Read Online St. Nacho's by Z. A. Maxfield - Free Book Online Page A

even know it was going to happen, but when it did, nothing could stop it. As soon as the car began to creep backward I was fighting my seatbelt, the shoulder strap, the car door. I felt like I was fighting for my life. My heart banged against my ribs in my chest and my blood thundered away from my brain to my muscles. I managed to escape the car and run about twenty feet to the bushes outside of Nacho’s where I vomited. I was bent over and hurling when Shawn parked the car again and got out.
    “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, coming after me. “What were you thinking, jumping from a moving car?” In his agitation, he was using both his voice and his hands. When I could finally look it was like watching a traffic cop.
    “Sorry,” I said. I was starting to shake all over and my legs got weak. I motioned him back to the car. “Sorry. You go on ahead.” I started back into the bar.
    “Wait,” said Shawn, reaching out for me. “Are you really sick?” He turned me to face him.
    One of the things about being with Shawn that had required adjustment was the fact that he often pulled me around to face him. Normally, that kind of handling wasn’t a problem for me. It was an established fact that I was submissive. Not a full-on, put me in a cage, I’ll eat off the floor sub, but a garden variety, doesn’t mind being manhandled a little, and finds it kind of hot sub.
    In the olden days I’d done more game playing. It was a bad mix with booze, and had rarely ended well. Everyone in the real scene knew that, so mostly, I would wind up with wannabes or amateurs, and it was one of the things I’d found I didn’t have a taste for without the lubrication of alcohol. But Shawn was forceful, and hot. It was a combination that, ordinarily, I welcomed. But maybe I was the kind of guy who avoided stuff by walking away, and he never let me.
    St. Nacho’s
    37
    I pushed his hands away. “Get your damn hands off me!” I shouted, feeling physically ill. “The hell? You think you can push me around like a damn doll?” Shawn threw both hands in the air, as though he were being robbed. “Whoa!” he said.
    I sank against the wall of the bar. Sweat trickled down my face, but I was cold and started to shiver.
    “You are sick.” Shawn put a hand out, indicating that I should go first into the bar.
    “I can’t go in there just yet.” I shook my head emphatically. I was near tears or going to kill something.
    “What do you want me to do?” he asked.
    “Go to your play; I’ll be fine. Call me at the bar tomorrow.” I made that shooing motion, which was like waving a red flag at a bull.
    “I’m not leaving.” He was angry. “How could you think I would leave you like this?”
    “I’m fine,” I repeated, still shooing. I was stunned by the force of my reaction. I hadn’t even tried to get into a car before because I’d ridden to rehab on my bike and never looked back.
    “Look. We can go to my house and get tea.”
    “No,” I said. I was looking at the car.
    He rubbed his face with both hands, but stayed there, grim determination written in the planes of his body. My breathing was returning to a more normal, steady pace. He took off his jacket and put it around my shoulders. I had my own jacket on, but his, warm with his body heat, felt good. I was thawing. I was coming down.
    “It’s the car.” I pointed to the parking lot. I got out my little phone and signaled that I would try to text him.
    He looked back at the white Camry, then at me, got his cell phone out, and waited.
    I don’t ride in cars. It’s a phobia, I sent. I never tested it out. It’s stronger than I thought.
    “How did you think we’d get to the play?” he asked.
    My bike. I pointed to my motorcycle. His face softened a little, and he relaxed somewhat.
    “You’re an asshole.” He let out a deep breath. “And you’re going to be a lot of work, aren’t you?”
    Since he held on to his phone I figured he was still giving me a