5
For hoursand well into the next day on the drive down to Jacksonville, Chase played and replayed his last conversation with Larke inside his head. She’d agreed to give him a chance. That in itself made him feel as if he’d accomplished the impossible, which also gave him hope that he might be able to do another impossible feat—keep himself from strangling McNair. The shaved-head man was seated next to Chase inside a seedy bar down the street from the motel they’d chosen for the night.
Chase wasn’t a big drinker despite the glass of Jägermeister in his hand. Drinking took control away. He’d seen it happen with his grandfather, Trevor, and his mother. Truth be told, drinking too much wasn’t restricted to his immediate family. Alcoholism was becoming a source of problem with some members of Antebellum Resistance. In between talks of a Zionist controlled media and government, coupled with the vital need to preserve white racial identity; many nationalists numbed their anger and frustration the easiest way they knew how. Alcohol, or shooting up and snorting meth, the drug that was most available and was almost as easy as bread to obtain among white supremacists.
Tonight was the first night Chase wished he was on something. Anything to cool down, fuck, even completely get rid of his newfound obsession with Larke. He wanted her and God knew he was going to have her, but damn... The last thing he needed was anything or anyone coming between him and his commitments.
Taking a swig of the beer, he caught sight of one of the two women who’d approached him minutes ago. The blonde had been decent enough, the type of girl he would’ve had no problem spending a couple of hours with. Nice figure, clean, dressed all right, not too slutty. She’d stood beside him running her fingertips along the length of his arm, openly admiring the same tattoos that had put the look of fear and disgust on Larke’s face.
Overcome with annoyance and anger directed at himselfandthe woman for touching him in the first place, Chase had brushed her hand aside while mumbling something that probably came out as a ‘fuck off’.
“Hudson, what the hell’s wrong with you tonight?”
Chase glanced up from the rim of his glass to face McNair, who was eyeing him with caution. “You told that hot blonde over there to fuck off.”
“Then buy her a drink if you feel sorry for her.”
“Not my taste. Breasts looked fake. Anyways, I thought you and Haley were supposed to be fucking?”
Wait, what? He’d never so much as kissed the girl. Hell, his one phone call to her had been a mistake. “Did you hear that piece of bullshit at your latest tea party?” Chase curled his lips and faced the other man. “Seriously, is that what you do each day, sit back and gossip like a bitch?”
McNair shrugged. “Gotta pass the day somehow besides getting glassed. Not all of us can sit back knowing we got a ship sailing out there, bringing in some cash.”
Chase scowled. They’d grown up together and McNair must have conveniently forgotten that while Chase was working every day, he and his friends were too busy trying to make a name for themselves by starting trouble with minorities, for the hell of it. Matter of fact, Chase wondered if McNair remembered the last time he tried to fuck with him, making jokes about his absent mother.
Taking another swig of beer, Chase decided to ignore the man for the remainder of the evening. It would be senseless to bring attention to himself inside the bar, risking trouble with the law and have Larke think worse of him than she already did.
With McNair and his issues out of sight, out of mind, Chase turned to the television. Any wishful thinking of getting glassed–as McNair had put it–was put to rest. There wasn’t a drug strong enough to dull his mind from thoughts of Larke.
A commercial came on the large mounted screen. Normally he wouldn’t pay any attention since he didn’t even have a TV in his house but this advertisement stood out. Not because Chase was interested in the product they were selling. No. It was the loud exaggerated snort that came from McNair’s reaction to the commercial that made him watch it.
On the screen was a woman––a black womanwho was the same complexion as Larke. Maybe a shade lighter. The woman appears frustrated, cleaning up while her husband and his buddies sat around the couch watching football and eating chips. It’s a beer commercial and Chase knew there was a point in there somewhere, but it wasn’t important.
McNair laughed. “Would’da had that one outside in the fields.” With overblown self-importance, he continued, “Pick my cotton faster, bitch.” He turned to Chase, his tone powered with the confidence of knowing that inside this bar he could openly make references to slavery without judgment. “What do you think is worse, them trying to say low-classnegroeslike those fools can live in a house that big or the white race traitors sitting around with the husband laughing and eating from the same bowl of chips?”
McNair snorted again and shook his head as if Chase had given him the answer he wanted. But Chase couldn’t reply. Speech left him. His entire body grew tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap. The slave comment threw him for a loop. He wasn’t dumb. Of course he knew all about slavery. His ancestors had fought to keep it. Gramps would brag, his voice bursting with pride at the effort of the Confederacy to preserve the practice. Chase had been proud too. Still was? He didn’t know.
Hearing McNair say it like that, though... Those words could’ve come from his own mouth. Before he’d found himself wanting a certain girl whose skin color meant back in those times, she would’ve been worthy of nothing better than toiling outside in the fields.
He pushed his glass of beer aside. What could he say to McNair when he was no better? He’d be a hypocrite. Chase kept his mouth closed. The bartender cast a nervous glance between them. Flinging a towel over his shoulder, the gray-haired man issued them a lukewarm smile. “Sorry about that. I don’t have control over the crap those liberals put on television these days. No channel’s safe, huh?”
Chase eyed the man quizzically, wondering if he meant those words or was attempting to appease him and McNair.Gotta keep the psycho white supremacists happy, right?
“I’m done for the night,” Chase bit out. He slapped a couple of bills on the counter and returned to the motel. The room was passable. Clean without any nasty stench or insects running about. Not a complete dump. He was used to staying in motels like this ever since his grandfather began taking him all over the country to meet with other nationalists. Driving long stretches, sleeping in cheap motels that would ensure they never left much of a paper trail leading to their influential supporters or those wishing to join the cause.
The motel was also the perfect place to stay, seeing as how he’d stupidly agreed to let Trevor use his ship for another one of his lame ass dealings. Old Joe Butler was probably rolling over in his grave, knowing how desperate things were becoming that they’d resorted to smuggling liquor to make sure enough funds were available to pay out the monthly checks to each AR household living in Lee’s Fortress.
The ‘stipend’ as his grandfather and Trevor had referred to it when they’d first rolled out the idea, was an experiment aimed at drawing in more members. If the government was more concerned about pleasing and helping everyone except whites, then AR would be the first group to actively provide financial support to its members. Those living in Lee’s Fortress were the guinea pigs, the ones who would be grateful enough that they recruited anyone who was teetering on the side of nationalism. Not only that, they were also now at the beck and call of Trevor and his underlings. Underlings like himself.
For now.
On that thought, Chase wondered what Larke would think if she knew the inner workings of the movement he’d been born into. Years ago, she’d been shocked by the things he’d told her. Not being allowed to watch television, rarely eating things like candy, ice cream and other typical snacks meant for children because his mother never trusted what the manufacturers were putting in them.
Larke had been especially shocked that he’d never tasted a Snickers bar before. She’d told him so as they’d sat on the damp ground with the aftertaste of sugar and chocolate on their tongues. Chase groaned, his thoughts immediately shifting. She’d probably taste so damn sweet. Her lips, tongue, between her legs… Yes, he’d definitely want to taste Larke’s pussy.
Tracing a hand across his jaw, Chase drew in a ragged breath. His cock hardened, moisture gathering at the tip, a warning that he needed to cool it before he ended up ejaculating inside the motel room. All alone. Another deep breath. He switched on the television, desperate for distraction. There was none. No matter what, all he could see was Larke; with her lips full, ripe and utterly kissable. Talking to him. Smiling at him.
He turned off the TV, staring at the black screen, knowing the only thing he needed was the sound of her voice. Warm with a raspy undertone. When she spoke, it was unlike anything he’d ever heard on another female. Sexy as hell, although he doubted she realized it. His head swam with images of Larke lying in his bed, naked and willing, moaning his name in between breathless pants as he buried himself deep, filling her to the brim.
