Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1)

by Alice May Ball

  He saw a woman in shape, a woman with a woman’s body and a woman’s passion. A woman with a fire in her belly. He saw that I meant what I said.

  We looked at each other a while. Me, trying to persuade him. Him? I don’t know what that man was thinking. I’ve learned, anyone thinks they know what Bogart is thinking, they’re usually heading straight for an ugly surprise. I said, “I’ll go back into the bar right now. Grab two drunks and a psycho. I’ll do all three of them in here, right in front of you. You can put it on fucking YouChoob, you hear me?”

  “Angelica, you are some kind of woman. No, don’t go into the bar and drag three scumbags in here. You’re going to work alright, but you aren’t for the scrotes. Well, not the scrotes in the bar at any rate. You’re strictly for the high-class clientele. Megascrotes only for you. Scrotistocracy.”

  He leaned back. Looked me up and down. Deciding something. I so wanted to fuck him. Most men, that would seal the deal. This man, this Bogart? I stood, my legs a little farther apart. I tilted my hips towards him, put my hand in the back of my hair. Looked at him under my eyebrows as I let my head fell a little forward. Bit my lip. His black leather jeans, right in the front, they were moving all on their own. Like a cat was waking up inside. Stretching itself. He stood up. Took my elbow and led me out.

  We went down a corridor to another room. Inside, it looked like the finest room in the tackiest hotel. Big room, huge bed, red, shiny cover, plump red and pink cushions. Brown wood wardrobe, dresser, table and drinks cabinet. Red drapes on the walls, you might not notice there were no windows. A worn leather sofa and chairs, dark brown like the carpet. He held up one of the drapes. “Big mirror.” He said, revealing a huge mirror surrounded by a very heavy and ornate gilt frame. The mirror wasn’t tilted, it was absolutely on a plane with the wall.

  I said, “And what’s on the other side of the mirror?”

  Bogart said, “You’re sharp, woman. I’m going to have to watch you.”

  He opened a door to a shower room with a hand basin, a mirror and a lavatory. He said, “Take a look in the wardrobe. Pick something out.”

  As I opened the wardrobe I said, “What’s the occasion?”

  He said, “First day at a new job. Look your best and be ready to celebrate.”

  I found a long silky dress, very low in the front and back, split up the side. About as classy as the room, but in a blue that could work on me. There was a pair of heels that fit me and could match. They weren’t made for long walks. There were new pairs of hold-up stockings, so I picked a dark gunmetal pair. I said, “Any makeup?” He looked at me a moment. I saw his pants stir again.

  He said, “There probably is, but it’ll be cheap. You really don’t need to fix your face. It looks just fine.”

  I know that what he meant to say to me was, ‘Your face looks just like the face of a whore, and you’re going to be whoring.’ But when he said about my face, “It looks just fine,” I was certain that a tiny crack of an emotion snuck out underneath the words. He worked the muscles in his jaw and quickly looked away after he had said it.

  I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My face had smears of mascara and lip polish. My face did look like the face of a whore, and a hard-working and tired whore at that. I closed the door and changed into the dress, put on the stockings and shoes. “C’mon,” he called from the room.

  When I stepped out, his dark eyes widened and then narrowed. The slinky dress wasn’t exactly Parisian haute couture, but it displayed plenty of skin. My simple silver chain with a small crucifix from my Papa and the little St Christopher I had worn since my first communion were now the only things I was wearing that belonged to me.

  The blue dress draped and flowed over my ample breasts well enough, and below the slashed back it shimmered and made something of my ass. The long slit showed my thigh as far up as the stocking top. His voice was thick as he put out a hand and said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Out in the bar, Bogart had me walk ahead of him and he steered me through the dense crowd to a table in a set-off area in the far corner. A pudgy man in a nice grey suit was sat at the table trying to look comfortable in a dark room full of bikers. As though this was the kind of a place he usually hung out for his gin and tonic after work. He looked up and caught sight of Bogart, his eyes showed recognition. And some relief. Then he saw me. That woke him up.

  “Alderman Greaves.” Bogart said, and his hand went out to the man. The man stood and they clasped hands. Bogart clapped him on the shoulder. “I’d like you to meet Angelica.” I put out a hand to him, paw down like a princess. He took it and attempted a courteous bow. A couple of drinks earlier he might have carried it off. We all sat around the table like familiar old Rotarians or Water Buffaloes. Alderman Greaves, “Please, call me Benny,” he said, mostly to me, made some small talk with Bogart.

  I said, “Why don’t I arrange some drinks for us?” I was certainly going to need one. Benny said he was drinking vodka tonic. I said, “I think we can do better than that, Benny, don’t you?” Bogart looked at me, quizzically. Benny watched me walk over to the bar. I felt his eyes at the bottom of the plunging open back of the dress.

  The bartender was a burly, grizzled looking older guy in a leather vest and a white wife-beater that showed a chest covered in ink like a map and a lot of curly white hair. Lots of hair on the sides of his head, and a bush of it sprouting from his chin and cheeks. None on top of his head. I asked his name, he said, “Hack,” and I told him mine.

  I asked Hack, “Do we have champagne?” He told me, yes. I asked him for a bottle of champagne, a bottle of tequila, a couple of cans of caffeine energy drinks and three shot glasses. Hack’s eyes sparkled and he said that he would bring them right over.

  He brought them to the table on a battered Jack Daniels tray and he set the bottles and glasses out like he was a wine waiter at the Ritz. He could have had a white linen cloth over his forearm. When he left, I poured a quarter of a glass of energy drink and the same of tequila into each glass, then a third of a glass of tequila. Bogart knew what I was doing. Benny didn’t. I showed Bogart how to cover the glass with his p and lift it a couple of inches from the table. He played along.

  I said, “Benny, you know slammers, don’t you?”

  He said, “Of course.”

  Bogart knew that I was flattering the mark. And I knew that I was building bonds with Bogart. A language was developing between us. We shared secrets. We were complicit. In Hell’s Kitchen, Bar & Grill, I got my first practical uses of what we learned in law school about interrogation and examination of witnesses.

  We all covered our glasses with our hands and slammed them on the table. They foamed up and we slung the back in one hit. Benny spilled about half of his but Bogart and I were careful not to notice. Bogart said, “Benny, there’s something I have to do. I’m sure that you and Angelica can find plenty to talk about, though. Maybe I’ll see you when I get back.” Benny stood to give his version of the bro-hug that I saw Bogart and Jake make earlier.

  As Bogart left, I said to Benny, my new best friend, “I’ll only be a moment. You won’t run away will you?” and I moved as elegantly as I could in those heels after Bogart.

  I caught him up and said, “What ever you want. What. Ever. OK? I’ll do it. Just. Get. My. Sister.” He looked at me. He knew that I was thinking about haggling, about bargaining for him to fetch my sister first. I believe he understood the respect that I showed him, trusting him that he’d honor the deal. Even though he hadn’t said outright that he would, not in so many words. I said, “The drape over the mirror. You want that I should pull it back.” He nodded.

  I said, “Before you go, give me something.”

  “What?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Anything. Just something so that I’m not completely alone in this place. Something that I can hold, American.”

  “All I’ve got on me is keys to the bikes.”

  “One of those will be perfect. Please.”<
br />
  “You wouldn’t think of trying to ride off, would you?”

  “Yeah.” I cast my eyes around the bar. At the bikers in heavy leather, most of them with colors on their backs. All of them tough, hard, mean looking men. “Nobody here would mind about me trying a key in the bikes outside, one by one.” I thought about raising the matter of whether I knew how to ride a Harley or not, but then thought better of it.

  “Okay,” he said, and worked the key off his chain and he handed it to me. As I took it, it seemed very precious, to both of us now. I was trusting him, and he trusted me with something of his. Something important. I put it on my silver chain and it hung on my collarbone next to my Catholic trinkets.

  It didn’t take much to get Benny into the room at the back. He had the exciting notion of a three-way after I planted it in his mind. To my surprise, he picked up on a two-man team. Funny, I thought he’d want two girls. No matter. Chiz was a huge, baby-faced teddy bear of a man I picked out. A little too late I saw a thin shaft of resentfulness in his eyes.

  In the room, I pulled back the red drape over the big mirror, real slow. Benny wanted to watch Chiz and me first, and I saw that would work for Chiz. I didn’t see it suiting Bogart’s purpose too well, though, so, as I shimmied and slid the blue silky dress up over my stockinged legs, I got up close with Chiz. I nuzzled in the fuzz of his barrel chest and I turned my head up to whisper into his ear. His hands were in the front of the dress already.

  Benny was sat on the bed, his hand on his cock. It wouldn’t be much use if all the view from the mirror was of Benny having a wank and passing out while Chiz split me three different ways.

  I whispered in Chiv’s ear, “You want to see me suck on Benny.” I looked up at him. Hs eyes and his head were full of my tits. I pulled his head down, so he got a better view of them and I whispered, “I don’t want to do it. But you’ll make me.” A grin started to stretch across his face. I said, “You’ll make me suck his cock, and then you’ll both fuck me. I won’t want to do that either.” His eyes were shining now. I stroked his face. I touched the bike key. Bogart’s key, drawing Chiz’s attention to it. “We can all have a lot of fun. Make it look good, but don’t get carried away.”

  Chiz grinned from ear to ear. I had no idea how this was going to play. Would Chiz get off on giving me a slap or two? Would he lose control? And, if he did, what the fuck would I be able to do about it?

  Chiz got into his part right away. “You suck his cock, you little whore. I wanna see you suck him off.” I stroked Chiz’s chest and got kittenish with him. Benny was waking up again now.

  I said, “But I want to fuck you, Chiz.”

  “Oh, I’m going to fuck you alright,” Chiz said, and he pulled back his open hand. He slapped my face with his hand and made a great thwack. It wasn’t nearly as hard a whack as it sounded and I began to have confidence in Chiz. “I’m going to fuck you hard, while you get Benny’s cock jammed down your throat.” And he slapped me again. This time it stung. As I rubbed my face I realized with a horror that I liked it.

  Now I didn’t know whether I needed to worry more about Chiz than about myself. He slapped me a couple more times, then grabbed me by my hair. Chiz said, “Benny, get your cock out and jam it in this little whore’s throat while I fuck her.” Chiz’s hand dragged my head down to Benny’s lap. Dammit! Did Chiz not know about the mirror? If not, then I wouldn’t tell him unless I really had to.

  As he shoved my head on Benny’s cock, I reached behind me and patted him on the ass. When I felt him hesitate, I pointed so that Benny wouldn’t see. I got Benny’s cock in my mouth so his attention was all used up by then. After a few more pats and a lot of pointing, Chiz got the idea. He grabbed me by my waist and flung me on all fours onto the bed.

  “Spin around, Benny. Let’s make this little cunt work for her living. Benny turned around and spread out on the bed, his head hanging over the edge. I saw his face in the mirror. At that moment I could have kissed Chiz. He knelt on the bed behind me. Pulled the dress up over my ass. Put his big paw on my pussy while I buried my face on Benny’s cock.

  While Chiz rubbed my hot, wet pussy, he slapped my ass. He didn’t pull back much either. Every stinging swipe led to a dull ache. And I loved it. I sucked on Benny’s cock, pulling hard with one hand. Massaging his balls and running my fingers up the crack of his ass. Chiz worked my pussy wide open with his fat fingers. Pressed the cheeks of my ass apart. “Suck on that cock,” he shouted as he stuck his thumb into my pussy, his big palm squashing my clit as he rubbed, his fingers reaching up over my hot mound.

  Chiz’s hand slid up along the dress, along my stomach and up to my breasts as they swung and bounced beneath me. As he felt and squeezed I breathed hot and wet onto Benny’s cock, working it harder with my hand, lapping at it, nibbling and sucking on the head of it. Slipping my lips down the shaft.

  Benny shouted, “Yeah, suck my cock, you WHORE! Suck it real good.” His head flipped from craning to watch me in his groin to watching us all in the mirror. “Suck me while you’re getting fucked!” he groaned as hi hips beat his cock deeper into the soft, hot wetness of my mouth.

  Chiz slapped my ass, harder now, and my wet petals were roughly penetrated by his hard, fat cock. My clit ached and buzzed and my nipples stung. My ass cheeks were raw where he slapped them. Saliva gushed into my mouth and out around my lips, my juices sprang onto Chiz’s cock as it reamed into me and wild, strangled gurgling sounds burst out of my throat.

  Chiz grabbed my hair again and drove my head into Benny’s pelvis and I felt both of their cocks heat up and start to pulse. I was getting filled at both ends and choked, and I was coming, too. Benny’s cum was thick and tasted dank. Chiz’s dribbled down my thighs and I barely had the strength to keep my ass up against Chiz’s hot groin.

  I rolled off Benny, dripping and sticky with cum and the dress was a wet wreck, just like I was. Chiz had a sweet, dazed but devilish grin.

  Even then, right at that moment, I was remembering how I felt with Bogart. How he’d rocked me to my core. The rolling force of his fabulous ass.

  I don’t know what Bogart did to get Inez, but he went and he brought her back with him, safe and well.

  When I saw her, all the stresses of the last few days burst out of me and I hugged her neck and sobbed. I looked in her eyes, stroke her face, held her to me and I wept.

  And now I owe Bogart. Forever.

  © Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2014

  Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.

  All the people and places are portrayed in this story are fictional. All characters are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary.

  Gypsy Rider

  Savage MC

  Alice May Ball

  “Hell has no gate

  but men will dig to get there”

  I wanted him. I wanted him so bad I could taste it right on the back of my throat, feel it with the tip of my tongue. My thighs tingled and I got squirmy in my panties with the very thought of him. If I had known what the cost was going to be, would I have done it any differently? Hard to say. I learned a lot these past few days. If I’d seen what was coming, would I have acted differently, or would I have figured it was all worth the price?

  There’s no denying it, all the mayhem was worth it, if only for the sex. Yeah, that was definitely worth it.

  He strides into the bar and the background noise of the Meathook changes key. He’s a tall, rangy, biker with hair the color of straw. His cheekbones and jaw, even his short mustache and beard, they could all have been chiseled from granite. The short, neat beard can’t hide a deep cleft in his chin. His deep, emerald eyes are hard and penetrating. His expression is rock solid. The barroom f
loor could burst into flame, his face wouldn’t move.

  Intricate tattoo art on his strong neck slips down the muscles inside his black work shirt. On the back of his cut-off leather motorcycle jacket is a large emblem with a dagger and lots of red. I don’t catch what it says around the outside of it. The bike jacket has big zippers and buckles and even with no sleeves it looks like it weighs about as much as I do. He lopes over to the bar, loose-limbed in denim baggies, orders a bourbon and talks to the barkeeper. Leaning at the bar, his ass is a miracle.

  He was cool in high school, three years above me, and he graduated from pretty cool to face-melting hot. That ass. The word was that he was pretty high up in the local motorcycle club, too. Thrillingly dangerous. The way that I looked in high school, I had the best shoes, the best clothes, the coolest makeup, I had all the money. But I was under a couple of layers of puppy fat. I look a whole lot better now.

  My kick-ass leather waistcoat has tassels on the big sliver buckles, and it’s open over a white cotton shirt with a tall collar. The shirt is open most of the way, exposing my black lace bra as it struggles to contain my hefty, heaving beauties. Sinuous Thai silver chains lay across the tops of my breasts, so you don’t miss when they rise and fall.

  Sheer dark gunmetal nylon sheaths my long legs, with a tiny tight black leather mini skirt, a couple of tassels each side for added interest. Black lacy tops of the hold-ups peek out just below the hem of the little skirt. The huge Mexican silver buckle on the wide black belt is low and loose on the sheen of leather stretched over the curve of my stomach. Short black Spanish hand-made cowboy boots with embroidery and raised heels help to focus and maintain attention on my calves and thighs.

  Along the bar I send my own tried and tested not looking at you look. For a long time. When his attention is engaged, that look is supposed to be followed up by the disdainful tilt of the chin to say, You thought it was YOU I wasn’t looking at? Hah! Only his attention doesn’t register me at all. Not even in a not looking at you, either kind of a way. Not even in a didn’t you once take off all your clothes in high school? kind of a way. I’m not used to that. He’s talking to the barman, Grinder. Grinder looks like he was made out of two or more truckers. When I roll my practically empty glass around and look into it, Grinder notices. But Mr Biker doesn’t. What is he, gay?