For all those readers following my other story, My Brother's Keeper, I haven't dropped off the face of the earth, honest. I just got slightly distracted by this 'little' plot bunny which jumped on me and hasn't let go yet. I will get the next chapter of that up asap. Until then... This was meant to be a one-shot, sort and sweet. However, like most things I begin writing at the moment, it kinda... got away from me a bit (read: a lot. The file on my computer currently is telling me I'm at 30,000 words and counting...)
This story is slash (so if you don't like, don't read) about a couple that, a year ago, I didn't really like. Now, strangely, they're one of my favourites and it's all down to RebelPaisley, my wonderful beta for My Brother's Keeper (and whatever else I get around to sending her). Most importantly, this is a HUGE (and I really do mean huge) thank you for all her hard work, because without her my stories would not be as good. Seriously, you guys do not see the behind-the-scenes that goes into my writing and she puts up with a *lot* - complaining/uncertainty/multiple versions of chapters/panicked "ahhh" moments... She's the best beta a gal could ask for, and more importantly she's an awesome friend.
RP, this one's for you :-)
A Place Without Expection
Prologue.
"A desert is a place without expectation."
~ Nadine Gordimer ~
The road stretches forward across the flat earth, seemingly forever; a sliver of black cutting through the landscape with razor-sharp precision.
On the horizon hulks of rock jut out against the sky, blue and indistinct in the hazy distance. Lakes of heat shimmer above the sun-baked earth; images of water that doesn't exist, tantalising mirages to fool an unwary traveller.
The motorbike parked by the side of the road clinks occasionally as it struggles to cool in the oppressive midday heat. A leather jacket is draped carelessly over its seat, a helmet dangling from the handlebars as its owner takes a long-needed break. Standing on the scrub verge, the tall man takes a long drink of water from a plastic bottle, trying to introduce some moisture to his parched mouth and rinse the dust from the back of his throat.
Thirst sated, for now, he pours the last few dregs over his hair and face, gaining brief relief from the sweaty stickiness coating his skin. The few drops of liquid that fall to land on the black tarmac evaporate quickly in the heat, leaving behind no trace of there ever having been water there. The blond stuffs the now-empty bottle back into the rucksack at his feet, before returning his gaze to the desert, staring out at the scenery with faraway eyes; looking but not seeing, lost in memories. The desert suits him, mirroring his mood; his heart as empty and barren as the plains he's been travelling through.
Shaking away whatever thoughts have enticed him into their embrace, the rider shrugs on the sweat-soaked jacket and slings the rucksack back onto his shoulders. Retrieving his helmet he slings a leg across his bike, pausing for a moment; the faintest tightening of the muscles in his neck, almost as if he's resisting the urge to turn his head and glance behind him. But the moment passes, helmet once again enclosing his head, and he twists the throttle, bike roaring into life and then he's moving on once again. The tarmac is tacky beneath his wheels, the road partially melted by the fierceness of the sun. He supposes it must be summer – it's certainly hot enough – although he doesn't know for sure and doesn't really care.
The miles pass with unerring monotony, the road continuing straight and true, as far as the eye can see.
But then subtle differences start to materialise; the flatness of desert is beginning to end, low rolling hills starting to break the uniformity and the landscape becoming dominated by tall pillars of red rock that leap up from seemingly nowhere, reaching up to breath-taking heights, dark shadows pooling at their base.
Stunted creosote bushes, their leaves leached of colour and now a dead, brittle yellow, hug the soft contours of the ground, interspersed by the spiny, dry bones of ocotillos and the occasional yucca, dull green and dust-covered. Here and there, single, stick-like masts stand proud above the plains, the last act of lechuguillas, the remains of their one and only flower, one beautiful moment before they die, leaving these faded glories projecting up to the sky; their only legacy, their mark on the land that nurtured them.
The only life to be found is a hawk flying high above, a tiny dark speck in the azure sky.
Somewhere along the way the surface he's riding over has changed. No longer smooth black but faded to a pale grey, worn and weather-beaten. Cracks, some new, many old, criss-cross it, making it uneven and dangerous for the tired or inexperienced traveller. The desert too has begun to encroach on the road; brown sand spilling over the edges and reaching out in waves towards the centre, the bike wheels throwing up clouds of dust as they pass across it. Nature reclaims its own.
The day grows old; the sun starting its descent into the west, hanging low above the horizon and heralding in that magical hour – beloved by film-makers and photographers – where the world is bathed in a bright, golden light, everything hyper-real and strangely disconnected. Finally the dust ahead clears, scrubland giving way to buildings, squat and low against the expanse of sky.
The township is tiny, eerily quiet, but as the rider approaches faint signs of life emerge; a truck idling outside a store, some kids throwing a football on an area of bare earth, a dog slinking behind some trashcans. There's a motel on the left before the route enters the town proper, run down and dilapidated; the once white paint flaking and grey in the early evening light. A rusty sign by the roadside proclaims in peeling letters, "Welcome to Santa Luca. Pop - 79".
It seems as good a place to stop for now as any.
.
Author's Note
Or two or three... just before the story begins. Really more of a disclaimer. Some of this story is set in New Mexico but, having never been there, I am using a lot of artistic licence here. The town of Santa Luca (as far as I'm aware) doesn't exist, except in my mind. What I wanted (and was aiming for) was a taste of old-school Americana - we're talking Route 66 here - but most of my information has come from Disney's 'Cars', spaghetti westerns (which yes, I know, were filmed in Europe) and from knowing all the words to *that* Chuck Berry song. The desert itself is meant to be the Chichuahuan, however what it *actually* is, is a mixture of my brief first-hand visits to California and Nevada, thrown in with longer experiences in North Africa and Australia, tied together with a little bit of research. Please forgive any inaccuracies.
Finally, this story shall be unbeta-ed (which is probably why it's been taking me a while) because I can't make RP beta her own gift now. That would be rude. So all mistakes and errors are totally my fault and yeah, I'll apologise now to save time later!
That's all for now folks. More to come soon!