as I told you before, my Harley is classier and more practical than the rice rockets the other guys ride."

Rand was such an interesting mix of contractions and surprises. He cruised around on a Harley, and yet he also rode some screamingly fast machine as well. He was hugely strong, and at the same time so very tender and gentle. He worked in a recycling yard, but he read books about Roman aqueducts and Patrick said he was a gifted engine builder and machinist. He could make tender love to me one moment and try to pound me through the bed the next.

"The Green Hell. That's where you race?"

"Yeah," he said as he wrote on the salvaged pieces with a heavy white crayon, noting the year, make, and model of the car they were removed from. "It's a seventeen-mile loop the club marked out years ago, way out in the Siuslaw. We close off the roads, set up timing markers to record the rider's times, and send riders out at five-minute intervals. Fastest time back to the start wins."

"So the riders don't race against each other?"

"No. This way, riders don't get stupid and crash trying to pass. It's you against the clock."

I waited as he dragged the car out of the bay with the forklift, then shoved the other one in.

"And the Bayport Riders get ten percent of the take?" I asked as he resumed work on the new car.

"That's right."

"Do you have to pay to enter?"

"Of course. When it comes to racing, brothers get no special consideration. We pay, and win or lose just like everyone else."

"Do you win?"

He grinned. "Not every time, but most of the time. It's my home track after all, so I have the advantage, especially in the rain."

I was surprised to hear that. "You race in the rain?"

He chuckled. "If we didn't, we'd have to cancel more races than we run. Can't make money that way."

It was a bright sunny day today, but it'd rained every day I was here so far, except one. "Isn't that dangerous?"

He shrugged. "So is racing in the dry. If you run off the road, you're into the trees instantly. It's how Stu died. Dumping the bike probably won't hurt you if you're wearing armor, but hitting a tree at one fifty? No armor can protect you from that."

"Anyone die?"

"One."

"Stu?" He nodded. "I'm sorry."

"It could have happened to any of us. It shouldn't have happened to Stu, though. The Orcas are going to have to answer for that."

The coldness in his voice chilled me. Despite his kindness, I could tell he wasn't someone you wanted to piss off. "Can I see it? The track?"

"Sure. Why?"

I shrugged. "Just curious. I want to see what the Orcas are so hot and heavy for."

"Sure. I'd offer to take you around on the Beemer, but there's only one seat."

I waved my hands in front of me. "No, no, that's okay. Your Harley is fine."

After I'd prepared dinner for the men, Rand helped me load the dishwasher, over Patrick's objections, before Rand excused us. Leaving Patrick to tinker on his model engines, Rand pulled his Harley out of the shed and I mounted up. After our conversation this afternoon, I now had a good idea of what was lurking under the drape at the back of his shed. We rode for about forty minutes along country roads, journeying ever deeper into the Siuslaw National Forest, before he slowed, then circled the bike in the road.

"This is the start."

I looked around. There was a natural widening in the forest with a large area where cars could pull off and enjoy the view across the valley. I didn't know a thing about racing, but having seen the pull-off, it made sense they'd need a place to stage the racers. I didn't know what I expected, maybe a checkered flag painted on the road, but this looked like the rest road we'd been riding on.

"Okay."

"Behind us about a half mile is the finish line. I'll show you when we get there. You ready?"

"Yes, but not too fast, okay?"

He caressed my leg. "Not too fast. Just a nice comfortable pace."

He pulled away strongly, the big Harley banging through the gears as it squeezed me back. I was nervous because he seemed to be riding the roads far too fast, but I quickly relaxed when I realized he was in complete control of the bike, never crossed the center line, and his braking and acceleration were smooth and easy. He danced the bike along the road, leaning it way and that, the bike's song rising and falling in time with the road.

Now I understood why Rand said the race wasn't about straight-line speed. There were no straights, not long ones anyway. There were some places where someone could straighten a series of curves if you didn't mind riding into oncoming traffic, but even those were few and far between.

We pulled to a stop, and I expected him to tell me this was the finish line, but he started out again, making a hard right. Since he didn't say anything, I could only assume we were still racing and that the racers ignored the stop sign. As we continued along the gracefully curving road, I began to wonder if he'd forgotten to tell me the stop sign was the finish line. All the roads looked the same and I couldn't tell if any of the pull-offs we passed was the one we'd started at or not.

Finally we slowed, Rand pulling to a stop beside by a large rock outcropping. "This is the finish line."

"That whole ride was the track?" I asked, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.

He chuckled. "Seventeen miles of Green Hell." With a quick look over his shoulder to check for traffic, we rode a short distance before he pulled into the overlook where, I assumed, we started, and switched off the bike.

I stepped off the bike and he followed. "How long did that take us?

He shrugged. "Don't know. I didn't time us. Probably about twenty-five minutes."

"Wow! How long does it take on your bike?"

He grinned. "It takes a car almost thirty minutes to make that same loop, like we did, at a normal pace. An under six hundred bike with a good rider can do it in about twelve minutes."

"Twelve minutes? You've got to be kidding?" I squawked. There were places where even at the forty-whatever we were riding I felt like we were flying.

He chuckled. "No. The bikes in the six hundred class, they can do it in about eleven forty-five. The over seven-fifty in about eleven and a half and the unlimiteds in about eleven."

"Eleven minutes? No way!"

He shrugged. "The course record for the unlimited class is eleven minutes, three seconds, and change. That's about ninety-five miles per hour on average. Your Bug probably won't go that fast."

"Certainly not on roads as curvy as these!"

"No," he agreed. "But on a bike, when you don't have to worry about cars so you can use the entire track, you can straighten it out some. But like I said, the Green Hell isn't about speed, it's about being able to brake, corner, and accelerate."

"Who has the track record?" He grinned and looked away. "You?"

"Yeah. That was the one perfect run. I haven't been able to get within two seconds of it again."

"Two seconds? That's nothing!"

"Two seconds is forever. We time to the thousandth of a second because two seconds may be all that separates the first five or six positions."

"Wow!"

He took my hand. "Come on. Let's walk."

I was still marveling at the speed, and the bravery, of the racers. There was no place on the course where I would have felt safe, even in a car, doing ninety-five miles-per-hour, and that was their average speed. There were many places, especially that hard right turn at the stop sign, where they would have to slow way down from their average speed, which meant there had to be places where they were going much faster.