by Layla Wolfe
I just screamed plain old “No!”
They sailed across our bodies one more time before turning into a cyclone of teeth and ears and nails. Pine needles and cones were sucked into their whirlwind. I yanked my sports bra down to cover my boobs. It struck me I was embarrassed in front of the dogs but had been turned on at the idea of other men watching us engage.
In fact, our two roommates, who had probably been visible the entire time, were now racing toward us doing zigzags, arms out like they were rounding up hens. “Hey! Hey! Hey!” they shouted, while Town, stuffing his rigid cock back into his jeans, kept up the “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”
It was I who yanked him to his feet. We shared a look, and I knew instantly what it signified.
I had turned the tables on him. He’d been denying me a climax as a sort of game, a scintillating ploy to draw out my orgasm. What a jerk! But at the same time, I loved him more than ever for giving half a shit.
Then I had taken control. I was planning on toying with him just as badly as he’d toyed with me. What pleasure there was in control! Town, the ultimate type A, determined shitbird, was a slithering pile of limbs in my hands. I could toy and manipulate and finger, handle, and thumb him until the cows came to roost. He was utterly my slave if I kept up the stimulation.
Men were such suckers!
I really enjoyed being authoritative. I couldn’t wait to try it again.
“Fuck!” yelled Slappy, jitterbugging from foot to foot. “They completely knocked over our scorpion bowl!”
Crybaby managed to get a knee between the playful pups, but they dodged him. Separating, they ran circles around Crybaby, playing Keep Away. “Can you make another scorpion bowl, Heaven? Whoa, Linus! What’s gotten into these dogs?”
Town just stood back and laughed. “They’ve got the zoomies.”
I stood back too. It was nice seeing the critters play.
I wondered if I would torture Town all night by not letting him come.
Yeah. That sounded like a good idea.
Chapter Eighteen
Town
“So…how are those nipple clamps holding up?”
Heaven looked shyly at me over her shoulder. We were in the fruiting chamber setting up a new batch of shrooms. I was drilling holes into the bottom of a plastic file box, and she was rinsing perlite in a strainer under the cold tap.
She said, “Oh, they’re still on, all right.”
To my surprise she turned to me, shimmying her shoulders so her large boobs shook from side to side. I instantly felt myself harden.
But I had to maintain that semblance of control. Raising one eyebrow, I nodded with approval. “Good. Does it stimulate your pussy?”
She blushed at the word “pussy.” Hell, she was still trying not to say “fanny” for “ass.” “Yes,” she said casually, setting the colander on the edge of the sink. “It’s very strange, though, waiting in line at the post office, or buying seeds, or staining a floor while being excited and fixated on you.”
“Good,” I said gruffly, setting the plastic box upright onto four posts. Heaven shook the colander to hasten the draining of water. “I want you fixated on me, Heaven. No one else is going to lay a finger on you.”
Again, she gave me that loving look over her shoulder. She moved onto unscrewing jars, tapping out first the vermiculite onto a clean board, then the shroom “cakes.” I joined her in this task. “You know, you don’t really need to roast us a turkey tonight. We could shower together, and . . . “
“But you shot the turkey, and I plucked and cleaned it. If I don’t make the turkey,” she declared, “it’ll be something I’ll do when I enter university.”
I knew by this she meant a long time, but she had been talking to the club lawyer Slushy about becoming an attorney by the way of online universities. Tuzigoot, the family construction company president since Ford had stepped down, assured her a position at their airplane hangar on Mescal Mesa. She was just waiting for classes to start while Tobiah upgraded the cabin’s wireless. Bare Bones brother Fox Isherwood had formerly been a lawyer in New Mexico in a past lifetime. He was helping her, too. Meanwhile, I’d convinced her to finally start painting her landscapes. She was having a blast at the easel set up where the sun flooded Wolf Glaser’s old room, inspired by the lake view.
As for me, VA doctors were deciding whether to perform a vertebroplasty or a kyphoplasty on my fractured discs. I would be a helpless moron for a couple of months—the part I loathed about this plan—but eventually I’d be standing tall and wouldn’t need the odious cane to zip around. That was the part I liked. It was worth the tradeoff. It was something I should’ve done a long time ago. First, if I wasn’t such a workaholic. Second, if I wasn’t such a drunkard.
Speaking of, it looked as though Heaven was successfully moderating her intake. She no longer used the crutch of the flask and would go days without drinking if it didn’t fit in with her plans. She told me she no longer needed to blot out disgust and fear of anyone—in fact, she wanted to see me with even more clarity, if such a thing was possible. I was damned proud of her.
“We’re doing the shower,” I said decisively. “Only this time, no switching it up on me.” I still smoldered about the time the dogs had interrupted our sojourn. I couldn’t blame them for being so rambunctious, so I of course blamed myself for allowing Heaven to put me in such an undignified position. I was clay in her hands when she yanked down my jeans and took me into her mouth. I didn’t protest one inch. I knew what the hell was wrong with me—I was in love and couldn’t wait to jizz inside her hot mouth.
But I could’ve been more in control about it. That’s when I realized Heaven was truly a switch, a person who enjoyed “switching it up” and changing Dom/sub roles. I was shocked that I somewhat enjoyed it. That day the dogs had interrupted us, my mind was in a whirlpool the rest of the day and probably the next. I found myself manhandling her in the kitchen, playing touchie-feelie under the dining table, accidentally busting in on her while she took a shower. She kept teasing me, though. I guess she finally discovered the power there was in denying satisfaction. I sure knew it. And Heaven was switching it up on me.
She’d kept me at arm’s length. She insisted we sit on the back porch while she told me why she couldn’t get pregnant. It seemed she really wanted me to know this, I guess in case having children was important to me. Then it struck me—she really was serious about me. She told me how her parents had taken her to some “abortion guy” after finding out she was “that way.” The guy had some “plain old-fashioned buttonhook” and had cleaned her out, only permanently.
I had some rearranging to do in my head. Was Heaven my future wife?
You bet your fucking nutsack she is.
We could always adopt children. The Bare Bones, via Lytton who visited us often, were attempting to convince me to prospect for them. “We like your style,” said Lytton. “We need more former military in our org. Think about it.” I knew prospecting would involve a lot of sitting around while the brothers held their sit-down church meetings, sitting outside the room I should add, being too junior to know their real dealings. I’d change toilet paper, make drinks, check the oil or wash their rides, really, any task beneath them. . . In other words, being a submissive which I was most defiantly not trained to do.
Still, I was mulling it over. The Bare Bones was a great club. I loved all of the brothers deeply—yes, even Russ Gollywow with all the twirling, matching suits, and harmonizing he did in a Philly soul group in his spare time. Even Baron Funkhauser with his swallowtail beard and enormous beer gut, back from doing Buck Rogers time on a RICO beef just in time to help save our asses in Flagstaff. They were all real family to each other, something I had seriously longed for since retiring from the army. This was a true brotherhood, and the old ladies formed a union probably very similar to Heaven’s old Cornucopia.
The phone in my holster rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but it could always have been a former Joe needing help,
or someone from Puppies Behind Bars. There were all sorts of possibilities, so I usually answered.
“Yeah,” was all I said, drifting away from the spore table.
“Is this Town?” an odd, wavering voice said.
“Yes,” I said skeptically.
“Walk away from whoever you’re with right now.”
“Who is this?” I demanded, even as I complied by walking toward the fruiting chamber door.
“Are you alone?”
I brimmed with irritation, yet I stepped outside the greenhouse. “Yes.”
“All right. This is Darcy Bard. Do you remember meeting me at the Lovely Dogs kennel?”
Recognition seeped into my brain. “Is that the name of the fucking puppy mill? Yes, I recall you. You said you’re the owner, yet you do nothing to stop them.”
“That may be true. But word on the street is that you guys are coming to wreak havoc upon my property.”
I jutted my jaw. “I’m not spilling a word, Bard. And I can’t bribe you with a twenty over the phone.”
“I’ll just come out and say it. I’ve got the Cinderella Complex. I’m psychologically unable to remove myself from the dominion of the Friends of Distinction. To redeem myself, my mission is to tell you I’ve appropriated a complete litter of newborn boxer dogs. I want to hand them over to you.” He added thoughtfully, “You are my prince. You’ve come to save them, and therefore me.”
Of course, I was highly cynical about all this, especially his psychological evaluation. “How do I know the Friends didn’t set you up for this?”
“Why would they? What’s a harmless old man like me to do with any of that illegal activity? I wouldn’t know anything about it. I want you to meet me behind the Target outside of Pure and Easy this afternoon at two sharp so I can hand over the puppies.”
I snorted. “Why does it have to be behind the Target? So the video cameras won’t see us?”
Bard became even more evasive. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.”
“So you’re not denying it.”
“Oh, don’t mind me. It’s part of the Cinderella Complex. Dependency on these guys has made me anxious. I fear that becoming independent from them will lead to my downfall.”
I had to shake my head to erase some of the odd things he was saying. “OK, behind the Target. At two.”
“And don’t bring your phone.”
I chuckled. “How did I know you’d say that? Is there a reason you don’t want anyone tracking where I’m going?”
Bard practically whispered. “You’ll see when you see me. If these Friends catch me giving away these puppies, why, they’ll have my hide.”
“More like stick you into that septic tank along with that other guy.”
“He’s in there, I tell you. I cannot tell a lie.”
“All right. Behind Target at two.”
“No phone.”
“No phone. But if I see anything remotely shady, I’m raising the alarm to the Bare Bones.”
“Fair enough.”
I thought. I was pretty sure there were security cameras behind Target too. But Bard was right—it would look ultra-shady to be handing over a whole box of puppies in a parking lot. I would have to borrow Heaven’s cage. If I put a box of squirming puppies in my sidecar, I’d lose the whole lot of them by the time I got home.
Of course, she asked me why I needed her cage. “I’m picking up a surprise for you.” I figured I could give the pups to Tanner for his rescue ranch. He could find homes for boxer puppies. Heaven gave me that fake-skeptical look, like “hmmm,” and pulled her car keys out of her bra. At the last possible second I asked,
“Hey. Can you do me a favor and watch my phone for me? Hey, put it where the car keys were.”
“Why?”
Testing out my authoritative prospecting skills, I said, “Just do it.”
And, like a good old lady, she did.
I kissed her deeply before I left. I was no moron. I knew there was more to Darcy Bard’s “offer” than met the eye. And, having been the victim of an assassination attempt before, I was especially leery. But all I had to do was take Heaven’s cage behind the store. If I saw anyone other than Bard, I could rabbit. No one was going to shoot me behind a well-known store. They already knew the Bare Bones was setting up a strike on their op. Why hasten its arrival by assassinating a prospect? And I was intrigued by the further intel I could gain from Bard. Still, I was leery enough to bring my 9mm Glock 17 with me, stuffed into my back waistband and covered by a jean vest. I did not qualify yet for a leather cut.
I didn’t see Slappy, Tobiah, or Crybaby. If I had, I might have told them where I was going. I was leaving it all up to fate.
I drove past many A-frame houses like Sax and Bee’s woodsy home. It brought to mind my first meeting with my love. Had I fucking saved her from the clutches of these whacked Friends of Distinction? A Boner had shot “Stomach” Ginsburg, and I had no idea whether he had survived. Either way, it was even more incentive for the Friends to go to the wall for their brother. I was starting to regret not having even secreted my phone somewhere in Heaven’s cage.
I rolled cautiously behind the department store building, toward a cage that looked like something Bard would drive, a beaten-up Honda or other. He must’ve driven in the truck loading dock side, because yellow safety bollards prevented me from going further. That was fortunate. I idled Heaven’s car and flashed my lights.
That feeble, hunched Darcy Bard emerged from the Honda. He waved, like we were meeting for coffee. I looked to all sides. No other cars, not even a delivery truck.
When Bard opened the back seat door and removed a box of something squirming, I got my hopes up. Maybe we have an inside man. I got out and slammed my door, raising my hand in something of a military salute.
“Bard,” I shouted, and took several steps toward him.
Chapter Nineteen
Heaven
Town still hadn’t returned by dinnertime.
I even moronically called his phone, only to have it ring in my bra.
“Duh,” I muttered to myself, sitting at my place at the table instead of serving the men zucchini. They wouldn’t mind about missing zucchini since I’d already served the pork loin roast. I often gave them shit about having “all-meat dinners.”
Tobiah was the first to remark. He was hunched over his plate, elbows on table as though protecting it from marauders. With his bowl haircut, he could’ve been another serving of meat. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh.” I put Town’s phone on the table. “Town isn’t usually this late. And he told me to keep his phone before he left.”
Now all the men frowned.
“That’s bizarre,” said Slappy, chunks of pork dangling from the roof of his mouth. “Why would he do that?”
I said, “He acted very mysterious. Said I’d find out soon. Something about a surprise for me.”
Tobiah held out his hand for Town’s phone. I slid it down the table to him.
Crybaby said, “That doesn’t sound like Town. I mean, the surprise part, sure. But giving you his phone?”
Everyone was temporarily silent while Tobiah thumbed Town’s phone. Then, without taking his eyes from the device, he got up and walked like a slow zombie to where he’d set up a temporary command post. He’d pushed the pool table against the wall in what I called the “rumpus room.” Everyone laughed at that designation, I’m not sure why. Tobiah sat at his rolling chair and typed a bunch of shit into his desktop. All I can say it was a “bunch of shit,” because I had no clue how computers worked. Tobiah had given me a few lessons on a laptop so I could read the world news—and Buzzfeed. I was addicted to that, although I had no clue who ninety percent of the celebrities were. I liked the quizzes.
Slappy, however, seemed to know what Tobiah was doing. “He’s looking up the numbers Town last called.”
“Right,” Tobiah said vaguely. By now, everyone had stopped eating, even my pork loin roast with garlic, tarragon, and whi
te wine. I held my breath, clinging to Tobiah’s response like the smell of frying. “What time did he hand you his phone?”
I thought. “Twelve forty-five or so.”
“Okay. The last number that called him was a burner phone. It was purchased by someone at the Pure and Easy Target.”
Slappy leaned over so far, I thought he’d tumble from his chair. “You can’t tell who bought it?”
“Hang on.”
The three of us eyeballed each other in complete silence.
At length Tobiah said, “Guy named Irv Beagle.”
We continued staring at each other until Slappy broke the silence. He stood up so suddenly he did knock his chair over, and he stomped over to Tobiah, his cloth napkin dangling from his belt. “What kind of a fucking name is Irv Beagle? Is this for real?”
Tobiah held up both his palms as though Slappy was a knife slasher. “Hey, hey, don’t ask me. That’s what it says.”
Slappy pointed a stiff finger at Tobiah’s screen. “Well, can you find out who this fucktard is?”
“I’m on it,” said Tobiah. But instead of mousing on his desktop, he reached for his own cell phone. Once again, we all shared ashen looks. “Yes, I’d like to speak to the head of Security. Thanks.”
Slappy looked at me. “Who’s he calling?”
“Target?” I suggested.
This turned out to be a genius idea. Tobiah said, “Yes, this is Sergeant Normal Acres of the Pure and Easy Homicide Unit. We believe there may have been some foul play in your back alley earlier today. I’d like to take a look at your security footage. Yes. Mm-hmm. Certainly, Paul. I’ll send you verification immediately. What’s your email?”
Now the three of us looked at each other in awe. What sort of cool game was Tobiah playing? How on earth could he get Paul to believe he was seriously Normal Acres? Especially since he had such a goofy voice to go along with his goofy looks.
But while Tobiah emailed Paul, my nerves creeped up on me, and I headed to the kitchen for a glass of wine. I had been drinking wine rather than brandy, and much less of it than the old days, but right now, I needed that crutch.
