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have mercy, baby, on a poor girl like me
you know i'm fallin', fallin', fallin' at your feet
i'm tinglin' right from my head to my toes
so help me, help me, help me make the feelin' go
say that you love me – fleetwood mac
summary: Michael Robinavitch is an overworked internal medicine doctor almost single-handedly carrying the weight of Allegheny County General Hospital's emergency room. in the summer of '78, he decides to take a sabbatical to relieve some stress and avoid total burnout. what he doesn't expect is the pretty young thing parked on the edge of the highway in Chicago, the one who talks him into taking her along for the ride.
tags/warnings: mentions of sexual harassment and past domestic violence (nothing graphic, reader was in an abusive marriage but there is NO abuse on page, just allusions to it happening in the past), attempted assault (not super graphic, but the dialogue could be triggering so please heed the warning), SMUT 18+, dry humping, fingering, unprotected piv sex, oral (f receiving), creampie, angst, mentions of passive suicidal ideation, improper motorcycle safety, self-sabotaging Robby, 70s references and historical inaccuracies probably, p!atd reference iykyk
wc: 21.4k (i'm so sorry)
a/n: y'all... this got so deeply out of hand. I hope you enjoy it, it took every ounce of my sanity <3 also here's a playlist of 70s jams if you're interested :)
Late July, 1978. Chicago.
It had been five days since you left home.
Five days of bumming around and taking rides from strangers you had no business riding with. The first guy was nice enough, a thick bearded trucker with a thick southern drawl that took you from Fort Worth to Tulsa. He was the gruff, stoic sort that didn't say much, but his eyes lingered a little too long on your legs, so you were happy to hop out at the dingy little gas station right off the highway.
The second guy was more squirrel-y, a skinny beanpole type that liked to fancy himself a ladies man. He called you baby and sugarpie, rested his hand on your thigh throughout the drive, squeezing the meat of it occasionally. By the time he started drifting his fingers higher, you were stopping for the night in Kansas City and hauling your ass to the closest rest station.
There were a few others, all of whom stared too long and touched too freely. You only stayed with them long enough to get to the next rest stop or gas station before trying your luck elsewhere. It was risky business, rolling the dice on these men like they didn't have the capacity to make you disappear without a trace. Like they weren't the exact type of man you were already running from.
But there was some agency in that, you supposed. You decided what trucks to hop into, which men seemed safe enough to ride along with–not trapped in a brick rancher with a man who gave you black eyes and apologetic kisses. Or maybe you were just so tired of your old life that you'd justify just about anything to get away from it.
It was freedom–the first taste you’d had of it, really. Sure, there was an explosion of feminist advocacy for women's rights that was coming to define the 70s, but your southern small-town reality hadn't reflected that. While other women were busy happily opening up their first checking accounts, or filing for no-fault divorces, you were stuck at home with a husband who wanted you barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.
And you'd resigned yourself to your lot in life, had found some happiness in simple life you'd made for yourself. Tried to be the pretty little housewife that kept the home tidy, had dinner ready when her husband came home, who gave him 2 kids, a boy and a girl. But conception hadn't been going well, and Earl had put his hands on you in frustration one too many times for you to tolerate.
So you scraped together every dollar and coin you could get your hands on, wrote a short and sweet parting letter, and got the hell out of dodge. You were still young, could still reinvent yourself and live a life that didn't make you feel like your ribs were constricting around you, the jagged edges piercing through your heart.
So, despite the leering men, uncomfortable truck cabs, and shitty vending machine snacks, you kept moving. It was the first time you'd done something for yourself without thinking about what anyone else would think. You weren't sure where you were going–when you'd stop running–but you weren't far enough away from Texas yet, and the bottomless pit in your stomach and restless limbs told you to keep moving, to go as far and wide as you could. That you'd know when it was time to stop.
You folded quicker than you thought you would, though, chipping away at the little wad of cash you'd socked away to buy a bus ticket from Dubuque to Chicago. The hardest part about being on the road was the constant vigilance you had to have, always keeping your head on a swivel. You'd seen the result of carelessness plastered across missing flyers and television screens alike.
The little sleep you'd been able to get was hard-won on public benches or tucked up against rest stop outbuildings. The bus, at least, was public, and you were able to catch a few hours of sleep while being reasonably assured of your safety.
Which led you to where you stood now, on the side of a nearly deserted highway just outside of Chicago. Agricultural fields stretched out for miles in both directions, and the oppressive July heat was beating down on you. The little denim cut-offs and white halter top you sported were doing precious little to protect your skin from the sun, and you could feel the heat seeping through the soles of your cowboy boots. Your shoulders were starting to get that tell-tale tingle from how aggressively the sun was beating down on your bare skin.
You'd been at this same stretch of road for a while now, having walked about two miles from the bus station before calling it quits. You thought you could make it to town before night, but you had sorely miscalculated. Your backpack was heavy on your shoulders, the heft of it tiring you out and dragging you down. It held all you could afford to carry, an assortment of clothing and a small stash of cash. You plopped down on the dirt and surveyed the vast emptiness of the highway. It seemed you were on a less traveled thoroughfare, the traffic seeming few and far between–and those that did pass through had no interest in picking up a twenty-something hitcher.
You were getting just a teensy bit nervous. It hadn't taken this long to get picked up before. You’d always been quickly snapped up, for better or worse. But it was approaching nightfall, and your gut told you nothing good happened after dark–neither man nor beast could be trusted at night.
Still, you sat there, arm outstretched, thumb upright just as a man on a motorcycle blew past you without a second thought.
"Asshole," you coughed, waving the kicked up dust from your face and glaring at his retreating form.
Robby had been on the road for eight hours now, stopping intermittently for food and gas. The sun was just setting, the sky awash in shades of light pink, purple, and periwinkle, in that hazy transition from day to night. It was one of those classic summer sunsets, the nostalgic kind that reminded him of childhood, of riding his bike and playing in the dirt. The kind he didn't like to dwell on, because the chasm in his chest yawned too wide when he thought about it for more than a few seconds.
It had only been a week since he'd left Pittsburgh in his rear view mirror, taking off for a three month sabbatical that was more theory than plan. His first–and only set-in-stone–destination was St. Louis, where an old med school buddy lived. He took the drive leisurely, stopping along the route at interesting looking diners and bars, staying at sub-par motels that only asked that he pay in cash. He stayed for a few days, caught up and met the wife and kids. Saw the life he'd dreamed of but never got around to and left with a hole in his heart and a chip on his shoulder.
He thought taking this trip would be a good idea–would get him out of the hospital, out of his head. He thought that if he could wake up without being responsible for anything, anyone, he'd breathe easier–wouldn't feel the dread like a boulder pressing down on his chest and suffocating him.
But the trip so far hadn’t done as much good as he'd expected. It was easy, mindless–that was true. But now he was left with the weight of his thoughts and nothing to distract him but miles and miles of black asphalt–the traumas and heart attacks and stokes that had kept him busy every moment of the day were nowhere to be found out on the open road.
He'd thought on more than one occasion what he'd look like smeared across the highway, who'd have to pick him up, who would have to clean it up. He tried to scrub the thought from his brain, but each time it pinged his consciousness, the image got more visceral, more gruesome.
He was heading toward Chicago now. Why? He couldn't say, really. He'd planned the route to St. Louis, and figured he'd wing it from there. If he made it that far. Chicago was as good a place as any. Maybe he'd see the Sears Tower. Maybe just stay in his motel and sulk.
The highway was desolate. The only things keeping him company were the vast fields of corn and the occasional herds of roaming cattle. He preferred taking back roads and less traveled highways as opposed to the more active interstates. It was paradoxical, maybe, given that he refused to wear a helmet. Or maybe it was just his last shred of self-preservation, the part of him that knew he didn't really want to die, he just didn't want to keep existing as he was.
He was tired, his arms heavy and joints stiff from riding all day. He was ready to call it a night in the next few miles or so when he came up on a sign advertising food and lodging. Here was as good a place as any to pack it up for the night, he thought as he changed lanes to take the exit.
As he motored down the road, he caught sight of a figure ahead. A young woman sitting on the ground, head resting on her knees and thumb sticking straight up. He couldn't see her face, couldn't really discern anything about her other than she looked tired–recognized the posture of that weary, bone-deep exhaustion he himself wore.
He’s there and gone before he can ever really consider stopping. Told himself it’s not his problem, that someone else’ll pick her up. She won’t be stranded all night, pretty young thing like her.
But then he caught sight of the ever darkening sky–the periwinkle turning to indigo–and thought about the kinds of people that traversed these roads after dark, the kind of trouble she could get into. He’s no savior, but he likes to think he’s a good man–that he does the right thing when it matters.
So before thinking too hard about it, he’s slowing to a near stop and turning around.
You’re losing hope, your chest growing tighter with each degree the sky darkens. The crickets and katydids were just starting to creep out, the lazy chirping just beginning to blanket the night. The temperature was dropping–not dramatically so, but enough that you wrapped your non-outstretched arm around yourself, both for warmth and in a feeble attempt at defense.
That motorcycle was the last sign of life you'd seen in the past ten minutes. You weighed whether or not you should try to walk back to the bus station or keep moving forward when you heard an engine revving in the distance. You squinted against the dust, homing in on the approaching figure. Surely that couldn't be the same motorcycle that blew past you 10 minutes ago?
You couldn't be sure until he was almost right up on you, skidding to a stop next to you and kicking up dirt and debris in his wake. He was older, 50ish you'd guess, with short cropped hair and a scruffy beard peppered with gray. His broad frame obscured the last dregs of the setting sun, big brown eyes kind as they assessed you, taking in your hunched over form with precision. He wasn't the sort you'd gotten accustomed to picking you up off the side of the road, which was a welcome change.
He was handsome, the kind of man your parents always warned you about–sin on two wheels. It's just the ones they were always worried about were a few decades younger, not nearing middle age. This guy was just your type, though–the kind you fantasized about when you were falling asleep after Earl fucked you, slipping your hand into your panties to finish the job he never could. He reminded you vaguely of Kris Kristofferson in A Star is Born, a crush you still hadn't been able to kick despite nearly two summers passing. You looked him over again–the gray in the beard, the crinkles around the eyes–he wasn't identical, but he sure would scratch the itch.
“It’s not safe for a young woman to be out here alone in the dark, y'know,” he chided, leaning down to catch your eyes.
“Yeah, kind of the reason I'm doing the whole 'thumbs up' thing," you said, wiggling your thumb up at him, not exactly wanting a lecture on safety.
He laughed and shook his head, "Fair enough. C'mon, I'll give you a ride to town," he said, offering his hand to help you up.
"You sure? Couldn't be bothered the first time," you asked testily, still a little miffed he'd blown passed you before.
"You're feisty," he chuckled, "look, at least let me get you to civilization, where someone'll notice if you're about to get murdered."
"And I'm supposed to believe you're not going to murder me first?" you raised an eyebrow.
He cocked his head back at you, squinting inquisitively, "seems like you need to believe someone's not gonna murder you, otherwise you wouldn't be out here on the side of the road, hitching for a ride, would you? You gonna believe the next guy when he says he's not gonna murder you?"
You narrowed your eyes at him. He had a point, annoyingly. If not him, it'd likely be another trucker. Another cramped cab, another clammy hand trying to fondle you. At least you wouldn't mind if this guy tried to cop a feel. His hands looked strong and experienced where they rested on the handlebars, like they'd mapped their fair share of bodies, and your mouth watered at the thought of yours being next.
“Fine,” you said reluctantly, slinging your backpack onto your shoulders and taking his proffered hand. You stood next to his bike, unsure of how to gracefully climb the thing.
"How do I–I've never–" you stumbled over your words, feeling a little shy now. You hadn't actually considered the implications of him being on a motorcycle–that you'd be pressed right up against him once you mounted it.
"It's just like a horse, honey, just throw your leg over and straddle," he said, patting the saddle.
Your face heated at that, thinking of other scenarios in which he might say just throw your leg over and straddle.
"I've never ridden a horse either," you muttered, planting a hand on his shoulder and swinging your leg over the seat. You hoisted yourself up behind his broad back and situated yourself, getting comfortable on the hot leather.
"Well, excuse me, I guess you're just playin' cowgirl with those boots on, huh?" he teased, looking at you over his shoulder with a wry grin.
"Everyone in Texas wears cowboy boots," you grumbled, awkwardly resting your hands on his shoulders before declaring, "I'm ready."
He laughed and grabbed your hands from his shoulders, pulling them tight around his midsection, “you’re gonna have to hold on tight, okay, honey? Don't want you to fall off.” You nodded against his back, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades, the leather of his jacket warm against your skin. You fisted the cotton of his t-shirt, closing your eyes in anticipation.
You squealed as he took off, your stomach dropping and ears ringing at the foreign sensation. It was like nothing you'd ever experienced before, exhilarating and freeing all at once. The wind was abrasive against your face, your hair flying wildly behind you. The road was bumpy beneath you, and you felt each dip and divot you passed over–each one pressing you closer to the body in front of you. All you could hear was the rushing of air and the steady hum of the bike's engine. You settled in, relaxing as much as possible, and awaited your destination.
It took you a minute to regain your bearings after you stopped. Your hands were still clutched around the man's midsection as you willed your head to stop spinning. When you finally lifted your head up, you found yourself outside of a rundown diner that you could tell was supposed to be Eileen's Diner, but so many of the letters were burnt out, so the sign read len's D instead.
You extricated yourself from the bike, and the man, stumbling a bit as your legs reconnected with the ground.
"Woah there, you feeling alright, cowgirl?" he asked, hands flying to your waist to hold you up. Your skin burned where his fingertips brushed against the bare skin of your torso.
"Y-yeah, fine. Just a little dizzy," you said.
"That'll happen on your first ride. You did good, though," he said, removing his hands and pushing the kickstand on the bike down. You mourned the loss of his touch. Despite the sweltering temperature, the warmth of his hands was a comforting balm to your heated skin.
He dismounted and ushered you both into the diner. You welcomed the direction–you hadn't really thought that far ahead to where you were headed once he dropped you off in town.
The place seemed to be in the middle of renovations–still holding on to the vestiges of its 50s style while incorporating more modern elements. The checkered floor was peeling up at the corners and the teal vinyl booths were ripping, cushion spilling out from the cracks. But the wood paneling was new and shiny, an array of photos, movie posters, and road signs decorated the walls. Apparently, David Bowie had passed through here at some point–at least according to the photo posted under the heading "Famous Faces."
There was a smattering of people, most sitting at the counter, but a few occupied the booths, likely a mix of regulars and truckers passing through. A kind older woman–Rosie, her badge read–led you to a booth at the far end of the diner, a few spots separated from the next customer.
You slid into the booth opposite him and toed off your boots, swinging your legs up to sit cross-legged.
"What can I get started for ya?" Rosie asked, a bright smile gracing her face.
He ordered a coke while you opted for water. You'd already spent too much money on the bus ticket to Chicago, you were really going to have to rein it in if you wanted to keep going. You had a contingency plan, if it came to that, but you were hoping to go longer than a week before you even considered it.
Silence stretched between you once Rosie scurried off to get your drinks. He pulled out a pack of Marlboro reds, packing the box tightly against the heel of his hand before pulling one out and lighting up. He offered you one, but you declined. You'd only ever been able to stomach lights, but even then you didn't care much for the taste. You couldn't ignore how hot he looked smoking, though, his lips wrapped around the butt, taking slow drags of tobacco.
You averted your gaze, fidgeting in your seat as you looked over the menu, your fingers drifting absently over the bare spot on your left ring finger. You didn't know what to say–if you should say anything at all. You knew nothing about this man, despite the untoward thoughts already racing through your head.
Which reminded you–
"Oh!" you squeaked, embarrassed by your poor etiquette, "I've forgotten my manners," you said, then introduced yourself to him, holding your hand out to shake.
"I'm Robby," he laughed a little at your formality, but shook your hand anyway.
You rocked back and forth in your seat, trying to figure out a way to break the ice and settling on, "So, Robby, what's your deal?"
"My deal?"
"Yeah, like what're you doing out here? Are you from Chicago or just passing by?"
"I'm on vacation," he said simply, like that would end your line of questioning.
"Ooooh, mysterious," you said, resting your head on your interlocked fingers, "C'mon, you gotta give me more than that."
He sighed and fixed his gaze on you, his face unamused. You stared right back, not giving an inch.
He rolled his eyes, giving in to your stare, "Fine. I'm from Pittsburgh, I'm a doctor–"
"Ooh! What kind?"
"Internal Medicine, but I spend most of my time in the emergency department."
"Yikes, that doesn't sound like fun," you grimaced, remembering the last time you visited the emergency room–when you'd 'fallen down the stairs.'
"Depends on the day, but yeah, not all that fun," he said, a slight frown tugging at his lips. He took another drag from his cigarette, a vacant look beginning to take over his eyes.
You studied his face, tracked the worn lines that bracketed his eyes and mouth. He was tired, you could tell that much, and you sensed he didn't really want to talk about work.
"Is that why you're on vacation? Get away from all the blood and guts?" you asked softly, trying to tread lightly around this sore spot.
"Yeah, that's part of it," he said, blowing out a puff of smoke, "I'm tenured, so I get to take a sabbatical every five or so years. Figured now was as good a time as any to take three months off."
"Three months!?!" you exclaimed before you could stop yourself, eyes growing wide.
"Yep. Lots of time for rest and relaxation," he said, smiling tightly.
"Okay, okay," you nodded, "so where are you going?"
He shrugged, playing with the sugar packets on the table, his gaze torn away from yours as he tried to dodge the question, "I… was going to play it by ear. See where I ended up," he said.
You gaped at him. "That's ridiculous. You're on a trip for three months and you don't have anywhere you want to stop? See the sights?" You couldn't believe him. You had a list a mile long of all the places you wanted to go, all the sights you dreamed of seeing, and he was just going to wing it?
"I have places," he said defensively, hands held up in front of him.
He was saved by the bell, momentarily, when Rosie returned with your drinks.
"What can I get ya to eat, honey?" she asked Robby, hip cocked against the table and pen poised over her notepad.
"I'll just take a burger and fries, please," he said, sliding the menu back into the holder at the end of the table.
"Alright, what about you, hun?"
"Oh, I'll have, um…" you gnawed at your lip, scouring the menu for the cheapest option. This would be your first proper meal since you left home, having lived off of mostly gas station snacks. You were torn between saving money or getting something that would keep you fuller longer since you didn't know when you're next real meal would be.
"She'll have a burger, too," he said, plucking the menu from your hands and putting it back.
Rosie nodded and went to put the order in.
You started to protest, feeling indignant that he spoke for you when he stopped you with an outstretched hand, placating.
"I'm hungry, and I'm paying, and you were taking too long. If you want something else, be my guest and order it," he said, eyebrows raised, daring you to argue with him.
You glared at him, but there was barely any heat behind it, "Fine. But you're not off the hook about this sabbatical thing. Where are you planning to go?"
He blew out of puff of air and shook his head, his hand rubbing at the nape of his neck, "I wanted to see the Badlands, I guess. Maybe go to Vegas," he shrugged.
"That's it?" you asked incredulously.
"I was going to stop other places along the way! You know, see what catches my fancy!" he said sheepishly.
You narrowed your eyes at him, realization dawning on you, "Ohhhh, I get it. Is this like, a sex quest thing? Are you just going to fuck your way through the lower 48?"
He sputtered, choking on the sip of coke he'd taken, "no, no, it is not a sex quest thing," he coughed, face going red.
You shrugged, "I mean, it's cool if it is. Kind of textbook midlife crisis, but whatever." You feigned nonchalance, but the truth was the idea made your tummy twist. You hadn't known this man for more than an hour and jealousy was already sparking red-hot through your veins.
He huffed and crossed his arms, "It is not a midlife crisis or sex quest. It's just..." he struggled to find the right words, "It's just an opportunity to live and let live, I guess."
You shook your head at him, "Absolutely not. We can do better than that," you said.
"We?" Robby questioned, eyebrows lifted to his hairline.
You paid him little attention as Rosie returned with your food, "Ma'am, you don't happen to have any maps here, do you? Of Chicago and the surrounding area?" you asked as she set the plates down.
"We sure do, hun, I'll go grab a couple for ya," she smiled.
"Hold on, did you just invite yourself on my trip?"
"Yup!" you said, grinning at him and popping a fry in your mouth.
"You're something else," he muttered, shaking his head. But he couldn't quite help the smile that crept onto his lips.
Rosie returned with a stack of maps–one of Chicago, a couple of the Midwest region, and even one that stretched down to Colorado. She even gave you the pen she had tucked into her pocket.
You picked up the Chicago map and stretched it out between you and Robby, still munching on the pile of fries on your plate.
"Okay, so we are here," you said, circling your approximate location on the map, "where do we want to go?" you asked, eyes skimming the map and taking in the different landmarks, parks, and attractions.
"Oooh! We could go to six flags," you said excitedly, pointing to the little triangle that indicated 'family fun.'
Robby shook his head, "Honey, I'm 54 years old. I'm not going to an amusement park," he said, swallowing down a mouthful of burger, "I think I'd have a heart attack if I tried to go on one of those death traps."
You pouted, "You're no fun."
"Maybe not, but my myocardium will thank me for it."
"I'm not even going to ask what the means," you rolled your eyes and continued your search.
Over the next hour, you meticulously planned the route from Chicago to Las Vegas, peppering in national parks, historical sites, and natural wonders along the way.
"Okay, so we'll go to the Sears Tower in Chicago, then head west for the Badlands, which will probably take about 4 or 5 days, and then we'll cruise through Colorado, Utah, and Arizona on the way to Vegas," you concluded, brow furrowed and tongue poking out of the side of your mouth as you made little annotations in the margins of the map.
"Yeah? You got it all figured out?" he chuckled at your concentration, shaking his head fondly.
"Mhm," you grinned, carefully folding the map back up.
Your plates had been cleared, and your belly was full. The check had been sitting at the end of the table for the last half hour, Rosie dropping it off with a quick, "whenever you're ready."
"I can pay for mine," you said, reaching into your bag for some cash. Despite his earlier comment about paying, you didn't want to mooch off of him. You weren't even really sure he had agreed to let you come with him–thought maybe he was just humoring you until he could pawn you off somewhere else.
"Don't worry about it," he said, throwing a $10 bill on the table before your fingers could reach your money clip.
“I… I could pay you back another way," you said, dragging your foot up along his leg under the table. Your toes reached the inside of his knee before he grabbed your foot, his thumb softly digging into the sole.
“That’s not necessary, honey,” he said, setting your leg back to the floor, "Christ, you offer that to every man that picks you up?"
"Only the handsome ones that buy me dinner," you winked. You didn't know what had come over you. You'd never been this forward before, hadn't really ever had the opportunity to be. But there was a buzzing in your body, and you so desperately wanted to do something for him after he'd picked you up and bought you dinner. Old fashioned, maybe, but so was he.
He shook his head at you, but you noticed the red flush that washed over his cheeks and crept down his neck. It made you giddy, the fact that you had that effect on him.
"How old are you?" he asked, eyebrows drawn together as he looked over you again.
"Don't worry, old man, I'm 25," you rolled your eyes.
"Jesus Christ," he huffed, "I'm twice your age, sweetheart. This isn't–you shouldn't be trying to do… that," he said, gesturing to your foot, your attempt to rub his cock through his jeans.
You huffed, "Look, I'm not some sheltered, naive little girl, Robby. I can consensually and enthusiastically make your cream your–"
"Okay, okay," he cut you off, waving off the rest of your sentence, "Understood. However true that may be, I'm not going to let you perform sexual favors for me just because I bought you dinner. I'm not that perverted."
"Oh, so you are a little perverted?" you asked cheekily, your grin returning full force.
"You are going to be the death of me," he said, rubbing his hands down his face, exasperated.
You walked out of the diner and across the street to the little motel that luckily had a vacancy sign. You leaned against the brick wall, fiddling your thumbs while Robby lit another cigarette.
It was weird, how one minute talking to him seemed as easy as breathing air, and the next it felt like lead, your lungs unable to pull in enough oxygen to allow you to speak.
You cleared you throat, "Look, I know what I said, but you don't have to take me with you, I was just kind of blowin' smoke back there," you said, "You should definitely follow the route, it's great, but you don't have to take me if you don't want to." The words made your stomach churn; the thought of never seeing Robby against made your chest ache and your blood run cold, but you didn't really want to intrude on his trip, even if it did seem incredibly sad.
"You really want to come with me? Want to ride around with an old timer like me?" he tried to joke, but you could tell there was some insecurity there–that he really couldn't fathom why you were interested in going with him.
"Well, you're not that old," you teased, peering up at him through your lashes.
He laughed, then sighed, shaking his head, "Where're you staying tonight?"
You smile faded and you looked down at your shoes, shrugged, "didn't really think that far ahead," you mumbled.
“Look, I only brought enough cash to pay for myself on this trip," he said, scratching the back of his neck, a nervous tick you'd picked up on, “But I’ll see if they have a room with two beds. We can discuss you stowing away tomorrow, if you're still interested.”
"Deal!" you said, smiling up at him.
He nodded, put out his cigarette and went to inquire about the room.
You watched his retreating figure with barely disguised lust. It was wrong, but you hoped they didn’t have a room with two beds. Hoped that you’d have to shack up in one, your bodies pressed tight against one another on the small bed. Hoped he’d let his hands wander, grip the flesh of your ass as he pulled you into him and rutted against you. That he’d push you back against the scratchy sheets, make a home between your legs as he fucked you hard and deep. God, you felt like the perverted one, now.
You’re snapped out of your daydream when he returns, “we’re in luck, two twin beds,” he said, waggling the key in his hand.
You tried not to deflate at that–tried to be grateful that this man who didn't know you from Adam was letting you stay in his motel room free of charge. You had to remind yourself, again, that you didn't know this man; that just because he seemed kind didn't mean he couldn't hurt you. You've been betrayed by good men before, and you didn't want to make the same mistake twice.
The room was unimpressive, but it was a sight for your sore eyes. It was as clean as any motel off the side of the highway could be, and it didn't smell terrible. The bed was stiff and dusty, but it settled your bones better than a park bench, and you weren't in a position to complain. The best part of the room was the bathroom, where you took a long, hot shower. Your skin was a little tight and squeaky from the cheap motel soap, but it was miles better than the thin layer of sweat that covered your body.
You changed into the only pajamas you packed–a peach nightgown with ruffled sleeves that hit just below your knees. It was modest, covering your breasts completely, but light enough to keep you cool through the night.
The room was silent save for the ticking of the clock and the quiet whoosh of the window AC unit. Robby laid on the bed closest to the door, saying something about safety you were too tired to fully make out. You tried to get comfortable on the flat bed, but the sheets were stale and itchy against your skin. You closed your eyes anyway, willing sleep to come when Robby spoke up.
"So, what's your deal, cowgirl?"
"My deal?" you asked, repeating his line from the diner.
"Yeah. I meant it when I said it's not safe for a girl like you to be hitchin' on the side of the road. So why are you?"
You hummed, turning onto your side to look at him. No one had asked you why you were out on the road yet. Maybe out of courtesy–assuming that if you didn't offer up the information, then you probably didn't want to talk about it. Which you didn't, but it was more likely because they didn't care enough. You were just the pretty young thing they picked up, that they hoped they could get off with. They didn't much care what drove you into their arms.
"I'm just looking to try something new," you settled on, which wasn't untrue, but wasn't the whole truth either.
He snorted at that, "huh, who's being mysterious now?"
You cracked a smile at him, eyes sparkling as you took him in. He looked softer like this, less severe. He'd ditched the leather jacket and denim jeans, and dressed in a worn cotton t-shirt and his boxers. His head was propped up on his arm, face serious as he looked you over, assessing you with that physician's gaze that made you feel like you were one of his patients. And made you a little hot and bothered.
"What are you running from, honey?" he asked, genuine concern playing over his face.
The deep baritone of his voice was soothing, lulling you to sleep even as your chest tightened at his words. You didn't think you'd been so transparent, but it seemed Robby had a gift for reading people.
"The better question is what am I running to," you said, not even entirely sure what you meant by it. But your eyes were getting heavy as you snuggled closer into the pillow, a lazy smile gracing your lips as you drifted off before you could hear his reply.
Robby laid awake long after you fell asleep, thinking about tomorrow, the trip, you. About your insistence that his trip was a sex quest, or a midlife crisis.
It wasn't a midlife crisis. At least, it hadn't been. He wasn't so sure now as he watched the rise and fall of your chest in the bed across from him. He didn't know what to make of the strange girl he'd picked up on the side of the road–the one who was half his age, who invited herself on his trip without a second thought. Who avoided talking about why she was out here in the first place like her life depended on it–and maybe it did.
He didn't begrudge your elusiveness, could respect the desire to keep your cards close to the chest. It's not like he was entirely honest with you, either–calling this trip a 'vacation' was misleading at best, and a flat out lie at worst.
But he couldn't ignore the fact that he'd been utterly captivated by you since you'd snarked at him on the highway. He wanted to know you. Your exuberance had sparked a feeling in him that had long been dormant, one that he'd forsaken when he split from Janey years ago. He wanted to know your sordid details and unique quirks, what made you laugh, what made you cry. What you tasted like; how you would sound with his tongue pressed against your clit.
He'd almost given into his baser impulses, back there at the diner. Almost let your foot slide all the way up and rest against his half-hard cock, almost let himself rut his hips against it until he came in his pants like a teenager. In that split second of contact his mind raged with images of you in all sorts of compromising positions–on your knees with his cock in your mouth, on your back with his face between your thighs, your tits covered in his cum.
He could still feel the phantom press your your foot against his knee, remembers how soft your skin was against his rough palm. He looked over at you again, and he swore his mouth started watering.
Your nightgown shifted up in your sleep, the garment doing little to cover your thighs anymore. Your panties were just barely peeking out, a light pink cotton from what he could see. His eyes drifted up, catching on your hardened nipples, the buds pulling taut against the fabric of your nightgown. He couldn't tear his gaze away; you were a vision, one he was completely undeserving of.
He forced his eyes shut, willing those thoughts away. He couldn't afford to pop a boner right now, not with you in the bed right next to him. He didn't want to be another creepy, perverted old man trying to get in your pants; didn't want to make you feel unsafe, especially when he was warming up to the idea of having some company on this journey of his. Especially when you gave him that million dollar smile that stopped him dead in his tracks, made his blood run hot and his heart beat double-time.
You deserved so much better than him, a jaded old man with enough baggage to weigh down a 747. You were clearly trying to outrun something yourself, whether it be metaphorical or literal. He couldn't give you much, but maybe he could offer you a brief moment of respite, a few days where you didn't have to wonder when your next meal would be or when you'd be able to sleep. He didn't think he was a good man, but he thought maybe he could try to be.
You woke to sunlight bright in your eyes, the dote mote ridden rays filtering in through the half-opened curtains. You groaned, eyelids still sticking together with the remnants of sleep. Your eyes were threatening to close again, heavily tempted to turn over and fall back asleep, when the door to the bathroom opened, and a blurry image of a shirtless Robby entered your field of vision. You blinked rapidly, fully awake now and trying to get a clearer picture.
Robby was standing next to his bed, chest bare with a towel wrapped around his hips. Dark, coarse hair covered the wide expanse of his chest, a thicker trail starting around his belly button and disappearing under the towel. His belly looks soft and round, and you're selfishly thinking of ways you can discretely squeeze it when you're back on his bike.
You didn't realize you were staring until Robby says something, "you okay, cowgirl?"
"Y-yeah," you cleared your throat, "Just, uh, just looking at your tattoos."
He looked at them himself, as if checking to make sure they're still there, "Oh, yeah, they're Latin."
He grabbed his change of clothes and returned to the bathroom, and you took a deep breathe for the first time since you woke up. Holy shit, he was hotter than you thought. You took the opportunity to change yourself while he was in the bathroom, and you're just finishing up buttoning your shorts when he comes out.
He sat down at the edge of the bed and planted his hands on his thighs, "If you're sure that you want to come with me, you can. At least until you get sick of me," he said, shooting you a shy smile.
"I am 100% sure," you said, bouncing on your toes, "and I don't think I'll be the one getting sick of you, it'll probably be the other way around."
"Not a chance, sweetheart," he said, patting his knees before standing up, "Alright, let's get going, then."
He's opening the door and walking out before you're able to register what he said.
"Now?" you squeaked, scrambling after him.
"You've got us on a strict itinerary, don't you?" he asked while securing his saddle bag to his bike, "Might as well start today. Got a long drive to the Badlands after Chicago."
You spent all of 20 minutes at the Sears Tower. Somewhere around floor 43 you started feeling queasy, like the walls of the elevator were closing in on you. Robby squeezed your hand to ground you when he realized you were breathing heavy, and by the time you reached the observation deck you felt like you were going to hurl. You apologized profusely on your descent, telling him that you could wait by yourself while he overlooked the city from the 103rd floor. He assured you that he didn't care much about skyscrapers, and that he was ready to move on.
You're back on the road shortly after, officially on your way to Badlands National Park in Scenic, South Dakota. It wasn't personally on your list of dream destinations, but it was one of the only places Robby had mentioned by name, and you could respect his desire to see it.
You realized quickly that a road trip on a motorcycle was a completely different experience than in a car. You had to stop often, either for fuel, to cool the bike down, or just to stretch. But it was nice seeing the country this way, through small town mundanity rather than commercial tourist traps.
You even bought a cheap little journal at the gas station to write down your thoughts about each place you stopped. Robby made fun of you, at first, but eventually started telling you to write down his own observations, like how one town seemed to have more cows than residents and another felt like it was entirely inhabited by corn.
As calming as it was to ride on the back of his bike–your mind free to wander and take in the sights as you cruised along–nights were your favorite. You stopped at budget motels each night, always with two beds, always staying respectable. But you sat up and talked about everything and nothing, the night acting as a blanket that softened the ugly words that left your mouths, that made revelations and confessions fall from your lips like shooting stars, unafraid that they would scare the other off.
Hours long conversations ranged from past relationships, work (or your lack of), and family to more trivial questions like what the best diner food was (Robby argued that you could never go wrong with a burger, while you argued that pie was something that a diner couldn't fuck up if they tried. He subsequently argued that pie was not a food, it was a dessert.)
Your talks weren't surface level by any means, but neither of you talked directly about why you'd found yourself in this present situation. You danced around the more tender parts of your life when you talked, twisting and turning around stories that involved Earl or your parents to avoid pressing on the ever present bruise on your heart. Robby did the same, and you were starting to learn his tells by now–how he'd go quiet when he didn't want to talk about something anymore, or how he'd look anywhere by your eyes when he didn't want to answer a question.
You realized that you both had the same brand of loneliness, though. Robby's stemming from an inability to keep anyone close before self-sabotaging, and yours borne from being kept close, but not really wanted; not desired. It was two sides of the same coin–Robby pushed and you pulled. Maybe opposites could attract, in some fucked up way.
These conversations didn't carry over to the morning, didn't really have time to on account of the fact that you were riding for most of the day. But when night fell, you picked up where you left off, feeling more understood by this 50ish year old man than anyone else in your life.
Badlands National Park. Scenic, South Dakota.
By the time you reached South Dakota, your back was aching and your legs were sore, but you were excited to explore the park. You spent the first few hours walking around the visitors center and museum, learning about the different formations and geologic processes that made up the area. After a while though, you got back on the bike and took the loop around the park, stopping occasionally to look at the landforms and wildlife.
As the day was winding down, you found a nice overlook to view the sunset. You stood near the edge of a cliff, the angle showcasing just how vast the park spread out beneath you.
The sun was just barely starting to set, the sky still painted in bright yellows, peachy oranges, and dusky pinks. It cast a hazy glow over the rock, the vivid reds, oranges, and browns illuminated under it's radiance.
"It's beautiful," you whispered, in awe of the scene in front of you.
Robby's hand came up to rest against the small of your back, and you shuffled closer to him. You wrapped your arms around his middle and laid your head against his chest, looking out at the buttes and pinnacles that made up the landscape. Bison and horned sheep grazed in the distance, and prairie dogs periodically poked their heads up from their burrows.
It was strangely emotional, looking at this vast, intricate landscape carved raindrop by raindrop, sanded down by eons of wind storms. Layers upon layers of sediment, stacked in jagged sheets; a patchwork of life past and present stretched out before you, each signaling a different time, a different earth. It far preceded you, and you had a feeling it would far exceed you too.
"Yeah," he whispered back, "it puts things into perspective."
You turned your head up to look at him. He looked at peace here, the lines of his face softened and eyes serene as they gazed at the natural wonder, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
"What do you mean?"
He breathed deeply, tightening his hold on your waist, "Being here, seeing this, it feels like… like everything else is so insignificant in comparison. Makes my problems seem trivial; I'll only have to deal with them for, what, another 20, 30 years? While this thing's been here for 75 million years. It's gone through geographic transformations, has seen the best and worst of humanity: our ingenuity and creativity, our cruelty, avarice.
"It's seen us cycle through time and time again, tiny cells making up such significant bodies to us, but we're nothing compared to the enormity of this place. I don't know, maybe the next time I see this, I'll be somebody else, with a different set of circumstances entirely. But it'll still be here, the memory of my current self just a blip in its radar."
"I didn't peg you as the poetic type," you joked, then said soberly, "I get what you mean, though. Like our problems seem so big when we're right up on them, but when you zoom out, you realize we're all just specks of dust on this revolving planet. We're all made of the same cosmic stardust, we're all just trying to make meaning in a world that feels like meaning's nowhere to be found."
"Yeah," he agreed, eyes red-rimmed, "I never thought I would get to see this."
You nodded against him, letting him have this moment.
"I'm glad you're here to see it with me, cowgirl," he whispered, pressing gentle kisses to your hairline. A teardrop trickled down your forehead, down the slope of your nose. You let it pass without comment and tightened your hold around him, smiling at the nickname he couldn't seem to drop.
"Me too."
You two had a routine down, by now: ride and stop, ride and stop, ride and stop. Every now and again stopping for a few days at a time to do laundry and rest before resuming. Before you knew it, a month had passed, the late July heat morphing into muggy August humidity, then again into early September balminess.
Somewhere along the way, two-bed rooms became harder to come by, and you were faced with the reality of sharing a bed. Robby tried to be good–a gentleman–at first, claiming the floor while you took the bed. He argued it would be uncouth for him to share the bed with a young woman such as yourself.
You refused his offer, said it wasn't fair that he was paying for the room just to be relegated to the floor. After a good amount of hemming and hawing, he relented once you assured him that neither of you would be improper, no matter how desperately you wanted to be deliciously, filthily improper with him.
That first night you fell asleep side-by-side, your shoulders just barely brushing, and woke to you sprawled half on top of him, legs entwined with his and head tucked into his neck. Robby stopped asking for two beds entirely shortly thereafter.
But it was nightmare for Robby, sleeping next you. Not because of anything you did, no, on the contrary, Robby rather liked the way you clung to him. He liked the way your leg always found its way across his hip, the way your chest pressed against his side, the way you seemed to burrow into his skin like you were trying to make a home there.
No, the nightmare–waking, he supposed–came when he woke up, cock painfully hard in his boxers, and usually trapped under your leg from where you'd koala'd yourself around his body. He'd been lucky, so far, waking up before you and making it to the bathroom where he ferociously jerked off, biting hard against his knuckles to mask the sound of his pathetic moans and groans.
He knew it was a normal, natural bodily reaction, but he couldn't help how perverted he felt, how sleazy it felt to be imagining fucking into your tight walls as he spilled into his hand.
He knew it wasn't exactly one-sided, this attraction. He wasn't dumb, he knew you had a crush on him. He saw the way your eyes tracked his lips every time he took a drag from a cigarette, the way your eyes dilated and your thighs rubbed together at the sight of him shirtless, the way your hands roamed his stomach when you were on the back of his bike, all under the guise of 'holding on tight.' He chalked it up to mere infatuation, to the fact that he was the first man to offer true kindness to you out on the road.
No matter how many times you came onto him, how many innuendos you made, Robby kept himself chained; tamped down his desire for you because he knew he wasn't the man for you, that you'd move on once this trip was done and find a younger, less burdened man to spend your life with. He'd be a dot in your rearview mirror, barely visible after some time had passed.
The truth was, he couldn't bear to let himself think past this trip, couldn't stomach the thought of leaving you in some shitty motel in Vegas. But he also couldn't think about the future, couldn't think about you puttering around in his house in Pittsburgh, coming home to your warm embrace and sweet lips. There was nothing more pathetic than a middle aged man getting his hopes up for a girl half his age.
Somewhere Outside Denver, Colorado.
"Come on, it'll be fun," you pleaded to Robby for the thousandth time since you stopped for the night. You're already dolling yourself up, swiping the cheap mascara you'd bought at the gas station over your lashes and tying a knot in one of Robby's flannels right under your breasts. Cowgirl chic–you had a name to live up to.
"We've been riding all day, sweetheart, the last thing I wanna do is go out to a bar," he sighed, but his eyes roved over your body nonetheless, taking note of your bared midriff and exposed legs, the sliver of cleavage visible beneath the flannel.
You walked over and hugged him around the waist, resting your head on his chest and looking up at him.
"Pleeeease?" you asked, giving him your best puppy dog eyes, "Just a couple of drinks. C'mon, loosen up, old man."
He gave you a stern look at 'old man' and sighed again, heavier this time.
"Fine. But we're only staying for an hour and you are not getting drunk."
You squealed and hugged him tighter, "thank you, thank you!!"
The bar across the street wasn't fancy by any means. It was a rundown dive bar that offered cheap drinks and questionable company, but it was just the thing you needed right now. You found yourselves sat at the high top bar, Robby with three fingers of whiskey and you with a tequila sunrise.
The place was decently packed for a Wednesday night, the music and chatter loud enough that you had to raise your voice to be heard. Your stools were pushed close together, your knees resting between Robby's outstretched thighs.
You were eyeing the jukebox, thinking about putting a song on, when the last notes of "Stayin' Alive" faded out and were replaced by the familiar acoustic intro to one of your favorite songs.
You gasped, immediately sliding off your stool and scouting out a spot to dance. There wasn't a dance floor, per se. It was more so an abandoned patch of floor that wasn't currently being occupied, an island off the side of the bar with chipped and sticky tiles.
You pulled at Robby's sleeve, "I love this song! You have to come dance with me!"
He shook his head, "Absolutely not."
"Come on, I'm not saying you have to be the next John Travolta, but help a girl have a little fun!"
He remained seated, a small fond grin on his face as he continued shaking his head, mouthing 'no.'
You put your hands on your hips and cocked your head at him, "You're not gonna make me embarrass myself, are you?"
"You haven't already?" he called over the noise of the crowd.
You scowled at him, but thew your hands up, backing up a little as you said, "Fine, but you asked for it."
The lyrics to Heart's "Crazy On You" played in the background: "But I tell myself that I'm doing alright / there's nothing left to do tonight / but go crazy on you."
You synced yourself up with the song, moving your hips in time with the beat, and then, looking directly at Robby, you mimicked twirling a lasso over your head. You cast out the invisible lasso at Robby, who was already red-face and laughing at your antics, and acted like you'd caught him, hopping over to him until you were face-to-face again.
"Please come dance with me," you asked again, resting your hands on his thighs and once again giving him your best puppy dog eyes.
"You really are a cowgirl, aren't you?" he asked, but you could tell he was caving in.
You slid your hand into his and dragged him over to the 'dance floor', "Crazy On You" still blaring through the speakers.
You sang along off-key as you pulled Robby close: "And you don't need to wonder, you're doing fine / and my love, the pleasure's all mine / let me go crazy on you"
You pulled out your best Saturday Night Fever dance movies, hustling and bumping your hips against Robby's, pointing your finger from your hip to the sky and swaying your hips. Robby participated with some hip bumps and arm rolls, even twirled you out and back into his arms, his front to your back as you rocked back against him, rolling your hips and whipping your head around as you sang along.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and threw your head back as the final chorus rang through, "Crazy on you / crazy on you / let me go crazy / crazy on you."
You fell into him as the song ended, both of you giggling hard. His hands were hot on your hips, thumbs smoothing over the skin of your waist. He was so close that you could smell the faded leather and natural musk radiating off of him, the scent familiar from your hours spent on the back of his bike, but different now; more intense, more intimate.
His lips were a hairsbreadth away from yours, the distance so infinitesimal that you felt it shouldn't exist at all. You could fix that, could lean forward and capture them, could finally feel the rough scrape of his chapped lips against yours.
But you could see the hesitation in his eyes, the fight, almost. The way he held himself back, the way you knew he wouldn't allow himself this indulgence. What you didn't know was why–why he wouldn't give into the mutual desire that had been building up between you.
"I should go get us another round," he said, detaching himself from you. You missed him immediately, wanted pull him back and make him swear to never stop touching you again, but then he was gone, and you were left alone on the dance floor, the moment dissipating like a hazy fog.
A couple hours and a few tequila sunrises later, Robby's shuffling your inebriated self out of the bar and back across the street to the motel. The trip back takes longer than it should, what with the way you're hanging off of him and singing badly in his ear.
By the time you make it back to the room, you're beat, collapsing onto the bed immediately.
Robby moved around the room, gathering your respective pajamas.
Your head is spinny and fuzzy from the alcohol, just barely on the wrong side of tipsy–not drunk yet, but inhibitions severely lowered, your filter near non-existent. The feeling of Robby's hands on your hips, the way his body pressed against yours in the hot, dingy bar keeps replaying in your head. You couldn't stop thinking about how close he was, how easy it would've been to kiss him.
"I think you should go crazy on me," you said dreamily, laying back on the bed, swinging your legs back and forth over the edge.
"You think so?" he chuckled, coming to stand between your legs. He undid the knot in his flannel, removing it and leaving you in your flimsy bra. He grabbed your nightgown and bunched it up, pulling the fabric over your head and your arms through the holes with little assistance from you. He smoothed it down your thighs before reaching back up to your shorts, blindly fumbling around for the button before dragging them down and letting you kick them all the way off. Your boots are next, removed with care and placed next to the door.
"Mhm," you hummed, grinning up at him, "you're very cute, Robby."
"I don't think anyone else would agree, but thank you," he said, shaking his head.
"S'true," you slurred, your eyes slightly crossing for a minute, two blurry Robbys filling your eyesight. If only one of them liked me, you thought sullenly.
"I think you should stop drinking Tequila," he chided, laying down next to you once he'd changed into his own pajamas.
"Boooo," you whined petulantly.
"I can't go crazy on you anyway. I'm a married woman, you know" you sighed sadly, you head lolling onto his shoulder.
"Oh yeah?" he asked, interest genuinely piqued now. He did not know; you hadn't mentioned being married before, only that you'd been in a relationship with your high-school sweetheart for a while.
"Yeah, he was mean, liked to slap me around."
You said it so nonchalantly that it took him a moment to really understand what you meant. He tensed, his heart constricting and blood running cold. The thought of some man putting his hands on you filled him with an incomprehensible rage that he didn't know what to do with.
"That why you're out here? On the road?" he asked, trying not to let his anger seep through the words.
"Yeah, got tired of the bruises, of lyin' to people when they asked what was wrong, so I left," you said sleepily. You turned onto your side and nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck.
"Good, good girl. You did good gettin' out of there," he said, petting the back of your head. He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you close, needing to feel you against him–assure himself that you were here and you were safe and nothing bad would ever happen to you again.
You were nearly asleep now, eyes closed and breathing slow and even. Robby nearly missed your next words because of how quiet they are.
"What's wrong with me Robby?" you mumbled, "why don't you want me?"
Your voice was so sad, so forlorn that it made his heart ache, made him feel like the biggest piece of shit in the world. He's not sure how to answer the question, not sure how to neatly package up all the reasons you have no business wanting him. He wished having you was as easy was wanting you, wished he could give you the picture perfect life you deserved. The reality was there was nothing wrong with you, there was not a single thing he could find fault in. He's just too fucked up and unlovable that he can't bear to drag you down with him.
So he decided to be honest–he's almost positive you won't remember this conversation in the morning anyway, not with the way you've been slurring you words.
"There's nothing wrong with you honey, you're perfect. My perfect girl, you know that? It's all me, honey. You deserve someone so much better."
It's quiet for a minute, and he thought you'd finally drifted off.
"But you're the only one I want," you breathed out before succumbing to sleep entirely.
Hot Springs. Willow Beach, Arizona.
The water was a soothing balm to your sore muscles. Robby clearly felt the same, his shoulders noticeably lowering as he stepped into the hot spring. After the brutal hike you endured to get here, along with all the riding you've been doing, you haven't had a chance to really rest and recover.
It was just the two of you in the secluded alcove, the canyon around you made up of beautiful red, pink, and yellow stone. The water was a translucent teal, the shallow current rippling around your shins as you took in your surroundings.
Robby sat down first, his back against the rocks and legs outstretched in front of him. You followed suit, settling yourself between his legs and leaning back against his chest. He wrapped his arms loosely around your waist, and you rested your arms on top of his, clasping your hands together.
These casual displays of intimacy were second nature by now. Any opportunity you had to touch each other–hand holding, a hand on your hip, hugs that lingered longer than necessary–you took, though neither of you ever acknowledged it; never gave it a name.
Sometimes the tension felt so taut you were sure it was seconds from snapping. But, like always, Robby retreated; held himself back. It was weird, how half the time you couldn't tell what the hell was going on in his head, and the other half you felt like you knew him better than you knew yourself.
His words from that night at the bar rang through your ears. You deserve someone so much better. It seemed like a generic platitude, something you'd say to let someone down gently. A placeholder excuse until he could finally be honest.
You stayed like that for a while, lounging against him and basking in the peace and quiet. The quiet sloshing of the water was a nice reprieve from the rumbling engine and howling wind, and the hot water was unwinding knots that you weren't even aware of.
"Have you thought about what you're going to do after this trip?" Robby asked, breaking the silence.
"Not really," you lied. Thoughts of riding back to Pittsburgh with him clouded your mind more often now, as your time was coming to an end. You'd done your time as a pretty little housewife–married the high-school sweetheart, had the extravagant wedding your parents wanted, almost popped out a baby. But now you thought about going back to school, trying to carve out a career for yourself. Thought about coming home to Robby and falling into his arms at the end of a hard day, of gentle assurances and affirmations whispered into your ear.
"Have you… have you ever done anything just for you? Just because you wanted to?" he asked, resting his chin on your shoulder. His beard was rough against your skin, the sensation sending tingles through your body.
"I'm doing this," you said, gesturing vaguely around, as if to say this trip, all of it.
"You're not doing this for you," he said quickly, shaking his head like he didn't want to be lied to.
"Yes, I am," you argued weakly.
"Yeah? You're going hiking in national parks because you want to? Not because the sad old man you're saddled with wants to?" he asked with a hint of amusement, but you could hear the insecurity that lay beneath the words.
"I'm having fun," you said, which was true. It was the most fun you'd ever had, and Robby was a big part of that. You enjoyed his company, his dry wit, the way he took control of situations and made you feel safe.
"And you're not a sad old man. Old, yes, but not sad," you teased, but the joke fell flat.
It was silent for a while, neither you or Robby having the right words to say. Silence was never uncomfortable with Robby, but now it made you queasy. It felt like the other shoe was about to drop despite how gently he held you in his arms, despite the way his nose nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to your shoulder.
"It just… seems like what I want doesn't want me back, is all," you said quietly, playing with his fingers.
He took a deep breath, squeezing your hand tight in his, "I think that… it's not necessarily about whether what you want wants you back or not," he said, parsing his words carefully, "I think it's about wanting what's best for you."
"And if I think this… thing that I want is what's best for me?" you asked, heart in your throat, not sure if he would catch your drift.
"Then I think you should keep looking, cowgirl," he said gently, trying to soften the blow but failing, the words landing as a gut punch instead.
It was convoluted, and you weren't entirely sure you two were talking about the same thing, but your heart sank anyway, the sting of rejection reverberating through your body.
"Yeah, maybe."
Las Vegas, Nevada.
It's early October by the time you meander into Las Vegas. It was desert until it wasn't, miles of arid plains giving way to the bustling casinos and monumental hotels that made Vegas famous. It was dark, and both you and Robby were ready to call it a night, pulling into a substandard motel on the corner of 4th and Fremont Street.
You fell into bed as soon as you got into the room, sleep finding you almost immediately.
You woke up sometime later. It was still nighttime, the moonlight casting the room in a silvery glow. You almost didn't register the strong arms wrapped around you–the pressure so comforting that it just felt right. It only took a couple more seconds to register that something was poking your back. Was this a dream?
You gasped as he shifted behind you, pressing himself closer. Okay, very much not a dream.
He was flush against you now, his thickness resting between your ass cheeks. Goosebumps pebbled across your skin and wetness pooled beneath your panties.
"Robby?" you called softly, not wanting to panic him.
You could tell he was still asleep, his soft snores playing in your ear and steady breathing hot against your neck. But you were awake, with the knowledge that he was hard against your backside, and, well, you couldn't let sleeping dogs lie.
You called his name again and lightly shook his arm. That worked, and you heard a sharp intake of breath as he woke up.
"What's wrong? You okay, honey?" he asked, voice thick with sleep.
"Yeah, I'm fine, It's just, um, I think you might have a–uh, a problem," you said, and pushing your luck slightly, wiggled your ass against him.
He groaned and stilled your hips, "shit, sorry," he said, moving to get up.
You stopped him, squeezing his arm tight before he could move, "wait… you can–we could, you know…" you whispered breathily.
His forehead fell to your shoulder and his hand tightened on your hip, "we can't," he bit out, "it wouldn't be right."
"Why not? Don't you wanna make me feel good?" you asked, faux innocence dripping from your tone, "because I wanna make you feel good."
He groaned again, but made no effort to move away from you, his resolve fracturing at each sway of your hips against him.
Slowly, you grasped his hand in yours and moved it to rest atop your panty-clad cunt, the fabric already slick and sticky with arousal.
"Fuck, honey," he said, and you felt the prick of his teeth as he bit down on your shoulder to muffle his moan.
You continued to guide his hand, tracing his fingers over your lips and up to your clit, a soft and needy moan escaping your lips when you pressed his fingertips down lightly, circling over the sensitive nub. You kept his hand there, bucking your hips against the feather light touch.
"I need you, Robby, can't do this on my own," you whined.
That was all the convincing Robby needed before he took over, his hand moving on its own accord now. He cupped his hand over your mound, pressing against the gusset between your lips, circling your entrance before returning to your clit.
"God, you're soaked," he groaned, rubbing your clit in excruciatingly slow circles.
"'It's all for you," you whimpered, bucking your hips against his hand, chasing the delicious friction. He was teasing you, giving you just enough to want more.
"Yeah? My pretty girl got all worked up from feeling my cock against her ass?" he asked, punctuating his question with a thrust. He trailed kisses along the length of your neck and down your shoulder, nipping and sucking the flesh along the way. You prayed you'd have marks tomorrow.
His pace increased, slow circles turning to fast, tight circles against your clit. Stars burst behind your eyelids, the sensation so new and overwhelming that your thighs squeezed together involuntarily, trapping his hand between them.
He growled, wrenching your thigh up and over his leg, splaying you wide open for him, "No hiding from me, honey. This is what you wanted, isn't it? Wanted me to touch this pretty little pussy?"
"Y-yes, please, more," you begged, hips recklessly grinding against him, "feels so good, Robby."
He pulled your ruined panties to the side, and swiped his fingers through your folds, gathering your slick before plunging into your entrance. Just one finger is thick enough to feel like he's splitting you open, the digit curling expertly and hooking into a sweet spot you don't think has ever been explored.
"You're so fucking tight, shit, squeezing the life outta my finger, honey," he grunted, and you could feel the steady rhythm of him grinding against your ass, could feel how hot and throbbing he was despite the layers of clothing between you.
The squelching was obscene as he fucked his finger into you, his thumb strumming your clit in short back and forth motions that had your legs quaking. He added another finger, the stretch stinging slightly before ebbing into pure pleasure. You rocked back against his cock, forcing his fingers deeper, and ground your clit against the heel of his hand. Your walls pulsed around his fingers, greedily sucking him in and gripping him tight.
"That's it, sweetheart, take what you need, rub that pretty little clit on me. Fuck, can't wait to taste you, bet you taste so fucking good," his groaned, his breath hot against your neck. You were hot and sweaty and sticky but you couldn't care less; there wasn't anywhere else you'd rather be.
His other hand slipped under the neckline of your nightgown, fondling your breast, "And these tits, fuck, fill my hand perfectly, so soft and warm," he moaned, squeezing the soft flesh in his hand.
You arched into his touch, silently begging for more. He obliged, circling your nipple with his thumb before tugging at the bud, alternating between rolling and pinching it between his fingers.
The pleasure was unlike anything you'd ever experienced before. It had never felt this good, certainly not with Earl, and not even when you touched yourself. Robby played your body like an instrument, his masterful fingers strumming and plucking and rubbing against your most sensitive spots. It felt like he was composing a symphony, and you were steadily approaching the crescendo.
You were moaning loudly now, without a care for the people in the room next to you. You're sure someone's going to start banging on the wall to shut you up, but you couldn't be bothered to care. The coil is winding tighter and tighter with each curl of his fingers, his fingertips rubbing up against that spongy spot and making your veins flush white hot.
"Please Robby, I'm-I'm gonna–" you couldn't finish the thought, your mind so blissfully numb from the pleasure.
"I got you, honey, let go. Cum all over my fingers, know you can do it," he coaxed, grinding his palm hard against your clit. Robby's thrusts were growing sloppy, his hips rutting hard against your ass as he chased his own climax.
You keened as your orgasm crashed over you, euphoric waves radiating through your body. Robby's name was a steady chant from your lips as your body convulsed, back arched against him as pleasure tore through you. He worked you through the aftershocks until you were a whimpering mess, pushing his hand away from overstimulation. It felt like your ears were ringing, and your vision was a little blurry as you tried to catch your breath.
Robby's hand moved to your waist, dragging you back into him as he ground his hips against you one, two, three times until he came, a low groan rumbling through his chest. He rubbed against your ass a little longer, prolonging his orgasm as much as he could. You felt the warm evidence of his orgasm and smiled, satisfied that you made him feel as good as he made you feel.
You were still panting heavily when he got up, disappearing into the bathroom to clean up. He returned a few minutes later with a warm wash cloth and gently wiped you down.
He settled back into bed and you cuddled up to him, feeling sleepy and sated. You buried your nose in the crook of his neck and let sleep overcome you once again, this time with a renewed sense of hope for the future, feeling satisfied that maybe Robby would be in it.
Robby stood in the shower longer than necessary, the water long gone cold. You were still asleep when he slipped into the bathroom, a sweet little smile plastered on your face.
Last night played on repeat in his head. Your moans and whimpers echoed through his ears and he could still feel the way your pussy clenched around him, soft and warm and tight. His mouth watered at the memory of how you tasted when he snuck his fingers into his mouth after he made you cum.
He also came in his pants, something he's sure he hasn't done since the 30s, when the mere sight of Rita Hayworth had him creaming his jeans.
Regret seeped into him as he laid there with your head against his chest. Not because of what you'd done together, but because of how good it felt; how right.
There was a split second where fantasies of a future with you spun through his head at a rapid pace. Images of him coming home after a hard day and burying himself between your thighs; of cooking dinner and dancing in the kitchen; of bringing you to all the shitty hospital events he hated, brightened only because you were there; of putting a ring on your finger, making a honest woman of you and treating you the way you deserved.
And then reality came crashing in. The reality of the long hours he worked, his trauma, depression, the vacant look he sported most days, his insecurity, his avoidant tendencies and mean streak when cornered. Take your pick, anyone of those should send you packing.
But you stayed. You wanted him. That's what made it all the more heart wrenching, that you thought you saw something in him, that you thought he was worth taking a chance on. He wasn't, he knew that. Had been told all his life that he wasn't worth sticking around for, why start now?
He couldn't let you waste your life on him. Not when he was so undeserving of it. He'd spent enough time humoring himself with your company, it was time to let you get back to your life.
He walked out of the bathroom with a newfound resolve, sitting down at the edge of the bed. You were getting ready, doing your makeup in the mirror across from the bed.
He cleared his throat, "So I guess this is it," he said, running his palms up and down his thighs.
You stopped applying your mascara abruptly, the wand still hanging in front of your eye, "What are you talking about?"
"I just mean the plan was to drive to Vegas, and now we're in Vegas. So I guess this is where we part, go our separate ways," he said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
Your brows drew together, confusion clear on your face. "I thought–I mean last night we–"
"I know, it was a mistake," he said, cutting you off, "I'm sorry I let my libido get the better of me."
You whipped around, a furious look on your face, "A mistake?"
"Shit, no, I didn't mean it like that," he groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. Shit, this wasn't going well. He knew it would be difficult, he just didn't think he'd be so woefully inept at finding the right words.
"How did you mean it?"
"I just–I shouldn't have done it, is all. It wasn't fair to you," he said, which was true. It wasn't fair to give you hope, to make you think he could ever be worthy of you.
"Not fair to me? What the hell are you talking about, Robby?"
"C'mon, honey. You've got so much of your life ahead of you, you don't need me dragging you down."
"Why are you so sure you're going to drag me down? Do you think I'm some stupid little girl who has no idea what she's getting herself into?" you yelled, fists clenched and jaw set as you stared him down.
"I didn't say that," he said
You laughed bitterly, "No, it's just what you thought."
He made no attempt to refute what you said, just sat there scratching at the nape of his neck, eyes downcast.
You scoffed and shook your head at him, looking up at the ceiling to try and regain some composure.
"I can't–I can't do this right now," you said, voice cracking and tears pooling in your eyes. You walked out of the door and started walking down the strip.
"Where are you going?" he called after you, hanging in the doorframe.
You ignored him, stomping harder.
He scoffed, letting out a bitter laugh, "yeah, go ahead and storm off. Real mature."
"Fuck you!" you yelled, throwing up both middle fingers at him.
Yeah, fuck him. He could handle you being angry at him–maybe you'd finally realize he wasn't the man you thought he was. When your anger burns out and you come back to the motel, he'll offer to buy you a bus or plane ticket wherever you want. He'll watch you go with a sad smile, mourning these last three months–the best of his life, he thinks–but celebrating that you're on to bigger and better things.
Your chest was heaving as you walked away from the motel. Your heart was battered and your ego bruised–and more than that, you felt so fucking stupid.
God, why did he have to be such a stupid, stubborn idiot? You were so sick of his martyrdom, of his paternalism. His words echoed in your head, his patronizing tone made your blood boil–speaking to you as if you were a child throwing a tantrum at the store because you couldn't get a toy. Not a grown adult woman who wanted to love him. You were so tired of people telling you what was best for you.
You thought things changed last night, that Robby had finally given in to the temptation that plagued both of you. You thought he'd gotten over his self-sabotaging and negative self talk, and actually went to sleep hopeful that you'd wake up and talk about the future, that you'd finally be able to kiss his stupid lips and call him yours.
Well, now the illusion was thoroughly shattered, the jagged shards tearing through your heart and bleeding you dry.
You're not sure where you're going, but your legs were screaming at you to run. You compromise and decided to walk the strip, see everything you were planning to see with Robby. You weren't going to miss out on copious amounts of drinking and gambling because of him. Maybe you'd even be able to catch a Siegfried & Roy show if you were lucky.
You ducked into a pawn shop first, the storefront boasting "get cash fast." Rifling through your bag, you fished out your engagement ring from the hiding spot you'd nearly forgotten about, offering it to the pawnbroker. He examined the ring, looked at it through a loupe before offering you $200 for it. Substantially less than it was worth, but beggars couldn't be choosers, so you took it and beelined to Caesar's Palace, intent on making a fortune.
Hours passed as you sat in front of a slot machine. The flashing colors and symbols were enough to numb your brain from thoughts of Robby and the persistent ache in your chest that flared when you thought of him. You won $100 in the first hour, then lost it. Won $50, then lost that. By the time the sun was setting and your butt was getting sore, you'd won and lost around $500, but you were leaving with $250, so all things considered, it wasn't a bad day–money wise, at least.
It was dark by the time you cashed out, stuffing the cash down in your boot for safekeeping. You wandered the strip, looking for anything to keep your mind occupied; to not think of the gaping hole that Robby left in your heart.
The streets were illuminated by flashing lights and advertisements, bright neon signs begging passersby to stop in. You turned a corner, away from the hustle and bustle of the main strip, and found yourself in front of a seedy bar, barely lit outside and not much better inside.
It reminded you of the bar you went to in Denver. The memory of dancing with Robby played through your mind, and you smiled even as your chest twisted painfully. It was a good memory–your favorite, probably, from this whole trip. Robby finally gave into your silly antics and played along with you–let himself feel something other than the bone-deep exhaustion he wore like wet clothes. He looked so carefree, so happy. You wanted his smile from that night tattooed on the back of your eyelids, that way you'd never forget it.
Shaking the thought away, you pushed the door open and made your way to the bar, and ordered one of those comically large margaritas. It was good, heavy on the tequila, but all you could think about was how Robby would scold you for getting such a large drink if he were here. Well, he wasn't here. You finished the drink in short order, hoping it would block Robby out from your thoughts.
You ordered another margarita, your limbs loose and brain fuzzy from the alcohol. You hummed along softly to Fleetwood Mac's "Say That You Love Me," the lyrics hitting a little too close to home. A man slid onto the bar stool next to you, and you thought he might be talking to you, but you're too out of it to really register what he's saying; too stuck in your own purgatory of ignoring all thoughts of Robby while simultaneously remembering every last detail of him.
One minute you were sipping your drink, and the next you're outside, backed against a brick wall with an unfamiliar face staring back at you. Your brows furrowed in confusion, trying to place him; trying to figure out how you went from the bar stool to the sidewalk with zero recollection.
The man's arms were caging you in, each hand resting beside your head on the wall behind you. You tried to duck under his arm to leave, but he just pushed you back against the wall. You let out a questioning sound, your mind still too fuzzy to put all the pieces together. Your legs were wobbly, and felt like they would give out at any second.
"Shhh sweetheart, don't worry, I'm gonna take care of you," he said, thumb stroking your cheek.
You shook your head at him, "I need to go," you slurred, the words feeling like cotton in your mouth. You pushed his chest and tried to leave.
He laughed and pushed you back, pinning you harder against the wall now, "I don't think so. I think you're gonna stay right here and let me have my way with you."
Alarm bells were starting to ring in your head, your brain finally catching up.
"no no no no," you said, pushing harder against his chest.
He just laughed again and grabbed both of your wrists in one hand, immobilizing you. His breath was musty as he leaned in, "It'll be easier if you don't fight," he whispered, and the sick gleam in his eyes sent shivers down your spine.
You're desperately trying to figure out how to get out of this situation when you faintly hear your name being called. You try to look for the source but you can't see anything past the man's chest–that is, until Robby appears over his shoulder, yanking him back and off you. The man crashed into the ground, yelling all manner of expletives at Robby.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll get the fuck out of here now," Robby growled.
You fell down against the wall, pulling your knees close to your chest and burying your face between them. There's some more yelling, not that you could comprehend it–your were still heaving deep breaths of oxygen into your lungs and crashing from the adrenaline rush. Sobs wracked your body, the severity of the situation hitting you full force.
"Hey," Robby said, crouching down in front of you. "It's me," he said, making sure you recognized him before cradling your head in his hands. He looked over every inch of your body, assessing for injuries and sagging with relief when he found none.
He pulled you close, his arms wrapping tight around you, "It's okay honey, I got you. I got you," he repeated into your hair. Kisses rained down on your hairline, and a steady stream of whispered assurances fell from his lips. Whether they were more for you or for Robby you couldn't tell.
"What are you doing here?" you croaked, voice still wet with tears.
"Lookin' for you," he said, pulling back and helping you up to stand. You did the bare minimum to help him, your legs still wobbly and unable to hold yourself up.
"Why?"
"Got worried when you didn't come back, been lookin' all over for you," he said, nonchalance belying the fear in his voice. He bent down and hooked an arm behind your knees, scooping you up into his arms.
You nestled against him before you could stop yourself, throwing your hands around his neck and burrowing into his chest. You hated how safe he felt, how your heartbeat immediately started to slow and sync with his.
"Why would I come back? 'S not like you want me," you slurred, tasting bile in your throat. You weren't sure if it was from the alcohol or the thought of Robby not wanting you. Probably some unholy combination of both.
"That's not true," he said, voice tight, "could never be true, I promise you that, honey."
You just grunted in response, too tired and sad and scared to argue. It would be like arguing with a wall anyway, the same old excuses thrown back at you.
The rest of the walk back to the motel was quiet, save for the occasional wretch and sniffle from you. You made it back to the room just in time to run to the bathroom and hurl up the remnants of your margaritas.
There was an odd energy coming off of Robby. He was angry, you thought. Or annoyed; frustrated maybe. Either way, it radiated from him like a force field, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
He was exceedingly gentle with you, though, sitting patiently on the floor as you vomited, rubbing your back and holding your hair our of your face, then helping you brush your teeth and coaxing you into bed.
You laid on your side now, facing away from him, tears streaming silently down your face. The air sat heavy in the room; you could still feel Robby fuming from where he laid mere inches from you.
“Robby?” you asked quietly, voice still shaky from the ordeal.
It took him a few seconds to answer, but he did, with a brusque, “hmm?”
“Can you-” hiccup, “can you h-hold me? please?” you asked.
He sighed, long and deep. Your lip was trembling violently, the tears coming faster as you braced for rejection.
“Yeah, honey, 'course,” he answered, shifting to pull you into his arms. His strong arm was heavy across your abdomen as he pulled you back into him, his bare chest warm against your back. The soft swell of his tummy settled against the small of your back, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. It felt safe here, cocooned in his arms. You didn’t appreciate the pang in your heart that reminded you that this was all temporary; that he would never let this mean anything.
“‘m sorry,” you sniffled, “i didn’t-didn’t think it would go that far.”
“I know you didn’t,” he said, hand smoothing up and down your side, "I'm not mad at you."
He sighed again, this one more measured, like he was tempering himself before he spoke. “You don’t understand what it felt like seeing that guy trap you against the wall,” he shook his head, fingers tightening slightly around your ribs, “I’ve never felt that kind of rage before, like I was going to rip him apart, limb by limb, until you were safe.”
You turned in his grasp and laid a hand on his scruffy cheek, searching his eyes–for what, you weren't exactly sure. Reassurance? Confirmation? Pity?
"You can't say something like that and expect me to believe it means nothing," you whispered.
His arm tightened around you, "It can't mean anything," he said sadly. And you saw the turmoil and conflict in his eyes, they way it pained him to say the words.
"I think–I think I love you," you warbled out. Maybe saying it plainly would change something, would put things on the table in a way they hadn't before. Maybe he didn't truly understand the depth of your affection for him.
He smoothed your hair back from your face, his eyes tired and remorseful. He shook his head, expression so achingly tender that it made your heart twinge, "you'll forget all about me before you know it, honey," he said, but kissed you anyway. A sick parting gift, a taste of something you could never really have.
It was slow and sweet, just a chaste press of his lips against yours. He pulled back before you were ready, before you'd really even gotten a chance to feel him, to taste him. You tried to chase his lips, tried to deepen the kiss, but he just held your head steady in his big hand, his thumb brushing your cheekbone lightly.
He laid back on the mattress, pulling you flush against his side. You tucked yourself tight against him, burrowing into his side like a rabbit into its den, grasping tightly to every last fleeting moment you had with him.
"Go to sleep, sweetheart, you had a long day," he whispered, rubbing your back.
You nodded, fresh tears falling down your cheeks, dampening the soft cotton of his shirt. Is this what Orpheus felt like when he turned around–finally catching a glimpse of the one you want most, only to be left with the agonizing knowledge that you’ll never have them?
You're up before the sun rises, pressing one last kiss to Robby's cheek before you slip out the door.
Robby awoke with a dreadful, prescient feeling in his chest. He knew before he patted the bed next to him that you were gone, the sheets crumpled and cold. He looked around the motel room, so much smaller now without your presence. Your cowboy boots were gone from their post beside the door, and your backpack was nowhere to be found.
He shot out of bed, racing to check if you were in the bathroom–you weren't.
He ripped the curtains open, surveying the parking lot for any sign of you. Nothing there either.
Panic seized his chest, the feeling so akin to how he described heart attack pain to patients that he wondered briefly if he was having a medical emergency. If he was, he certainly didn't have time for it.
Dressing quickly, he ran to the lobby, hoping maybe a clerk or cleaning lady saw you before you left.
He recognized the clerk from when he checked in, "Excuse me, do you remember the woman I checked in with? Do you remember seeing her this morning?" he asked frantically. His palms were itching to get on his bike, to search for you high and low. He's sure he'd go to the ends of the earth to find you.
"Uh, I think so," the clerk said, and repeated the description of you back to him, asking if that's who he was looking for. Robby nodded, hope welling up in his chest. Maybe you just went out for a walk, to clear your head. Maybe you were coming back.
"Yeah, she came in here asking how far the airport was from here. Left in a taxi about 20 minutes ago," he said, returning to his word search, leaving Robby to stand there spiraling.
Shit, he had a plan. He was going to do better, and once you sobered up he was going to tell you how much he cared about you, that these last three months had been the best time he's ever had, but that you deserved so much more than he could offer. That he was too fucked up–that was why you couldn't be together. Not because of anything you'd done, not because there was anything wrong with you.
But now you were gone, and the same fear that seized his chest when you didn't come back to the motel last night returned tenfold. He had to find you, had to make things right.
Before, the prospect of you leaving, of starting anew somewhere without him, was painful but bearable–a necessary evil that he had resigned himself to. In reality–this reality, the one where you'd skipped out on him while he was sleeping–he realized that he couldn't let you go. As selfish as it may be, he couldn't imagine another day without you by his side.
The 20 minute drive took 10 with Robby stepping on the gas and weaving through traffic. He barely pushed the kickstand on his bike down before running into the airport.
The ending lines of "Desperado" by the Eagles mocked him as he raced through the terminal,"You better let somebody love you / you better let somebody love you before it's too late." He was starting to think, yeah, maybe it was too late, maybe he'd fucked up one too many times.
He skidded to a stop in front of the ticket counter, "Excuse me, ma'am, which way are the departures?"
"They're to the right, but you'll need a ticket to get back there," she answered apologetically.
"Yeah, okay, whatever. Get me a ticket anywhere, I don't care," he said, pulling out the remaining bills from his wallet, "I have checks, too, if that's not enough."
He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, nervous energy coursing through his body. He kept surveying the terminal, just in case he caught sight of you. He tried to push away the sinking pit in his stomach that said you were long gone.
"Alright, here you go sir. A one-way ticket to… Tuscaloosa, Alabama," she said, confusion etched on her face.
He thanked her quickly, then sprinted off to the departures gate. He was as patient as he could be as he went through the metal detector, and once he was out he was flying through the gates, frantically scanning each one for you.
Panic welled up in his chest as he passed gate after gate. He didn't have the faintest clue where you'd go; you had only talked about where you wanted to go on this trip. Fuck, why didn't he ask you more questions? It didn't matter, he'd search every goddamn airport in the state if it meant he had a chance at finding you.
He reached the end of the terminal without finding you. His heart ached, but he wasn't giving up yet. He would take another lap, would take as many as it took to find you. He started back up, combing through each and every gate as thoroughly as he could. He thought he spotted you a few times, but he was sorely disappointed each time they turned around and it wasn't.
He was about to start his third lap when his eyes snagged on a very familiar pair of cowboy boots. His eyes traveled up your legs to your signature daisy dukes, to your ratty backpack, and then again to your face. He could just make out your profile, the distinctive slope of your nose and your pouty lips left no doubt it was you.
Relief washed over him and he started running to you, calling your name. You didn't answer him, but he saw your shoulders tense and your hand gripped your backpack tighter.
He moved faster than he's ever moved before, and he's at your side in seconds.
"Hey," he breathed out, crouched over with his hands on his knees, huffing and puffing.
"What are you doing here, Robby?" you asked, not sparing a glance at him. Your gaze remained on the gate ahead of you. He couldn't help but notice your puffy eyes and the little frown fixed on your lips. He hated himself for making you feel this way.
"I just–I wanted to… talk," he said, immediately wincing at the words. He didn't want to talk, he wanted to carry you back to your shitty motel room and make love to you, wanted to shower you in kisses and sweet words and make you his. But somehow words always escaped him when he looked at you, your beauty stealing all comprehensible thought from his head.
"There's nothing to talk about. You made that pretty clear."
"I know," he swallowed thickly, the words scratching against his throat as he said them, "I know what I said. But–but I think I was wrong."
"It doesn't sound like you to admit when you're wrong," you said, arching your eyebrow at him.
He tentatively reached a hand up, cupping your cheek when you didn't recoil, "I thought I was doing the right thing, pushing you away. You're young and beautiful and funny and kind and everything I'm not. You–you laugh with your whole body and your eyes sparkle when you smile and I–fuck, I thought I would taint that, that I would drag you down with all my bullshit.
"I’m stubborn, stuck in my own ways. I’m a grumpy, angry, depressed middle-aged man. Hell, I didn’t even know if I wanted to stick around before I met you. I didn't want to saddle you with that. You deserve the world, not someone with one foot out of it.
"But when I woke up and you were gone, it felt like my heart was missing, like the living, breathing life force that's been keeping me alive these past three months up and vanished. And goddammit, it might be selfish but I think I love you too."
Your eyes were glassy with tears by the time he finished, eyebrows creased and eyes guarded. Like you wanted to believe what he was saying but couldn't let yourself get your hopes up.
He swiped away the tears as they fell, hands fully cradling your face now. He waited with bated breath for you to say something, anything. Hell, even if you yelled and screamed at him, it would be better than silence.
"You mean it?" you asked quietly, looking down at your shoes and fidgeting with your hands.
He tilted your head back up, bringing your gaze level with his, "Yeah, honey, I mean it. Every word," he said, his eyes not leaving yours for a second–he didn't want to give you any reason to doubt it.
He barely finished speaking before you surged up and kissed him. It was messy and uncoordinated and perfect all at the same time, months of denied hunger exploding into a million tiny sparks that reverberated through his body. Your hands tangled in his hair as his hands settled on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. The din of the airport fell away, and you were the only two people in the world. All that mattered was the way your lips molded against his perfectly, the whimpers you let out when his tongue dragged across your bottom lip, the way your nose smushed against his cheek.
Your lips were so soft and warm against his that he had to physically pry himself off of you to catch a breath. He couldn't stay away for long though, peppering your face and neck with little pecks and nips, eager to press his lips to every inch of skin he could reach.
"Take me back to the motel," you said between kisses, giggling, "I've been waiting a long time to go crazy on you." You grinned up at him, a devilish gleam in your eyes.
He laughed and pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, "Whatever you want, cowgirl. I'll do whatever you want."
No sooner had the motel door closed than Robby was pushing you back onto the bed, frenzied kisses interrupted by him clumsily shucking his jacket off. You laid back as he stripped off his t-shirt and jeans, mouth watering at each inch of exposed skin. It wasn't anymore than you'd seen before, but now the sight set your body ablaze and quickly dampened your panties, the anticipation of feeling his skin against yours making you dizzy.
He climbed onto the bed, knees braced on either side of you and forearms anchored next your head. His broad chest pinned you firmly to the bed and his tummy pressed deliciously against yours. You whimpered at the feeling of the coarse hair rubbing against your skin where your shirt rode up, arching further into his chest.
"Hi," he whispered, nose trailing along your cheek and lips barely grazing yours. A dopey smile stretched the corners of his lips, and his eyes were filled with wonder at you laid out before him, the sight so much better than he could have imagined.
"Hi," you whispered back, pulling him down that last centimeter, kissing him again. This kiss was slower, more exploratory. His tongue ran across your bottom lip, licking into your mouth and exploring every inch he could reach–twirling with your tongue, running across your cheek, and sliding over your teeth. It was sloppy, spit completely coating your chin by the time he pulled away.
"Messy girl," he tutted, gathering the spit from your chin with his thumb and holding it up to your lips, "gotta clean it up."
Your lips wrapped around the digit, moaning at the taste of your combined saliva. You kept your gaze fixed on his as you swirled your tongue around the tip of his thumb and sucked. He groaned and pulled his thumb from your mouth, running it across your bottom lip, tracing the plump, kiss-swollen flesh. You placed a final kiss to the pad of his thumb before pulling him down for another kiss.
"Fuck, honey, you're gonna make me blow my load before we even get started," he said against your lips, grinding his hard bulge against your core and letting you feel the effect you were having on him. He moved to your jaw, pressing hot kisses there and along the column of your throat, across your shoulders and collarbones. His mouth was molten against your neck, sucking marks into your delicate flesh, then soothing them over with his tongue. Rinse and repeat until you're sure your entire upper body is covered in mottled circular bruises.
Your hands frantically roamed his body, groping and caressing his shoulders, arms, back, belly–you couldn't stop squishing the flesh there, the soft layer of fat irresistible to you, filling your palms just right. Your nails raked down his back and dug into the his ass as he sucked a particularly hard bruise on your neck, the sensation riding the line between pain and pleasure deliciously.
Robby's hands slipped under your shirt and bunched the fabric up, looking at you for confirmation before pulling it up and over your head. Your bare breasts jiggled when they were set free from their constraints, capturing all of Robby's attention. He sat back on his knees to take you in fully. His pupils were blown wide just from the sight of your tits, and he quickly cupped them in his large hands, running his thumbs over your nipples until the buds hardened into stiff peaks.
"So fucking gorgeous," he said, transfixed, "prettiest pair of tits I've ever seen, god, look at these pretty nipples." He punctuated his words by tugging and rolling them gently between his fingers.
You moaned at the stimulation and bucked your hips up futilely, nothing there to offer you any friction. Pushing your chest further into his hands, you whined, "need more, Robby, feels so good but I need more."
"Don't have to tell me twice, sweetheart," he said, leaning down to capture your nipple between his lips, swirling his tongue around the bud before sucking hard. He released your nipple with a wet pop and blew cool air onto it. Goosebumps prickled across your skin, the sudden change in temperature exquisite. He sucked your nipple again, nipping and biting at it now. You couldn't help the gasps and whines that escaped your lips, the pleasure too overwhelming to care about keeping quiet.
Once Robby was satisfied with the treatment of that breast, he moved to the other, repeating his previous actions. Your hand tangled in his hair, losing yourself as he ravished your tits. Your hips continued their search for friction, and when Robby noticed he slotted his thigh between your legs.
"Poor thing, just need something to hump, huh?" he asked, the slight condescension twisting your tummy in the best way. "Go ahead, honey, fuck yourself on my thigh while I get my fill of these tits."
You moaned at his vulgarity, but obeyed, dragging your hips up and down the length of his thigh. It wasn't enough to send you over the edge; your panties were too wet with your slick against his bare leg to provide any meaningful friction. It was enough to tide you over though, enough to whet your appetite for what was to come.
You're not sure how long he spent with his head between your breasts, but by the time he was done, your chest was slick with spit and your nipples were achingly puffy.
"Could live with my head buried in these tits," he said, giving them a final squeeze before kissing down your body, stopping at the button of your shorts.
You lifted your hips and wiggled a bit, encouraging him to pull them down your legs–which he did swiftly, pulling both your shorts and panties off in one go. You assumed he would climb back up and fuck you, but he stayed between your legs, opening them up and running his palms along your inner thighs. He trailed kisses from your knee up your thigh, and as he reached the apex of your thighs, you panicked.
"W-wait," you said, closing your legs as much as you could with his broad frame between them.
He backed up immediately, concern etched on his face, "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, its just–you don't have to do that," you said, your cheeks hot at the insinuation.
He was quiet for a moment, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he settled on, "Do you not want me to?"
You wanted to shrink and crawl away, "No, it's not that exactly, I just–I mean I know guys think its gross, so I don't want you to feel like you have to and no one's ever done it to me before so it's not like I'm missing out anyway," you rambled and stumbling over your words.
He looked at you in disbelief before he dropped his head to the crease between your thigh and pussy, groaning, "You're telling me that no one's ever eaten this pretty pussy before?" he asked, voice tight like it was physically painful for him to get the words out.
You nodded, tugging your lip between your teeth nervously.
He tapped your thigh, "Words, honey."
"N-no, no one's ever eaten my p-pussy before," you said, feeling shy at the obscene words coming out of your mouth.
He took a deep breath, and your stomach sank. Shit, you spoiled the mood, didn't you?
"Listen to me, okay?" he said, looking directly into your eyes, "If you don't want me to go down on you, that's fine; I won't push you. But if you're saying this because you think I don't want to, because you think that I wouldn't willingly suffocate between your thighs devouring this sweet pussy, you are sorely mistaken, sweetheart."
You though it over for a minute. His mouth did feel incredible on your neck and tits. You could only imagine how good it would feel on your pussy. And he seemed enthusiastic about it–what could go wrong?
"Okay," you nodded, opening up your legs a fraction.
"Yeah?" he grinned, "If something doesn't feel good, or you just want to stop, just tell me okay? Promise?"
He was spreading your legs wider, lifting them so your feet were planted on the bed and your cunt was fully exposed and dripping.
"I promise," you breathed, feeling vulnerable in this position but buzzing with anticipation for what was to come.
He picked up where he left off, showering your thighs with kisses, nipping and sucking here and there. He settled onto his stomach and hooked his arms under your legs and tugged your closer to his mouth.
The first lick was slow, just a gentle parting of your folds. His tongue just barely grazed your clit before he pressed a gentle kiss to it. You gasped at the foreign sensation and your hips bucked up involuntarily.
He chuckled and held your hips down, pinning you to the bed, "That feel good, sweetheart?"
You moaned affirmatively, unable to string words together. You felt like you were on fire, white hot flames shooting through you at the barest touch.
He dove back in, licking a firmer stripe up your pussy, collecting the wetness pooled there. He moaned against you, and the vibration sent a jolt of electricity through you. You tried to chase his mouth with your hips, but his hold was ironclad.
"Taste so fucking good," he said before burying his face in your cunt, lapping and sucking at your slick folds. He gripped your ass cheeks and pulled you flush against his him, pressing his face impossibly deeper into your cunt. His beard was rough against your thighs, scratching your sensitive skin blissfully every time he shook his head between your thighs.
He ate you with such ferocity that it almost bordered on madness, his one and only focus your pussy. His tongue dipped in and out of your entrance, curling it as deep within your walls as he could reach. His nose nudged persistently against your clit and you ground your hips down against him, one hand gripping his hair and pushing him deeper, the other fisted the sheets violently. You weren't sure how he was able to breathe, but you couldn't find it within you to care when you were so close to climaxing.
He moved back up to your clit and circled it in tight rings, occasionally using the tip to flick it back and forth in short strokes. You cried out as your vision whited out, toes curling and thighs shaking as you neared the precipice, just needing that push.
"I'm close Robby, god, I'm so close please," you begged, hips moving recklessly against him now.
"Let go, honey, let me feel you soak my face when you cum," he said before descending on your clit, wrapping his lips around it and sucking hard.
Your orgasm hit you like a truck, crashing in tumultuous waves that had your body tingling from head to toe. You writhed against him, closing his head between your thighs and grinding against his face. He held you close, letting you use him however you needed, slurping up the evidence of your orgasm happily.
You collapsed against the bed, chest heaving and thighs quivering as you recovered. When Robby surfaced, his face was soaked and his beard glistened with your juices. You were still catching your breath, but the obscene sight made your cheeks flare up again, and you covered your face with your hands, embarrassed at how messy you made him.
He kissed back up your body and pried your hands from your face, pressing sweet kisses to your cheeks before capturing your lips. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it was oddly erotic.
"How was that, honey?" he asked with a cocky grin.
"Really, really good," you said, and your hands traveled to his waist and hooked into his boxers, snapping the band against his skin cheekily, "but I really want you to fuck me right now."
"I think we can make that happen," he said, sitting up to discard his boxers. His cock sprang out, and he was big. Bigger than you'd ever seen, let alone taken. He was long and thick, the tip red and leaking, and you could see at least two prominent veins protruding along his shaft.
A gasp caught in your throat, your eyes widening. "I-I don't think it's going to fit," you whimpered.
He chuckled as he hovered above you. Taking his cock in his hand, he dragged the tip through your sopping folds, rubbing against your sensitive clit on each pass. He pressed gently against your entrance–not enough pressure to breach it, but enough to stimulate the nerve endings there.
"You can take it, baby. You're all nice and drenched, and I'm gonna go real slow, okay? If anything doesn't feel good, you let me know, sound good?"
You nodded, but your heart was pounding in your chest anyway. Robby whispered soft assurances in your ear as he eased the tip in, the stretch already far surpassing anything you'd experienced before. He waited there for a beat, letting you get adjusted to his girth before pushing in further, until inch by inch he bottomed out. You clenched hard around the intrusion, seeming to grip him tighter and push him out at the same time, your pussy not used to such a big cock.
"You feel so good, honey, so fuckin' tight around my cock," he said into the crook of your neck, eyes shut tight as he tried to regain composure. He wasn't about to bust before he got the chance to fuck you properly.
The painful stretch gradually started to ebb into pleasure, and you rolled your hips, encouraging him to move. He pulled out to the tip and thrust back into you slowly, starting a steady but brutal pace. His hips snapped hard against yours, skin slapping against skin viciously–his balls heavy as they smacked against your ass.
You were so full, his cock reaching spots that have never been touched. He rubbed against every sensitive spot in your cunt, every ridge and vein dragging deliciously along your walls.
Your moans were borderline pornographic, your mouth fixed in a near perfect 'o' shape as the sounds escapes you unbidden, echoing deafeningly through the room.
"That's right, honey, let everyone in Vegas know who's fucking you this good," he said, snapping his hips harder, his tip rubbing up against that spot that made you see stars. He hammered it relentlessly, picking up speed and hiking your legs up higher to change the angle. You wrapped your legs around his waist and locked your ankles at the small of his back, forcing him ever deeper. You swore you could feel him in your stomach the way he was pounding into you.
His pace slowed as he shifted, readjusting his weight. You took the opportunity to tell him you wanted to switch positions, that you wanted to be on top.
He looked at you with a gleam in his eye as he flipped onto his back, spreading his thighs and stroking his cock as he waited for you to get situated.
"Yeah? You gonna live up to your name and take me for a ride?"
You bit your lip and nodded, "Think you can handle it, old man?" you teased before turning around to get into reverse cowgirl. Just as you were getting ready to straddle him, you felt his hands on your hips, halting your movement.
"Ah-ah, cowgirl, as pretty as that little ass is, I need to see your face when you cum on my cock," he clicked, turning you back to face him.
He guided you onto his lap, hands resting hot on your waist. You took ahold of his cock and gave it a few strokes before drooling a glob of saliva down and spreading it over his length. You squeezed him tighter, twisting up on each stroke and rubbing your thumb on the underside of his head.
"Your hand feels like heaven, sweetheart, but I need to be inside you when I cum," he said, stilling your hand. It looked like he was using every ounce of self-control not to cum right then and there.
You giggled at his concentration, giving him one last tug before you sat up on your knees and notched his tip at your entrance. You sank down slowly, the stretch so much more intense from this angle. It felt like you were being cleaved in half, each inch threatening to fully undo you.
You paused halfway down, rolling your hips slightly to try and acclimate yourself.
"Go slow, honey, we got all the time in the world," he reassured you, one hand rubbing soothing circles into your hip, and the other holding your hand where it laid on his chest. He picked your hand up and pressed a kiss to the pulse point on your wrist.
You took a deep breath and continued your descent, taking inch after inch until your ass was flush against his thighs, and the tip of his cock was kissing your cervix.
You braced yourself against Robby, your nails digging into the soft flesh of his tummy. You rolled your hips experimentally, gasping as your clit dragged across the thick mat of hair at the base of his cock. Creating a steady rhythm, you rocked your hips gently against him until the slight stinging sensation evaporated, and the only thing you felt was pure pleasure.
Feeling bolder now, you rose up onto your knees a little and sank back down again, a loud schlick sounding each time your hips lifted. Your pace increased steadily until you were bouncing on his cock, using his stomach for leverage as you swiveled your hips and ground your clit against his pelvis. Your ass was slapping hard against his thighs, and your tits were bouncing wildly, the picture of debauched and obscene.
"Fuck, yes, that's my cowgirl, fuckin' her self dumb on my cock," he groaned.
He was conflicted, his eyes unable to settle on one thing–his gaze flitted between your cunt taking his cock greedily, your bouncing tits, and your blissed out face. They were the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen, and he thought he'd die a happy man if he spent the rest of his life with you creaming on his cock.
When your thighs started to ache, you leaned forward and anchored your hands against his pectoral muscles, and started popping your hips back and forth, the motion still dragging his cock through your walls but alleviating some of the stress on your thighs.
Robby noticed your change in pace and took hold of your hips, fucking up into you and driving his cock deeper into your walls. Spots danced in your vision at the change, his cock rutting into your sweet spot over and over.
"Right there, right there, right there," you cried, grinding and rolling your hips, your orgasm just within arms reach, "feels so good, Robby, you're the only man that's ever fucked me this good."
He growled, "You're goddamn right. This pussy is mine, now, you hear that? No one else is ever gonna know how fuckin' divine this pussy is, so warm and wet and tight. She was made for me, wasn't she? Tell me, honey, tell me this is my pussy, that it was made for me," he said, fucking viciously up into you.
"It's yours! It's yours, Robby, it's been yours since I met you, was made for you to fuck, to bury your cock into night after night," you said, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter, each thrust of his cock against your sweet spot pushing you to the edge.
"That's right, baby, that's right. And this is your cock, yours to cum all over. Can you do that for me? Can you cum on your cock, honey?"
You nodded, grinding your clit against him one more time before your orgasm washed over you. It felt like golden rays emanating through your body, pleasure filling your body from head to toe; no inch of your body was immune. Your walls spasmed around his cock, shockwave after shockwave reverberating through your body.
"Fuck, that was the most incredible thing I've ever seen, my gorgeous, gorgeous girl looks so pretty cummin' on my cock," he said, pace faltering as he chased his orgasm. He wasn't thrusting so much as he was grinding up into your pussy. You rolled your hips as best you could, but your clit was oversensitive from your orgasms and your limbs felt like lead.
"Gonna cum in this pussy, honey, 'm gonna fill you up," he cried, pulling your hips down tight against him, grinding one, two, three more times before he came, thick ropes of cum painting your insides.
You fell onto his chest, your arms no longer able to keep you up. He wrapped his arms around you, running his hands up and down your back to help ground you. You nuzzled against him, his cock softening inside you, but you didn't dare move; you wanted to stay as close as possible to him. You could crawl into his skin and you still wouldn't be close enough.
Your breathing regulated, and your heartbeat slowed in time with his. You felt more content that you'd ever felt before in your life.
"I love you, Robby," you whispered,
"I love you too, cowgirl. I'm sorry I'm such a fuckin' idiot," he said, squeezing you tight against his chest.
"'S okay, you came around eventually. Took you a while though."
"Yeah, well, good luck getting rid of me now. You're stuck with me."
"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," you said, eyes falling shut, safe from the world in Robby's arms.
a/n: I am genuniely so grateful if you made it all the way through, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! <3333
fun fact! Emergency medicine wasn’t a thing in the 1970s, so I made Robby an internal medicine doctor, who were the most likely to take shifts in the ED in the 70s.
as a child i assumed that martha’s vineyard was a fancy private vineyard owned by martha stewart and the reason rich people vacationed there was because they were friends with martha
I hate Dutch van der Linde sooo much it's unreal. "I suspect you'll betray me in the end, you seem the type", "getting ideas above your station again?", for lodging upgrades for the camp, Dutch is at the top of the list. He humors himself a philosopher but can only manage to tout other men's ideas.
stormborns
baratheonpilled
titsay
