Amped

by Teagan Kade

  Razor leans against the wall. “We are staying, right?”

  I exhale. “For now.”

  “For now?” says Bo. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? We’re finally onto something good here. I mean, yeah, the town might be a little pussy starved, but come on. The beer’s cold, the waves are killer—What more do you want?”

  “It’s not a case of the beer or the surf, or pussy. This is about our safety. If those fuckers get wind we’re here… It doesn’t matter how they find out. We’ve got to go.”

  Bo’s shaking his head from the floor. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

  Razor pokes me in the chest, ungrateful bastard. “Why do you always have to go and fuck things up, huh?”

  I shove him back. “And where would you rather be? Back in the States, hunted down like animals, dead with your fucking head cut off?”

  He shoves me back. “This wasn’t our problem to begin with. The whole reason we’re over here is because you fucked up.”

  I lean against the washing machine. “I had no choice. I did what I thought was right for this family. I do what I always do.”

  “And what’s that?” laughs Razor.

  “Look out for you two, though I’ve got to say I question why sometimes.”

  Things go quiet, the anger dissipating.

  Razor pushes himself off the wall. “So, what now?”

  “We find out who’s watching us and why. Let’s fucking hope it is Mrs. McLoughlin and we can forget about all this.”

  But I’ve got a funny feeling it’s not about to blow over so quickly. The last fucking thing I want is to put Lux in the middle of it.

  *

  The usual suspects are in the pub placing bets or downing cheap beer. I don’t think the pool table’s seen use since the first World War, the slot machine in the back is a different story.

  Lux waves to me from the bar, Sarah looking less happy to see me.

  “Big night?” I offer.

  Sarah spits to the floor. Charming as always. “You want anything?”

  I lean on the bar. “Just your waitress here.”

  “She doesn’t date dropkicks.”

  “I suppose it’s just as well I’m an upstanding gentleman then, isn’t it?”

  Sarah goes off rolling her eyes.

  Lux places the glass she was drying away. “You’d think the only pub in twenty miles would be swarming, wouldn’t you?” She gestures to the four or five pensioners gathered around the TV, football or some such showing. “Not exactly the body-shot brigade, is it?”

  I wink. “There’s action in this town if you know where to look.”

  She laughs. “I get more than enough action out on the water, thank you.”

  She nods her head towards the corner where a man is sitting facing us, most of him in shadow. “Friend of yours?”

  I look a little closer, the guy reaching for his beer and bringing it to his mouth. He’s got ink on his neck, lots of work. “Can’t say I’ve seen him before.”

  “Maybe he’s just passing through?”

  I turn back to Lux. “This place is a dead end. No one ‘passes through’. Maybe I should have a little chat with our friend.”

  She reaches out and grabs my arm. “Don’t do anything stupid, please. I need this job.”

  “I’m not asking you to pay board.”

  “Please,” she repeats, those baby blues impossible to ignore.

  I pull my arm away. “Don’t worry. I’m just going over for a friendly talk. Where’s the harm in that?”

  Her eyes tell me she’s unconvinced, but this is more important.

  I make my way over to the booth. Whoever he is, he doesn’t seem to mind. He sees me coming and continues to drink his beer.

  I take a seat. “How’s it going?”

  “Good, mate. Yourself?” He’s Australian. His jacket collar’s not covering his neck tatt completely. It a shoddy rendition of a crown of thorns, the kind of half-ass ink you’d get inside.

  “Passing through?” I question.

  He licks his teeth. “Bit of a holiday, you know how it is.”

  I keep my eyes locked on his. “No one comes here for a holiday. What’s your business?”

  He doesn’t break eye contact. “What’s it to you? You the fucking fun police?”

  I should jam a glass into the side of his neck now and be done with it. I can’t see this ending any other way. “You should be careful who you talk to like that.”

  He laughs. “This is a free country, mate. I just want to sit here and drink my beer. If you have a problem with that, perhaps we better take this outside.”

  I could take this clown, but I see the way Lux eyes us from the bar. Besides, I don’t know if I’m in the mood for spilling blood tonight. Maybe this guy really is what he says, simply checking out the sights.

  Maybe not.

  I bring my hands together on the table. “Okay, mate, but we don’t take kindly to trouble ’round these parts. Am I making myself clear?”

  He nods, but it’s like he’s chewing on acid while he does it.

  I stand. “Enjoy your drink.”

  I see Razor and Bo come in, both of them taking a seat at our usual table in the middle.

  Razor leans over when I sit down. “What the fuck was that all about?”

  “Just being friendly.”

  Bo laughs. “You, friendly? Fuck, I’ve met tiger sharks friendlier than you. Who is he?”

  “Bad fucking news.”

  “You’re damn right about that.”

  I look up to find Sergeant Wilson staring down at us, the sole protector of this fine outpost.

  Bo raises his glass. “Sergeant, what brings you to the drinking hole this time of night?”

  The sergeant pulls over a seat from the table behind us and sits down, arms hanging over the back of it, legs straddling the sides. He taps the side of his nose. “You know, I’ve always had a highly developed sense of smell, boys. You know what I’m smelling now?”

  I can’t resist. “A rhetorical question, constable?”

  I know calling him the lower rank of constable shits him, but I can’t resist fucking with authority, especially a small-town cop with nothing better to do than harasses its newest inhabitants.

  The sergeant bites his lips, runs a thumb across his jaw. “This town was quiet before you three stooges showed up. Fuckin’ Americans, always showing up thinking they’re saving the world.” He talks directly to me. “No one needs saving here, mate.”

  “You sure?” I query.

  He takes out his baton, taps it against the side of the table. Most people are intimidated by us, but ol’ Bill doesn’t seem fazed. Maybe he just doesn’t care. “If I had it my way, you’d all be long gone, shipped back to Uncle Sam with a ‘return to sender’ slammed on your ass.”

  Bo leans across so they’re inches apart. “But you don’t have it your way, do you?”

  The sergeant sniggers, teeth running across his lip like he’s sawing through a log. “Not yet, but give it time. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that A-grade assholes like you always slip up eventually. I’ll be there when you do, with that nice cold cell you’ve come to love. Fuck it, I’ll even throw in an extra blanket. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds like you better leave,” adds Razor, tightening beside me.

  The sergeant stands and nods, tucking his baton back into his belt. “Gentlemen.”

  We watch him walk out, Sarah eyeing us from the corner.

  It strikes me we may have to be a little more careful with the local constabulary. The last thing we need is an over-enthusiastic cop putting questions to his pals in the big smoke.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LUX

  I wake clawing sleep dust from my eyes. I half expect to find Deacon standing by the door watching me, but the room’s empty.

  Shame.

  I throw the covers off and swing myself into a sitting position. I find jeans on the floor and drag them o
n. The clock beside the bed shows it’s 10am. I haven’t slept in this late since I was sixteen and dreamy-eyed over Justin Bieber.

  I stand and walk to the door, legs heavy. I open it slowly and look out. The place is way too quiet. “Hello?” I call down the hall.

  No response.

  Arms wrapped around myself, I head down the hall into the longue. No one’s here. There’s toast on the table, evidence the brothers were awake.

  I notice a hastily written note on the fridge door: SURFING. BACK LATER. FLAPJACKS ON THE BENCH.

  I am hungry.

  I take a flapjack and stuff it unceremoniously into my mouth. Not bad. I could get used to this.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help having a little look around the place. It’s more or less what you’d expect of three alpha males living together, what with the random porn and discarded bottles and cans on every flat surface. The surfboards are missing from the walls, but there’s Sex Wax on the table and spare wetsuits hanging from an old chandelier in the hall. It’s my kind of home—lived in, a little chaotic. A home, not a museum.

  I walk past Razor’s room.

  Don’t do it.

  I can’t help it. I enter, arms folded, and look around. There are a couple of surfing mags on the tableside fighting for space with Playboy and Hustler. There’s also a framed picture of the three brothers together standing at what has to be a Californian beach. They look happy.

  I pick up a pair of pants, lord knows why, and sniff, soon discarding them when the smell threatens to overwhelm me.

  In contrast, Bo’s room is clean and neat, the bed made and everything in order. The same picture is pinned to the wall and below it another with who I can only imagine are their parents. The picture is old, a Polaroid from the nineties maybe.

  Finally, I stand in front of the door to Deacon’s room. I don’t know why, but I’m more nervous about entering his space than any of the others. Perhaps it’s because we share a connection now, something I can’t really put into words, but I know deep down it’s more than that. All the brothers are attractive, the kind of brutish bad boys a girl would think twice about taking home to Momma, but Deacon… He’s different. I sense there’s more going on in his head than he’s letting on.

  I creep inside slowly and close the door softly behind myself. What the hell are you doing, Lux?

  I want to leave, but curiosity has me caught in a vice. The room’s large, far larger than my own. It must be the master.

  It’s surprisingly barren given how long the brothers have been here. Still, there’s nothing that immediately hints of something sinister going on.

  There’s the same picture of the three brothers stuck to the wall. Below it is another of what appears to be Deacon and a girl. She’s got stark blonde hair like myself, blue eyes. We could almost be twins.

  The plot thickens.

  I pat down my pockets and find my phone. There doesn’t seem to be any reception around here, but the camera works just fine.

  I don’t really know why, but I zoom in on Deacon’s face and take a snap. For posterity’s sake, I tell myself.

  A sound. The front door opening. Footsteps outside.

  Shit.

  I jump to the door and peer out.

  It’s Deacon, surfboard under his arm headed in this direction.

  Shitty shit shitballs.

  How the hell are you going to explain this?

  I look around, frantic. The wardrobe door is slid open. It’ll have to do.

  I manage to slip inside and pull the slatted door across right as Deacon enters.

  Now you’ve done it.

  I peer through the smallest of gaps between the slats. It’s dark in here and bright out there, I’m safe for now.

  Until he comes hunting for a shirt.

  Deacon’s in his wetsuit, standing in front of a mirror on the far side of the room.

  He reaches behind himself and pulls the zipper of the wetsuit down, peels out of it until it’s winged out around his hips, his torso, chest and arms bare and exposed. My stomach clutches, but it’s with a different kind of hunger now.

  Oh crap.

  This is not good.

  If he comes over here. If he catches you…

  I push the thought away, the slat in front of my lips beaded with condensation from my breathing.

  He takes hold of the wetsuit and presses it down his thighs, no underwear, no nothing but for ass and cock and plenty of the latter, the bulbous head of it swinging between his legs heavy and large.

  I actually cover my eyes for a moment, unable to comprehend this, but yep, it’s happening alright.

  Wetsuit puddled around his ankles, he steps out of it and watches himself in the mirror. He doesn’t flex or smile or gaze at his body. He simply stares, looking for something.

  I’m surrounded by shirts and jeans, the smell of his masculinity, of male, thick around me.

  I crouch back as far as I can, watch as he takes hold of his member, lightly stroking it.

  Oh no. No, no, no. Don’t do that.

  He collapses onto the bed on his back, his cock growing hard in his grip.

  I’ve never seen a man masturbate before. It causes an unexpected wave of warmth to rush into my body. My nipples tighten against the cotton craters of my bra, tender.

  I arch forward for a better view, my chest brushing against the slats of the door.

  My mouth goes dry watching his fist pump up and down, his cock climbing higher and higher, growing thicker and thicker until it’s monstrous, obscene even in his hand.

  His head falls back to the edge of the bed, his huge thighs spread wide and his fist beating harder, faster, eyes closed in quiet supplication at the act.

  A thought occurs to me. What if he’s thinking about you?

  I smell my own sex, musky and damp, the scent of it mingling with the occupants of the cupboard, closing in around me. This is what it would smell like if you were together, you on him, him on you, in you.

  I shift uneasily as he continues to stroke his shaft long and slow.

  His cock’s magnificent, completely erect now with the foreskin stretched back, the rosy head of it uncovered.

  He groans and I feel it in my groin, primal. My thighs begin to ache, a strange and yet exquisite pressure growing between my legs. I press a hand between them to ease it, my labia swollen against my panties, the crotch soaked through.

  He jerks faster, lifting from the bed, the muscles in his arm coiling and releasing, his tattoos alive.

  Fuck it.

  I draw the crotch of my panties aside, can feel my clit engorged, my own juices slippery and hot falling through my fingers.

  I stifle a moan, holding onto a hanging pair of jeans with one hand while the other presses harder against my crotch, my hips searching and moving for friction, my body opening and responding.

  He grunts again and I almost lose my balance, teetering and only catching my lurch at the last moment. He’s really getting into it, his cock a blur in his hand, shoulders straining.

  I can’t settle. I shift from one foot to the other, constantly wondering whether my movements will give me away. I slip two fingers inside myself, press them deep into the hot mouth of my pussy.

  Saliva floods my mouth as I watch, spellbound. I let my thumb slip over my clit, the feeling of being filled unbelievably satisfying. I haven’t masturbated since I was a teenager, have never felt the urge until now watching this private act. I quiver thinking what he would do if he caught me, opening the door to find me with my knees spread and the space between them open and wet, stuffed full of my fingers.

  He might replace them with his own, with his tongue perhaps.

  I shudder again.

  God, Lux. You’re losing it.

  I adjust my hand, match him stroke for stroke, my fingers quietly sliding in and out my steamy hole.

  His breathing comes labored. He’s close, pearly desire leaking from the tip of his member, whisked away by his hand as it rises
and falls.

  He lifts from the mattress, levitating and pumping with everything he has, thrusting his hips to meet his hand. I do likewise caught in the cupboard, the tension growing in my core ready to explode.

  I build, forced to close my eyes as I lift towards climax, my chest heaving from the effort, my muscles tight and tense.

  It arrives and my eyes snap open just in time to catch the gush of semen over his hand, my climax crushing in its intensity, convulsions kicking me back and forward in the small space, quivering, out of control.

  I press my teeth together tight lest I scream aloud, wave after wave of ecstasy washing over me until I half-collapse against the door, removing my slippery fingers as I buck and twist through the final throes.

  Limp, exhausted, I watch through the slats as Deacon rises from the bed, cleaning himself with a towel from the corner, his cock still proud and hard, not even his own completion causing it to fall.

  The door creaks and for one horrifying moment he looks straight at me.

  I freeze. This is it, fingers still caught between my legs, no way to explain this.

  He looks away and opens the top drawer of a dresser by the wall, pulling out clothes and tossing them onto the bed before leaving the room completely.

  I hear the shower come on at the back of the house. Now. You have to go now.

  So I do. I gently push the door open and stand, brushing my nightshirt down and peering around the corner, steam billowing out from under the bathroom door.

  I reach for the knob of the bedroom door, turn and pull, rushing back to my room and pressing myself against the far wall breathing hard, the damp between my legs cooling fast.

  *

  I’m still tingling at work. I came prepared for a nightly weekend rush of patrons, but the pub’s as empty as it’s been every other day. Maybe Sarah’s right. Maybe the boys’ brawl money really is paying the bills.

  “Is it always this quiet?” I ask her, continuing to polish glasses, a seemingly endless task.

  “Afraid so. My father owned this pub, passed it on. It holds sentimental value, you know, but as for a retirement fund?” She laughs. “I’ll be working here ’til I’m six foot under. Hell, I might still be working after that.”