by Wolfe, Layla
Of course. It all made sense now. It brought out untold layers of dominance, craving, and machismo in Sax, knowing Beatrix actually had been a nun, or on her way to becoming one. It explained a lot of his attraction to her, unbeknownst even to himself. He probably should have been ashamed that the idea of fucking a novitiate was causing his cock to lengthen and surge with blood. It was more than just a uniform fetish, which he’d been known to have on occasion. There was nothing more satisfying than turning a “meter maid” over one’s knee and dishing out her just punishment.
This was different—deeper, more personal, more profound. Knowing she’d been a novitiate shaded Beatrix with complexities and nuances. Sax had known she was a deeply layered woman, but this new knowledge sent a wave of gooseflesh down his arms, puckering his nipples, filling his balls with seed. Sax wanted a covenant with the sensual gardener, a covenant of dominance and submission. He needed to get to the bottom of this Roscoe Flantz’s hold over Beatrix. He was going to end that abusive assmuncher and take his fucking rightful place as Master of the luminous sister. He looked forward to the training of Sister Colette…
Much like a horny guy attempting to think about baseball, Sax turned to discussing business with Lytton. “I just went down to a nail salon, a tip I had about Tormenta. Possibly smuggling women from Mexico to work in his god damned sweatshops.”
Lytton snorted. “Sounds like a Tormenta scheme. I remember him a few years back approaching Ford to use my connections over at the Fort Apache Rez to funnel his Sinaloa heroin. You know how the feds hate going onto Rez land. Of course Ford said no, at great risk to our club. No one says no to Tormenta.”
“Well, I couldn’t get much out of the madam running the joint, naturally, without blowing my cover. I was wondering if you might at least have some inspectors on your payroll, you know, for your dispensary, your pot farm.”
Lytton brightened. “Of course! I’ve got an associate at the State Department of Health. I can reach out to ol’ Saul Goldblum, see if he can rattle some cages.”
“Maybe flush Tormenta out,” Sax suggested. “Listen. Beatrix was supposed to be on her way up here and I’m worried. Let me try calling her again.”
Lytton frowned. “Of course.”
Sax wandered to the end of the long deck where he could get a view of the approaching driveway. No texts from Beatrix. No voicemails either. At the risk of appearing to be a Dom with no control, he thumbed her phone number. Straight to voicemail.
Sax grunted, a tight sound of frustration. If she truly had left The Citadel when she said she had, she would’ve been here twenty minutes ago. Hands on hips, he paced angrily, not accustomed to having no control. The idea to hop back on his scoot and shoot back down the highway to find her was just a seed in his brain when the unmistakable rumble of a Dyna’s tailpipes approached.
Yes, the white Dyna seemed to be circling some square looking cage, maybe a Jetta or a Passat. The two vehicles were at war with each other, the Dyna swerving to the right, then the left, staying just inches abreast of the VW’s front bumper. They were playing chicken, and Sax wasn’t surprised to realize the Dyna was operated by none other than Wolf Glaser, Prospect Extraordinaire. But who was the nerdy driver, and why was Glaser harassing him?
Lytton must have heard the motorized tug-of-war, too, because he was also racing through the house toward the front door. June came from the kitchen area, her hands covered in flour.
“That’s Tobiah Weingarten,” she told Sax, her eyes wide. “He’s our Leaves of Grass business manager. I don’t think he likes Wolf Glaser very much.”
That was the fucking understatement of the year. The three stood on the front portico while the Jetta burned gravel, coming to a sideways stop. Wolf didn’t seem to expect this maneuver and practically did a high side over the Jetta’s hood. Sax had to admire the Prospect’s save. Tobiah only got a mouthful of gravel when he turned his head to shout at Wolf. Wolf leaped off his ride triumphantly, doing a dance on the tips of his toes.
“Ha! Ha! Sorry to keep you from your comic book signing, nerd boy!”
Tobiah was a bowl-headed nerd boy, as far as Sax could see. He sprung from his cage utterly apoplectic, his spidery little legs clad in burnt umber jeans, his belt so white Sax had to put his shades back on. Tobiah pointed with a shaky hand, the hand of The Ghost of Christmas Future. His voice oozed with loathing. “You. You embarrassing little baby. Every time you come around to ‘help,’ you wind up doing nothing but hinder. You’re like a giant diaper-clad infant whose sole business is to ruin everyone’s attempts at doing their jobs.”
Tobiah whipped his spindly torso to face Lytton. “Do you know what this worthless excuse for a Prospect just did? He’s jealous that I stole a girl that he never had in the first place, so he nearly erased the one vital piece of evidence I found that I know you’d want to see, the one transient piece of evidence that was about to be zapped from the interwebs for all time immemorial, never to be recovered again!”
Wolf’s dance lost some of its zip, but he still pirouetted around Tobiah. “I could care less about Tracy—you can have her! She’s got limp, mousy hair and a pear-shaped body anyway.”
That did it. Tobiah lost his decorum then. Like a mathlete protesting a ruling, his arms waved uncontrollably, and he took several threatening steps toward the dancing Prospect. “This is no game, you overgrown toddler! You were breathing so far down my neck the steam practically shorted out my motherboard, and your hands dripping with pizza grease almost slipped and hit the ‘delete’ key!”
The mirth fell from Wolf’s eyes now. He stopped dancing, tugging the bottom hem of his cut down with authority. “Oh yeah? Well, if anyone hits the delete key around here it’s you, when you go to delete the entire history of your nonexistent love life!”
Sax and Lytton looked at each other, like “That’s it? That’s all Wolf has to offer?” Sax knew Wolf’s propensity for mayhem, though, so he jogged down the steps to stand between the two rivals.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said to Wolf Glaser, causing the buffoon to back off with respect. “Why aren’t you with Beatrix?”
Tobiah leaned to see around Sax’s arm. “Yeah! Why aren’t you with Beatrix?”
Wolf gestured as if to shove Tobiah, but Sax stood solidly in his way. “Because I’m assigned to work with you, you gaywad!”
Sax had to hold Wolf by the biceps to steady him. Apparently this Tracy chick had really gotten under his skin. Sax was sure he’d chuckle about it later, but now wasn’t the time. He shook the Prospect. “Listen. Where the fuck is Beatrix.”
Wolf had the nerve to shake off Sax’s hands, backing off. He held his palms toward Sax in innocence. “I don’t know! She was at The Citadel when Ford told me to head on up to Leaves of Grass and deal with this dorkwad here!”
Tobiah sneered, still standing behind Sax like a human shield. “Oh yeah? Well no one asked for your worthless help, you goon!”
Wolf became combative again, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an MMA fighter warming up. “Why don’t you just go soak your head in a salad bowl? I wouldn’t want you to miss your Doctor Who convention!”
Sax and Lytton must’ve gotten fed up simultaneously. Now Lytton took his front steps two at a time while Sax shoved Wolf Glaser up against the window of the VW, a forearm across his throat. “Boys, boys,” Lytton said, steering his business manager away from the huffy Prospect. “What’s this vital piece of information you discovered, Toby?”
Tobiah looked to one side. “Oh. Yeah.” He seemed embarrassed to be discovered so far off-track from his original mission, and he went around to the passenger side of his cage. “I managed to save this—and not with the help of any gung-ho assholes steaming up my keyboard—before Facebook deleted it from the cloud.” He waved a notebook. “I can’t even recover data from Facebook once it’s deleted!”
Releasing Wolf Glaser, Sax went around the trunk side of the cage. Wolf, full of disgust, went to stand by June, who was smart enough n
ot to stick her nose into club business. Tobiah waved the slim computer in the two men’sfaces.
“Now what you’re about to see will shock you,” the computer expert said dramatically.
“I doubt it,” both Sax and Lytton replied simultaneously.
Tobiah set his expression into a mask of patience. “But seriously. This won’t be pleasant.”
“I’m used to it,” said Sax.
“I’ve seen worse,” said Lytton.
Tobiah persisted. “But this involves one of your sweetbutts. A Flagstaff sweetbutt, anyway. You’d better steel yourself for this particularly gruesome—”
“Oh my God!” Wolf Glaser exploded off the portico, apparently unable to withstand Tobiah’s drama. “Tony Tormenta posted on Facebook again! I guess his ego just couldn’t handle being out of the limelight. Well, it is gruesome. I don’t know this particular sweetbutt, but Tormenta has slashed her so horribly she’s unrecognizable, and he’s tormenting us.” Wolf stopped to chuckle, maybe at the idea that Tormenta was tormenting them.
Sax spoke through a clenched jaw. “Which sweetbutt?” It was more a statement than a question. He was just inches from grabbing the front of Wolf Glaser’s cut and shaking the information out of him. “Which fucking sweetbutt?” He turned to the hapless Tobiah Weingarten, who was now literally trembling in his Reebok X Marvel sneakers.
He didn’t need to say it twice to the computer analyst. Tobiah’s hands shook as he pressed the notebook’s screen to retrieve the page he’d saved before it had been vaporized for all eternity by the powers that be at Facebook. “It, ah, it shows how badly he slashed this poor woman’s face, and here you can see he’s bragging about it. I know it’s Tormenta because of his new screen name. Ah…” Tobiah’s voice trailed off as though uncertain he should even risk giving voice to this. “SoccerBallHead.” He was referring to the infamous soccer ball incident with Roman Serpico’s father. His goons had photographed Tormenta kicking it around gleefully, even wearing some soccer jersey. And Mr. Serpico had been an employee of Tormenta’s. Theoretically on the same side.
Wolf roared, “And because he slashed a Flagstaff sweetbutt…again. That’s another way we can tell it’s him. Not just some stupid screen name.”
Losing patience, Sax whipped the notebook from Tobiah’s clutches. He, too, could not make head nor tail of the mashed network of hamburger that had been made of this poor woman’s face. Had she lived? Handing the computer to Lytton, he murmured, “Have you received any communications about this?”
“Not a thing,” breathed Lytton, gazing at the image.
Standing on tiptoes, Tobiah pointed at the screen. “Well, you can tell who it is by looking at Tormenta’s bragging comment. He says right there, ‘This bitch Smoky is going to need more makeup before any guy will even look at her again.’ Untrue, actually. It sure looks to me like—”
“—like she’s dead.” Lytton finished Tobiah’s sentence for him.
Smoky. Tormenta referred to Brenda Ridings, the old-timer sweetbutt who chain-smoked like there was no tomorrow.
This time Sax did grab Wolf Glaser by the front of his cut. He rattled the jerk like a dog toy. “I’m going to ask you once more. Where the fuck is Beatrix Hellman.”
Wolf’s fingers scrabbled at Sax’s fist. “She—she—”
That wasn’t good enough for the impatient Sax, and he lifted the Prospect so that now he really was dancing on his toes. “She what.”
Tobiah had come over to gape and guffaw. “Doesn’t feel so good now, does it, Mr. Probably Was In The Marching Band in High School?”
“I played the fucking saxophone!” Wolf found time to spit at his rival, before going back to being choked by Sax.
Tobiah slapped his knee. “Hoo boy, I knew it!”
Wolf’s fear suddenly shifted to impatience, too. “She said she was going to get her nails done!”
Sax threw the idiotic jerk away. Wolf Glaser stumbled back into a bush, while Sax thought, stroking his chin. The nail salon. She was going to do some investigative work of her own, which was triply dangerous now that Tormenta appeared to know they were on his trail. Why else would he slash—and possibly kill—Brenda Ridings, further risking pissing off Leo Saxonberg and alienating his business? No, Tormenta was on to them. He might even know about the bounty on his head. Maybe Santiago Slayer had screwed up in some way and tipped their hand. That would figure.
Abruptly Sax turned to Lytton. “Listen. Get ahold of Leo in Flagstaff, find out what’s going on with Brenda Ridings. That’s her name. I’m going back down the hill to find Bee. I’ll ride around the streets of P and E if I have to. Meantime, everyone here’s got my cell number, I trust.”
“I don’t,” gasped Wolf Glaser, still sitting in the bush like it was a chair.
Sax didn’t care. He was already astride his scoot and reaching for his brain bucket when everyone froze. Another cage was coming down the driveway. In slow motion, Sax returned his brain bucket to the handlebars. He didn’t realize until tiny clear bubbles started swimming before his eyes that he was holding his breath, every fiber in his body alive in anticipation.
Ah. Beatrix’s ugly olive green Corolla lumbered casually down the drive. Sax’s relief was so great he nearly broke into a cold sweat. He had to take a few deep breaths, and tears even stung his eyes.
It was painfully evident to even the biggest bonehead—Sax knew he could be dense—that he was fatefully in love with Beatrix Hellman, the goody-goody bad girl of Flagstaff.
As he breathed, the Old Sax sunk its tentacles back into his brain. Old Sax leaped off his saddle and strode on over to the ugly cage, a brawny hulk of a man about to rip the car’s door from its hinges.
Instead, it opened on its own, Beatrix’s long, bare legs appearing first. Then her innocent alabaster face like some grandma’s cameo looking up at him. Her beauty overwhelmed him, enraging him all the more.
She said, “What’s going—”
Without engaging his brain, Sax’s arm shot forth. His fingers were around her wrist, he was yanking her from her car so violently her car keys and purse went flying. She was so weak, just an orchid of a woman! He twirled her around as though in a country swing dance, but anger drenched his soul.
He roared, “Do you fucking know how worried everyone was about you? How dare you take off on your own when all this shit is about to hit the fan? Do you fucking know how much danger you’re in? How dare you have us all on pins and fucking needles while you gallivant around the state?”
Her eyes and mouth were three round circles. “Sax! You’re hurting me!”
He knew he wasn’t, but he released her anyway, shoving her in the direction of the front door. “March, woman! March.”
She wasn’t moving fast enough for his liking. She had on little heeled sandals that even Sax had to admit looked sexy, and he was thoroughly enjoying her helplessness as she stumbled toward the house. Everyone else’s gleeful and horrified looks aroused Sax all the more. He’d always loved an audience for his displays of authority. Shoving the young, prim woman in the plaid camping shirt made his dick throb with excitement.
“Sax!” she cried, playing the role of the femme fatale to the hilt. “I don’t know what I did! I agree I should not have gone to the nail salon without you, but I couldn’t resist! I know what’s going on down there!”
“You should not have been going anywhere without me, period!” barked Sax. “You disobeyed both personal and club rules, and you need to be punished.” Just saying the word “punished” again had Sax’s balls plumping with seed, primed for release. He might not get physical release, but punishing the naughty girl would be its own release. He couldn’t rip his eyes from her rounded rear end beneath the crisply ironed khaki shorts.
Beatrix stumbled past June Driving Hawk. June had been passively hanging back on the portico outside of earshot of the men. Now Sax distinctly heard her whisper loudly to Beatrix.
“Go for it, girl! Push that man’s buttons. You’re so luck
y.”
That June had told Beatrix she was “lucky” swelled more than just Sax’s ego. By the time they passed the front door’s threshold his penis had expanded so thickly it was almost painful, crammed inside his tight jeans against his pocket.
“Sax! What are you doing?” Beatrix cried. “I know I did wrong, but look what came of it! Just relax, let me tell you what I found out.”
Again grabbing her bicep, he slammed her back against the wall. It was a good excuse to press his body to hers, to let her feel what she’d done to him. Arousing his anger also aroused his lust, and he was nearly out of his brain with both. His cock smashed against her pubic mound, pinning her to the wall. He was so close he could have kissed her again, but that wasn’t what this was about.
“You need to be kept in line,” he murmured darkly. Her weak, trembling body stimulated every dominant cell of his soul. “You’re going to learn to never disobey me again.”
Her lower lip trembled appealingly. Sax knew he’d kiss her, so instead he shoved her toward the first room that didn’t appear to be a bathroom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BEATRIX
I wasn’t sure why he was mad. Confusion swirled around me when Sax forced me into the house. What had I done wrong?
His rage was so palpable it was like a living, churning thing around me. Everyone else stood around like we were a sideshow, almost amused! Shouldn’t they be stopping this brute from manhandling me? Lytton, the most likely person who should have stepped in, stood with folded arms, an amused smile flitting around his mouth. What the fuck?
He was this enraged because I went to the nail salon without him? How fucking dangerous could a nail salon be, anyway? Weird thing was, no one else standing around seemed concerned that his reaction was over the top. June even smirked at me and gave me some advice about going for it—that I was lucky to be thrown around by Sax! This was a new kind of Dom entirely. Roscoe didn’t lord it over me with his enormous physical presence so much. He would just stand there caning me, telling me how awful I was. This was something else, an entire game changer.
