I don’t even know her full name but I would fight to the death to protect her.
CHAPTER NINE: RONNIE
I’M IN BED.
It’s not mine but it’s comfy and I can stretch out easily. My body hurts and I have to pee like nobody’s business.
The room I’m in screams Super Extra Masculine 3000. Dark wood paneling with navy blue accents and motorcycle-themed art everywhere. The only indication that this isn’t just a gearhead’s wet dream in bedroom form is the strangely artistic arrangement of seashells on the book shelf.
I can hear the barking of sea lions and the lap of waves against the pilings and everything comes flooding back. Ah yes, my...situation.
Broken down van. Misty Cove. Sea Lion MC. Chuck-the-sparky-asshole tazing me. Glowing necklace. Weird offer of an all-inclusive vacation that I couldn’t seem to refuse.
Someone has kindly left my cardigan and backpack next to the bed and I quickly rummage through it for my toothbrush and a change of clothes. I would kill for a shower, but I’ll happily settle for a sink. Betsy doesn’t have AC and #VanLife is sweatier than it looks on Instagram. And let’s be honest, four days without a shower makes Ronnie a very... aromatic lady.
Armed and ready, I peek out the door to see a deserted hallway and start wandering. The gaps between the floorboards are wide and it reminds me of a dock. Everything smells like salt water and boatyards. There’s spray coming up from below me... It actually IS a dock.
I like the beach as much as the next person and I’m down with that ocean breeze, just never really thought about bringing it...inside, between my toes. It’s definitely a design choice.
I have no idea where the bathroom is.
I had hoped there would be an ensuite in the giant room I had been settled into, but no such luck.
I’ve never been particularly shy, so I just start opening doors. The first door I open is very clearly another bedroom. It’s slightly smaller and is decorated in a violent orange color that assaults my brain. The walls are the same color as a migraine. It’s horrific. The bed takes over the majority of the room and has a Hawiian print throw over it with bright reds, yellows and oranges. The floor is 100% sand and I shake my head. I hope they don’t have a cat.
The next two doors are closets and I start to feel a little weird about snooping while also being jealous of the amount of built-in storage space.
I take a deep breath and try the next handle and find myself in another bedroom. A bedroom that is 100% occupied. Oh, God.
This room belongs to my Silver Kit. I’m sure it’s decorated in a very tasteful way. Or it could be atrocious. I wouldn’t know because Darren is standing there, bare-ass naked, with his dick in his hand and a bemused expression on his face.
I freeze. I can’t help it. It’s like my brain wants to suddenly process everything in slo-mo.
I’m staring. Hel-lo, Silver Daddy. Fuck, I’m drooling. Am I drooling? Does it matter? Maybe I should drool ON him. That would be fun.
He clears his throat and I snap out of it. The realization that I am standing here, drooling over this stranger and his dick, sends a wave of mortification flooding through me. Among other things.
Ronnie. What is WRONG with you?!
“Uh, God. Sorry. I’m sorry.” I babble, averting my eyes with some level of difficulty and backing out of the bedroom.
“Barge in on me anytime, sweetheart,” Darren calls back as I close the door with a snap. God. Damn that is a fine looking man.
I knock loudly on the next door, praying to Fate or whomever might be in charge of this shitshow down here on Earth, that the next door is the bathroom.
It is. And it appears to be empty.
Thank God.
I’m honestly not expecting much. The rest of this place has been weird at best, but the bathroom looks like it was dropped in this bachelor pad from some sort of design magazine.
It is pristine, with shiny white counters and chrome accented sinks. There’s a giant jacuzzi soaking tub and a walk in shower with dual shower heads. High windows are open and I can hear the ocean crashing somewhere below me. It reminds me of a high-end bed and breakfast. I am tempted to pop back out into the hallway and make sure that I’m still in the same house.
Fluffy green towels are rolled up in a basket and cute little plastic-wrapped soaps in the shape of seashells decorate the counter.
This is the weirdest motorcycle club I have ever been in. Ok, it’s the only one I’ve ever been in. But it’s still weird.
There’s no lock on the bathroom door but I’m too tired to care all that much.
If Darren were to barge on in and do delicious things to me, I wouldn’t say no. With that thought burning in the back of my mind, I undress quickly and step into the shower.
It’s not just a shower, it’s a religious experience. At this exact moment in time, I cannot be bothered to care what these dudes want with me, or why I’m here. Maybe they’re serial killers? If that’s the case, I should turn the water up and enjoy this shower just a little bit more. Life is short.
There is a singular joy to be found in a rain shower with dual shower heads. No one can understand it until they experience it. But let me be the first one to verify... it’s better than anything I’ve ever experienced. There is a steam jet and massaging jets and the hot water hits all the right places.
I’m pretty sure it has ruined me for all other showers from now to eternity. The pitiful tiny tub/shower combo with virtually no water pressure in my old apartment feels like a torture device designed to keep the masses only sort-of clean.
There’s
