BONE
Table of Contents
Untitled
Untitled
BONE
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Stryker
Jordan
Epilogue
Untitled
Also by Rocklyn Ryder
About the Wild Romance novels:
Excerpt from BUSH
Modern Arranged Marriage Romances
About Rocklyn:
BONE
Rocklyn Ryder
Magpie Press
Copyright © 2017 Rocklyn Ryder
All rights reserved worldwide
No part of this book may be reproduced, uploaded to the Internet, or copied without permission from the author. The author respectfully asks that you please support artistic expression and help promote anti-piracy efforts by purchasing a copy of this book at the authorized online outlets.
This is a work of fiction intended for mature audiences only. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, business establishments, or actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
All sexual activities depicted occur between consenting characters 18 years or older who are not blood related.
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BONE
A Wild Romance
by
Rocklyn Ryder
Jordan
Somewhere around mile 125 I started riding by faith alone.
On a good day, if the wind is right, on a downhill grade, I might make 165 miles on a tank of gas. I switched over to reserve somewhere around the last thing that passed as a tree.
I guess they're Pinion Pines or Juniper trees according to the identification chart I have in my tank bag. They're more like overgrown shrubs than trees, and there were a lot of them stretching out across the landscape on both sides of the road there for awhile.
That's when the main tank went dry and the bike sputtered and went ghostly silent.
Right now I'm coasting down hill next to a dry lake bed with a sheer drop off on one side. It's been a long time since I stopped seeing those trees. In fact, the only thing growing out here are rocks. The same sharp, broken, black volcanic rocks that covered the entire southern portion of Idaho-- except where they were growing potatoes.
Eastern Oregon is a far cry from the verdant images of rain-soaked forests that most people think of when they think of Oregon.
No, eastern Oregon is covered in bleak, barren, rocky desert. The kind of desert that stretches on as far as the eye can see in every direction-- devoid of life, civilization, and most importantly at the moment, gas stations.
It's also getting late. I still have an hour till sunset, but in the middle of summer, sunset is around 9 pm up here. A long time after most people call their work day quits, especially in the middle of the week when this particular stretch of road is even less likely than usual to see traffic.
This whole Oregon-won't-let-me-pump-my-own-gas thing is really cramping my style.
It's not like it was a big surprise going into the trip, I've driven through Oregon plenty of times before but that was on the west side, the side people think of when they think of Oregon. Cities, hipsters, fast food chains, and 24 hour gas stations.
This?
I turn my head and take stock of my surroundings.
This is different.
Everyone warned me about highway 50 across Nevada. How far it was between gas stations and how the 50 is supposed to be the "loneliest" highway in America.
Whoever said that has obviously never traveled down this deserted stretch of concrete through eastern Oregon.
If I'd known how far it was going to be till the next sign of civilization, I wouldn't have skipped the last gas station I passed.
There aren't even houses out here. There's just...nothing. I haven't even seen another vehicle on this stretch.
Normally, I'd be loving it. Singing at the top of my lungs in my helmet. Stopping whenever I want to snap a photo. Enjoying the solitude and the scenery. But right now I'm concerned with the fact that I have about 15 miles left before the engine soaks up the very last drop of gas in the tank.
I knew riding through Oregon meant I wasn't going to be seeing any pay at the pump, self service gas stations. It didn't occur to me till I stopped just south of the Washington border at a dinky little mom and pop place just before they closed for the evening yesterday that not being able to pump my own gas meant I wouldn't be seeing any pumps that were available after hours.
That put a whole new perspective on things.
Out here where the next gas station might be 50 or more miles in any given direction, pulling into a closed gas station means I'm camping at the pump till they open the next morning.
The engine sputters and the bike pulls back under me. Then silence. Eerie, lonely silence in the waning sunlight of the eastern Oregon landscape.
I kick it into neutral and let the bike coast down the gentle slope the road has taken for as long as I possible can.
As I come around a curve in the road, I see lights up ahead. At first I think it's just a house. I'm still excited. Houses have people and maybe those people will have a spare gallon of gas that'll get me to the next station.
The road levels out and the bike rolls to a pace slow enough to force me off of it before I get to the two story structure lit by a single sodium vapor flood light that's been my sole focus for the last half mile.
The house is still a ways ahead of me but I'm pretty sure I can walk the bike that far before darkness settles over this valley completely. Not that I see how I have much choice.
As I get closer, my heart leaps in my chest. The 2 story structure that I thought was a house at first is actually a gas station!
Rolling the bike up to the pump, I look around for signs of life. I'm not at all surprised that no one answers the bell that I hear sound inside the darkened convenience store that makes up the lower story of the building.
It's just before 9 PM on a week night. This place is closed up for the night.
The upper floor of the building looks like it's home for whoever owns this place. I can't help but hold out hope that I can get someone's attention and maybe they'll take pity on me and come down here and let me fill up the tank.
Not that my 2 and half gallon gas tank on this little bike is a major sale or anything, but sometimes being a woman traveling alone on a motorcycle has its advantages.
Plus, it would keep me from having to pitch the tent here in their parking lot and camp out till they open in the morning.
I'm not really enthusiastic about riding after dark on another stretch of deserted road. The possibility of hitting a coyote or an elk gets very real this time of night and both those things would pretty much put an end to my ride-- and probably to me-- but a hotel room with a real bed and a hot shower in a town where I might even be able to find a pizza or a greasy cheeseburger sure wou
ld be nice after weeks of camping and eating ramen.
Of course, as is my luck these days, there's no sign of life upstairs either. Maybe the proprietor of this establishment is a bona fide early bird and 9 PM is the middle of the night for them? Or maybe no one's home?
Either way, there's nothing I can do but wait till the place opens in the morning so I unpack the tail bag on the back of the motorcycle that has all my camping gear in it and set up my tent-- right in front of pump number 2.
Stryker
It's after midnight by the time I get back. Pulling into the station, the truck's headlight bounce off something by the pump but I'm moving too fast to catch it before I've already passed it. So I finish pulling around back into my own damn driveway and kill the engine.
There are days when running this place ain't worth the hassle.
I usually wait till around 8 to close the shop up and shut down the pumps, which doesn't give me much chance to get into town. I guess today was my lucky break, maybe some sort of sign from whatever gods might still have hope for the likes of me that I needed to get out of here for a few hours.
Thanks to some music festival up north from here, the road has seen unusually high- and I do mean "high"-- traffic over the last week. First, a bunch of kids going north, then the same bunch of kids coming back. Every damn car load of 'em stoned out their minds and lost as fuck, bitching about not having cell signal out here in the godforsaken no man's land that is eastern Oregon.
The gas tanks went bone dry around 11 this morning.
The blue LCD display on the truck's dash board clock glows in the otherwise pitch blackness: 12:04 AM.
Make that yesterday morning.
I put in a call to the company to have a tanker come out and refill me but, of course, that'll happen on their schedule, not mine. Which means it'll probably be at last a couple of days before they dispatch a driver to get all the way out here.
My rinky dink little two pump station on the fringes of the known universe isn't worth enough money to them to warrant an unscheduled delivery.
The good people of...
Who the fuck am I kidding? I turn my head and stare out the windows at the darkness surrounding me. The only light breaking up the night outside the truck is coming from the sodium vapor out by the road at the end of the property. From where I park out on the back side of the place there's barely a hint of glow from it at all.
It's pretty fucking dark out here. There ain't any people in Fell's Valley, good or otherwise. The 6 people I call neighbors are 14 miles west of here and they're gonna have to hope they got their gas before the electric carnival music festival got their idiot asses lost on this stretch of forgotten highway.
Those kids didn't just drain every last drop of gas out of my holding tank, they damn near cleaned off the shelves in the store too.
Put a chunk of cash in my pocket this last week though, for damn sure. Cash that was burning a hole through my wallet, begging me to take it into town, grab a room at some run down motor lodge within stumbling distance from a dive bar and spend it on whiskey and the first woman that would give me the time of day.
Fell's Valley consists of me, my dog Ninja, and the Reed's farm. No cell service. No bar. No fucking women, except for the ones that pass through on their way from someplace better to someplace better. The few women who brave this section of deserted road on their own don't stick around long enough to make polite chit chat, let alone get a tour of my bedroom.
You better believe I was looking forward to getting my dick wet while I had a chance tonight. Running the only gas station in a 72 mile radius in a state where I don't make money if I'm not here to pump peoples' damn gas for them means I don't take time off. Ever.
Reaching into the bag on the passenger seat I pull out one of the beers from the case I grabbed on my way home, since I don't have many left in stock in the store. The can is cool, but nowhere near as cold after the drive home as I'd like it.
I don't give a fuck. I pop the top and let the cool liquid drain down my throat. Then I crush the can in my hand and toss it onto the floorboards.
I've been waiting all damn day for that beer and now that I got a chance to take a drink, it's not nearly as satisfying as it shoulda been.
That's because it's not an ice cold draft that cost twice as much as it should, I think, and you ain't drinking it while some drunk bar skank rubs her hand on your crotch, beggin' you to take her back to your room.
Shit! I grab the bag the beer is in and climb out of the truck, slamming the door behind me with all the pent up frustration that's been coiling up inside me over the last few months. Could anything else go wrong? I grumble as I turn on my heel and head toward the stairs leading up to my place on the second floor above the store.
Of course, that's when I look up and, just like always, that's a sight that takes my breath away.
Fell's Valley ain't much of a town, but it's a hell of nice place to look at the stars. Every time I look up at night I forget how fucking lonely it gets out here. I forget how bad I need to find someone to help out with the store so I can get away now and then-- hell, I forget why I'd want to get away from this at all.
It's fucking gorgeous out here. I guess that's why I stay.
I open the door and am immediately hit by the 35 pound whirlwind that I live with. Black as coal, Ninja's just a dark spot in the already dark night as she jumps all over me and then tries to run right through me on her way down the steps to the yard behind the store. She's so black I had to put a bell on her just so I know where the fuck she is when she goes out at night.
Leaving the door open, because I know the little terror is going to race up and down those stairs at least 3 times before she comes in for good, I carry the case of beer over to the kitchen and put it in the fridge.
Not like it takes much effort to find a space for a 24 pack, there's not much in the fridge besides beer and ketchup, and I don't know how old the ketchup is or why the fuck I have it. Must have made burgers or some shit at some point.
I don't have much excuse to cook, but I can grill about anything big enough not to fall through the damn grate.
Most of the time though, I just nuke a frozen burrito from the store before heading back upstairs at the end of the day.
I pull another can out of the case and pop it open even though it hasn't been in the fridge long enough to chill by a long shot.
Ninja finally decided she's done running up and down the stairs and settles on her bed in front of the TV, waiting for me to join her. She knows our routine. Too bad her internal clock is for shit-- she's got no clue that I wasn't at work downstairs all day and that it's too late to start watching TV now.
Hell, I haven't even turned on a light. Don't see any point in it now. I stand at the kitchen sink, draining the beer, staring out the window at the deserted highway running in front of the store. That's when I notice the big lamp outside reflecting off something by the gas pump again.
Leaning over the sink so I can get a better look down at the pumps it takes me about half a second to register what it is. A damn tent. Some little backpacker type dome tent set up right in front of pump number 2 next to a motorcycle.
Happens sometimes. People doing those long rides across the states or down from Alaska on bikes that don't have the range some of the big ones do. People who aren't prepared for the distance between stations, don't know about Oregon's no self-serve rules-- or don't realize that the east side of this state is about as far from the rest of the world as it gets.
Ain't no 24 hour service for miles around here.
I squint to make out the bike. Something small. No windshield, no panniers or saddle bags, tires look knobby. Probably one of the kids from the other side of the hills. Teenagers mostly, they hop on their bikes and tear up the desert trails, forgettin' all about time and the fact that their dirt bikes have gas tanks that are only a little bigger than their brains at that age.
I've opened up the station more than once to find
some kid camped by the pump, just waiting till he can fill up and ride back.
With a shrug, I toss the empty beer can in the sink. I down a few more beers, standing in the darkness of my empty apartment while I mull over the day. When I'm about as buzzed as I'd hoped to be by the time I found a girl in town I toss the last can into the sink with it's fallen comrades.
"Hold down the fort, Ninj," I tell the mutt out loud as I head down the hall to the bedroom, "I'll break the news to the kid in the morning."
I hear her whine softly, that sad sound that breaks my heart a little cuz I know I haven't been home and the dog needs attention about as bad as I do.
Tonight's not her night though, just like it ain't mine.
As I pull the bed covers up over me, I think of whatever dumb kid is down there camped on the cement by the gas pump. If it was any ordinary traveler stuck here for the duration, I'd probably go down there and explain the situation to them right now. Have 'em bring their shit inside and give 'em a warm place to stay for a few days till they could get on their way.
I ain't got patience for some teenager who's gonna want me to give him beer and sit up all night out in my living room watching the satellite TV or some shit. Damn kid can stay out there, it ain't that cold at night yet. Let 'em have an adventure, go home with a story to tell.
Maybe he'll call his folks in the morning and someone'll come out with a pickup to haul him and his bike home or bring him a can of gas.
Right now all I care about is that my bed's damn cold and I wish there was something warmer than my hand to stick my dick in tonight.
Fuckin' lousy wasted trip into town.
Jordan
When you've been camping out as long as I have, it's easy to wake up at the crack of dawn.
Actually, more like about an hour before dawn. That's when the birds start singing. It's hard to sleep through.