No Way Out

by Simone Scarlet

  “Holy shit, Christi…” Mason lifted his own head, and peered at me from across the flat expanse of his stomach. “That was incredible.”

  I slurped up the cum drooling from my lips, and wiped my glistening chin with the back of one hand.

  “You’re welcome,” I purred, giving him a wink.

  I knew I must have looked like a slutty mess, lying between Mason’s legs with cum and saliva drooling down my chin, and my lips all red and swollen from sucking his cock…

  But he didn’t seem to mind.

  In fact, Mason struggled to sit up, and as he did so he hauled me upright, onto my knees.

  His lips eagerly sought mine. He kissed me passionately, not caring that my mouth was still salty with the taste of him.

  I kissed Mason right back, and I don’t think I’d ever experienced a kiss more passionate, more eager, or more real than that…

  Finally, reluctantly, he pulled his lips away from mine.

  But not his face…

  In fact, Mason reached up to grab a fistful of my hair again, just like he had when he’d pulled my face from his spurting cock.

  I cried out as he held my face just inches from his – but I knew he wasn’t trying to hurt me. It was just a flash of dominance – like the way a momma cat sinks her teeth into the back of kitten’s neck.

  Holding my face across from his, Mason stared deep into my eyes, and out of nowhere, he murmured:

  “I fucking love you.”

  And for a moment, the world stopped. I didn’t feel anything except those words, or see anything except the burning intensity in his icy blue eyes.

  And then, just as suddenly, the moment was over.

  His hand released my hair, and he flattened it back down with tender strokes.

  As if embarrassed by what he’d said, Mason turned away from me, clambering up off the bed.

  “I… I need to go and have that shower,” he stammered, standing there with his jeans down around his knees.

  He said that… But for a moment, he didn’t bother to make a move. He just stood there, looking down at me as I lay on the bed…

  It was as if he was wondering what he’d just said – that sudden declaration of love…

  And then, just as quickly, Mason’s head nodded, and he turned and waddled towards the bathroom.

  I watched him go, with the taste of him still fresh in my mouth.

  My only regret? That when Mason had told me he loved me, I hadn’t said it right back to him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mason

  My dad always used to tell me that the secret to a man’s happiness was to keep his balls empty, and his stomach full.

  My legs were still trembling from Christi satisfying the first of those needs this afternoon – twice, no less.

  But as we crossed the street, to a gleaming white-and-red diner called Suzy Q’s, I was grateful that I’d soon be attending to the second. I was starving.

  Suzy Q’s was a cute little mom-and-pop restaurant in the classic 1950s style, with red vinyl furniture, black and white tiles on the floor, and Elvis rattling on the vintage jukebox in the corner.

  An older woman in a waitress apron greeted us at the door, and looked Christi and I up and down with suspicion.

  I couldn’t blame her. Christi was in daisy dukes and a cut-off shirt, barely hanging off one shoulder, while I was wearing my jeans and leather jacket with thousands of miles of trail dust still clinging to them.

  We looked like trouble.

  But I didn’t think that was the reason she was suspicious – and my instinct was confirmed when the waitress looked over her shoulder, towards three men in suits sitting in a corner booth, and saw one of them nod towards her almost imperceptibly.

  “Come this way,” grabbing a couple of menus, the waitress led us across the diner towards the booth right next door to the men in suits. “We’ve got somewhere special picked right out for you.”

  I slid into the booth, and Christi poured herself onto the bench next to me. Like that, there was nothing but the open partition between where we were sitting, and where those three strangers were sipping iced waters.

  “Thank you,” I nodded at the waitress.

  “Your server will be right with you,” she fired back.

  And, with that, we were left alone in the corner of the diner.

  Almost immediately, one of the men in suits cranked his head, and demanded: “Agent Stone?”

  “That’s me,” I hissed back, trying not to look at him. “You mind keeping your voice down?”

  “Sorry,” the stranger’s cheeks burned pink.

  “You’re with the bureau, right?” I demanded. The Federal Bureau of Investigations – the world-famous F.B.I.

  “We’re out of the Carlsbad office,” the agent nodded. “Special Agents Schloemer and Mitzell,” he nodded towards the two men sitting across from him, “and I’m Special Agent-in-Charge Barron.”

  I snorted humorlessly.

  “Couldn’t you three have dressed any less conspicuously? You’ve got ‘cop’ written all over you.”

  “Ha,” Agent Mitzell, a younger man with tan skin, fired back: “What about you? Three months riding with a biker gang and you’re still sporting a haircut like you just completed Basic Training.”

  Before I could come up with a retort to that, Special Agent-in-Charge Barron demanded: “So, who’s the broad?”

  “The broad?” It took me a moment to translate the term. “Oh, you mean her?”

  I turned to Christi, who’d been sitting quietly by my side.

  “This is Christi…”

  Shit, I didn’t know her last name. In fact, part of her schtick with the Knuckleheads was that she was Christi with-no-last-name…

  …but she answered for me.

  “Lange,” she hissed across the table. “Christi Lange. My father owned Bandy Canyon Cannabis…”

  She didn’t need to say any more than that. We all knew the score.

  There was an awkward pause. Finally, Special Agent-in-Charge Barron murmured:

  “You have my condolences for the loss of your father.”

  “I don’t need your condolences,” Christi fired back. “I need you to promise me you’ll make the bastards who killed him pay.”

  Barron again cleared his throat – and it was not lost on me that he completely failed to address that statement.

  Turning back to me, Barron growled: “So, the situation’s as you described it on the phone, yes? The Knuckleheads are going to clean out that farm…”

  He turned to Christi, and awkwardly corrected himself: “Your father’s farm…”

  And then continued: “…and take the cannabis up north?”

  I nodded.

  “There’s a buyer there called Bill Grundy,” I nodded. “In Bakersfield.”

  Special Agent Mitzell snorted.

  “Old Bill? We know him.”

  “In fact, that’s great. We’ve been looking for an opportunity to nail Bill Grundy for years,” Special Agent Schloemer broke his silence. “This’ll be like killing two birds with one stone.”

  I’m not sure I liked the sound of that.

  “So, here’s the drill,” Barron called my attention back to him. “You go and rendezvous with the Knuckleheads. Walk ‘em through the whole thing at the farm. Load ‘em up, and skin ‘em out. You won’t hear a peep from us – not until they’re hauling that stolen weed all the way up north.”

  “We’ll call in the raid the moment they roll onto Bill Grundy’s compound,” Mitzell added. “Not a moment beforehand.”

  “That way, we’ll catch every one of those sons-of-bitches red-handed,” Barron grinned wolfishly. “Handling stolen property, possession, intent to supply…”

  “Not to mention everything else those bastards might be guilty of,” Schloemer grinned. “Firearms violations, drug offences…”

  “Shit – just imagine the number of outstanding warrants some of the bastards have,” Mitzell snorted. �
��Shit, the speeding tickets alone…”

  The three FBI agents broke into a good-natured chuckle, but I didn’t feel like laughing.

  You get twenty, maybe thirty bikers cornered by FBI agents, and it wouldn’t end well. The ‘one-percenters’ like Coyle and his gang weren’t the type to ‘come quietly’… and as countless news stories across the country confirmed, the law enforcement agencies were developing itchier and itchier trigger fingers.

  This whole deal was starting to sound like a shit-show. A keg full of gunpowder, ready to explode.

  All it needed was a spark – and every single biker in Coyle’s club was a goddamned matchstick.

  For what it’s worth, Christi seemed equally unhappy about this situation – but perhaps for other reasons.

  As she sat there, across the booth from me, I saw her hazel eyes burning with unspoken indignation.

  It didn’t remain unspoken for very long.

  “Okay,” she growled, snapping the three FBI agents from their mirth. “So, that’s what happens to the Knuckleheads – but what about those cops?”

  Schloemer, Mitzell and Barron turned to peer over the divider at her, eyes narrowing.

  “You’re going to get them too, right?” She insisted. “Those bastards that killed my father?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  Eventually, Barron replied: “You’ll testify, right?”

  “Against those two police officers?” Her eyes flashed. “You bet your ass I will.”

  “Well, we’ll get them alright,” Barron promised. “Corruption? Bribery? We’ll nail those two dirty cops to the fucking wall.”

  “They’ll be off the force,” Mitzell added. “Shit, I’m thinking a year, maybe two in prison for each of them, if the judge doesn’t go too easy.”

  Christi blinked.

  The three agents clearly misread the signal, but I knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “Two years?” Christi’s voice cracked as she said it. “For murdering my father?”

  The three FBI agents immediately stopped looking so pleased with themselves.

  “W-well, Ms. Lange,” Barron raised a finger, “you’ve got to understand…”

  “We can only get them on the corruption charges,” Mitzell took over, and Barron didn’t look unhappy about it. “That business with your father…”

  “I’m sorry,” like a wrestler tapping back in, Barron took over again. “That was a different matter… Part of a police raid.”

  “Those bastards shot him,” Christi’s voice was loud enough for everybody in the diner to hear, and a half-dozen faces turned to look at us. “They murdered him in cold blood, and you’re telling me they’re not even going to face charges for it?”

  Barron held his hand up, and pleaded: “Ms. Lange, it’s not as simple as that…”

  “I read the report,” Mitzell injected. “He came out at them with a shotgun… It was self-defense…”

  “He thought we were being robbed,” fat tears sprang from Christi’s eyes. “They didn’t announce themselves. There were no lights, or sirens. They didn’t even show us their badges! Just men with guns, pounding on our door!”

  She was gripping the edge of the table with white knuckles now, sobbing: “He was just trying to protect us!”

  Agents Mitzell, Schloemer and Barron sat there in stunned silence for a minute – enough time for the other patrons of the diner to grow bored, and turn their attention back to their food.

  Eventually, Barron murmured: “I-I understand, Ms. Lange.”

  Wiping tears from her eyes with the back of her trembling hand, Christi spat back: “Do you? Do you really?”

  “Mistakes were made,” Barron nodded. “What happened to your father was… unfortunate.”

  “Jesus,” I rolled my eyes – was that the best Barron could do?

  “Unfortunate?” Christi spat. “My father’s fucking dead. He was a law-abiding citizen his whole life, and those two bastard cops shot him down like a wild dog.”

  I didn’t think the agents could make it any worse – but Schloemer somehow managed to prove me wrong.

  “Law-abiding,” he repeated. “I mean, technically growing marijuana is still a federal crime…”

  “It’s legal in California!” Christi cried. “And until then, my father hadn’t had so much as a fucking parking ticket!”

  “I hear you, I hear you,” Barron held up both his hands now, and gestured for Christi to lower her voice. “Ms. Lange, I understand. I truly do.”

  That seemed to be enough to temporarily placate her.

  Christi sunk down in her seat and listened.

  “The raid should never have taken place,” Barron assured her. “Officers Dempsey and Sanchez organized it illegally. There wasn’t a valid warrant, your father wasn’t breaking the law…”

  “But you have to understand,” Mitzell injected, “at the end of the day they’re still cops.”

  “Crooked cops,” Christi sniffled. “Dirty cops.”

  “Yeah,” Mitzell nodded. “But in this environment? With the Black Lives Matter movement, and all the shootings in the news?”

  He shook his head.

  “You won’t find a prosecutor in the state who’d press charges for the shooting of your father.”

  Christi just sat there, and blinked.

  “We’ve got unarmed teenagers getting gunned down in Compton. Toddlers getting caught in the crossfire during drugs raids…”

  Mitzell took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “I’m not saying what happened to your father was right… But at the moment, law enforcement is fighting a battle for credibility, and the shooting of an armed marijuana farmer isn’t a case anybody in the district attorney’s office is willing to fall on their sword for.”

  I watched as Christi’s fingers uncurled from the edge of the table. Her anger had turned to numbness. She sat there, her face a mask.

  “We can get those two cops on corruption charges,” Barron insisted. “I promise, we’ll do everything we can to throw ‘em behind bars…”

  “But I’m sorry,” to his credit, Special Agent Mitzell did look genuinely remorseful, “but there’s nothing we can do about your father’s shooting. Or your farm.”

  Christi blinked.

  “What do you mean by that?” She asked quietly. “What do you mean there’s nothing you can do about my father’s farm?” She sniffed. “My farm.”

  Mitzell reached up to adjust his tie – perhaps loosening it a little, given how red his face was turning.

  “It’s… it’s not your farm any more, Ms. Lange.”

  “Civil forfeiture,” Agent Schloemer explained. “When law enforcement believes property to have been involved in the execution of a crime…”

  “You seize it,” I interrupted. “I know all about civil forfeiture.” I rolled my eyes. “You don’t even need to prove a crime’s been committed – the police can just take other people’s shit.”

  Agent Mitzell didn’t make any effort to disprove that assessment.

  “Technically, your father’s farm was used to commit a federal crime, even if it was legal in California.” He took a deep breath. “Your farm’s been seized, Ms. Lange. It doesn’t belong to you anymore. After the authorities were scheduled to torch your marijuana plants, Bandy Canyon Cannabis was going up for public auction.”

  Christi sat there, and her arms fell to her sides.

  She looked utterly destroyed – and I couldn’t blame her. Not only had these three FBI agents just told her they weren’t able to get any justice for her father… They’d just informed her that she’d lost the family farm, as well.

  Those two crooked police officers – with the tacit approval of the feds – had successfully managed to take everything from her.

  For a moment, Christi just sat there, staring blankly into space. Eventually, like a robot, she murmured: “I understand.”

  The three agents stared at her for a moment, clearly wondering if she really did
understand – or whether she was suddenly going to cause a scene again.

  But apparently, the fight had drained from Christi’s shoulders. She sat next to me, silent, sullen and dejected.

  I never felt more fucking wretched in my life.

  Satisfied that the matter was over with, the three agents turned back to me.

  “Let’s hammer out the details,” Barron insisted. “Then you’d better get back undercover.”

  I nodded – but before I could respond, we all heard Christi’s quiet, even voice from behind us.

  She was sliding out of the booth, murmuring:

  “I-I’m sorry, gentlemen. I have to go to the bathroom.”

  We all looked at her. Christi’s face was an ashen grey, and her hands were trembling. She looked like she was on the brink of bursting into tears, and I couldn’t fucking blame her.

  She probably just wanted to hide in the bathroom so as not to make a scene. That was understandable.

  Special Agent-in-Charge Barron nodded, silently giving her permission to leave. We all sat there in silence, watching Christi stumble down the aisle to the swinging door marked “DAMES.”

  Poor kid. I couldn’t even imagine what she was going through. I couldn’t wait to finish up with these FBI goons, sweep her up into my arms and give her the hug she so clearly needed.

  But for the moment, I’d let her cry. She needed to process the news she’d just heard, and tears were the way she’d do that…

  Right?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Christi

  The door to the bathroom slammed open, and I staggered inside.

  Thank fuck, the gleaming 50s-style bathroom was empty. I didn’t think I’d have been able to hold my emotions in any longer, and I didn’t fancy exploding in front of some little-old lady cowering in a stall, just trying to have a quiet pee.

  But since I was alone?

  “Fuuuck!”

  My tiny fists hammered against the counter.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Sinking my head against the cold mirror above the sink, I felt hot tears gushing down my cheeks.

  “Fuuuuck!”

  How could they? How could those three sons-of-bitches sit there with that smug look on their faces and tell me that there was nothing they could do?