Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance

by May Ball, Alice

  Beanie said to Jurgen, “You guys must never have seen any of Butcher’s work,” and the atmosphere at the table chilled before he finished the sentence, “He’s not neat and professional he’s more... what would you say, Bogart?”

  “Jurgen and Bent knew Butcher in Iraq, and they’re probably as happy to forget about him as we would be,” and he gave Beanie a long look.

  Jurgen picked up and went on, “Ja, but Scandinavians, our culture goes back to the ancient times. Times when we carried civilization across the seas and oceans. We still kill in the old ways.”

  Cap was laughing, “By ‘civilization’ you mean the looting, raping and pillaging that the Vikings are so famous for.”

  Jurgen’s smile melted away and his voice flattened out, “Don’t fucking call us Vikings, yank,” and Bent’s hand was on a huge, wide hunting knife in his belt. It looked about a hundred years old.

  Cox changed the subject, told Bent that he wasn’t too clear on Scandinavian geography. Bent said, “Okay, brother, it’s no problem. I’ll tell you this once and you’re never going to forget,”

  These Norwegians were quick to anger and hard to read. I couldn’t tell if he was getting ready to tell a long Viking saga or if he was about to pull a gun.

  “Here it is, okay, next time you look on a map, Scandinavia is Europe’s cock, alright? Norway is the top half and Sweden is the bottom half.”

  Jurgen joined in, “Norway is the helmet. Sweden is the saggy foreskin.”

  Laughing hard, Bent said, “and Finland is the ball sack.”

  Cox, Bogart and Hacker laughed too. Bogart said, “What’s Denmark?”

  Bent and Jurgen looked at each other very seriously, then turned back to Bogart and said together, “Spunk.” There were back slaps all round, and another round of bourbon refills.

  I heard Jurgen tell Hacker, “This run is worth it for only the smoke. If we come here and we get only the smoke, I’m happy. There is nothing in Europe like this good, fresh grass. Almost everything is either dry African shit or that indoor grown skunk.”

  Bent leaned across the table, “Ja, bloody Dutch hydroponic crap, grown in plastic tomato tunnels by piggy-eyed geeks.”

  From the next table over, I caught Lump’s voice. Lump was short, but big and round. He always claimed he was all paratrooper muscle, although I couldn’t see what kinds of exercise would build that much stomach and ass muscle.

  Even for a biker, Lump was, to say the least, insensitive, and he was holding court with Chiz, big, bald and bulging, and Mo. Stoned, bearded Mo. Maybe Lump was making a show for them. The older and more senior bikers, they often get around a couple of drinks and they love to be giving out their wisdom and instruction to whoever will listen.

  Lump was the only charter member apart from Bogart who wasn’t dead or in jail. Not counting Butcher, of course. The rasp of Lump’s voice sawed through the air, “Damnit, man, their English. I can’t hardly understand a word they say,”

  Chiz joined in, “Even their names, man. ‘Trols,’ ‘Bent,’ what the fuck?” then their voices were rising,

  “What about ‘Snori’?”

  Chiz said, “‘Trols,’ man, I mean, really, ‘Trols’?”

  If I could hear it well enough, then so could Jurgen and Bent. I was thinking about shifting location when I saw that Cox and Hacker were already looking to move, too. We all got up, just as Jurgen and Bent were moving to the next table.

  Lump was saying, “Man, whoever heard of an angel called ‘Bent’?”

  Jurgen was standing behind Lump’s chair. “What was that, brother?”

  Lump didn’t look around but he wiggled a finger in his ear as he said, “Some kind of a noise, but I can’t make out if it’s words or not.”

  Beanie and Cap laughed. Bent broke a chair across Lump’s back and asked quietly, “Can you hear any better now?” Lump stood up slowly and turned.

  “Yeah, I know what that meant,” he said, swinging a Jack Daniels bottle at Bent. The two prospects were out of their chairs. From the far side of the room, Snori and Trols couldn’t get their dicks out of that little redhead fast enough, and they were bustling across the room and trying to shove their cocks back in their pants at the same time.

  Hacker and Cox and I were over by the wall, and the two men started back towards the growing eruption of chair legs and fists. Bogart was headed our way and he held a hand up to them. “Let everybody have a good time. Don’t step in unless somebody is really going to get hurt.”

  Hacker and Cox both looked the way that a puppy looks if you take his smelly rubber toy away. Bogart said, “Burden of responsibility, boys. The Kaos Anarki MC are our honored guests, and we’re management.”

  Cox took me into the far corner. I thought it was an odd moment to get romantic, but I was OK with it. He held my chin with his thumb and forefinger. Feeling him close, my breasts pressed against his shirt.

  He said, “Nikka, I told the Norwegians that you were my old lady to save you being passed around.” My face must have fallen, I must have looked very disappointed when he told me that, but Cox misunderstood the reason for it.

  His eyes flashed and I knew right away that he’d misread me. I touched his arm, but he shrugged my hand away. His voice was hard, “If you wanted to be passed around, then I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your party.”

  I reached for his arm again and I was starting to speak, “Cox no, I...” but he was gone.

  I was alone in a room full of fighting bikers and miserable as mud in the rain. Daddy used to say that and I never knew what it meant. Not until now, now I think I got it.

  I took a shot of bourbon and a spliff outside, sat on the stoop. Listened to the noise, watched the clouds over the moon. I never took anything seriously my whole life. Not until I met Cox. Could that stupid misunderstanding really be enough to fuck our beautiful thing up so bad?

  As the noise inside the clubhouse changed in pitch, it sounded as though the fight was moving into a bro-hug phase. Snori and Trols came out and sat beside me. At first I was glad of the company, and I thought that by being welcoming to the guests I could be some use to the club.

  It quickly became apparent that they wanted me to be a lot more welcoming than I had it in my mind to be. I stood up to go back into the clubhouse, knowing that I shouldn’t have wandered outside without Cox.

  Snori stood in front of me, his red beard hanging over his big barrel chest was right in my face. From behind me Trols said, “Don’t go. We just want to have a little fun, you know? Come on, be nice.” Trols was smaller, pretty wiry, had a pinched voice and a pointy face with his black porn-star droopy mustache. Matched his slicked back black hair. He said, “Come on, be nice.”

  It would be a bad plan to be rude to the club’s guests but, since Cox had pronounced me his old lady, Snori and Trols were stomping on the club rules and its hospitality by coming on to me. Maybe neither Jurgen nor Bent had told them. Without too much of a smile I said, “I’m with Cox.”

  Snori said, “Oh we heard something about it.” And Trols chimed in,

  “Didn’t seem like it was too official, though.”

  I said, “Maybe you’d like to check with Cox. I’ll see if I can find him.”

  Snori’s big paw held my arm. Lifted me enough to hurt my shoulder. His wiry beard scraped against my ear and he said, “No need for that. I told you we only wanted some fun.”

  Trols crowded in closer and I heard him say, “You are overreacting, little girly.” Against my thigh I felt the cold touch of that evil blade in his belt.

  And then Snori’s voice was close enough to feel his breath on my neck. My shoulder felt like it would rip apart as he lifted me a little higher, “You don’t want to be rude to the club’s guests, sugar tits.” Snori’s other big hand helped itself to a tour up my skirt and into my panties.

  The noise from inside the clubhouse rose as the door opened. Cap, one of the prospects came out and said, “Ah, Nikka, Cox is looking for you.” Snori let go. Sno
ri and Trols narrowed their eyes at me as I scurried back in. I touched Cap on his arm as I passed.

  Signs and Signifiers

  It took me a while to find Cox. When I did find him, I had the distinct impression he hadn’t been looking for me, that was just Cap being a hero. Cox looked distinctly like he had recently unentangled himself from the redhead who’d given Snori and Trols their big welcome.

  As far as I could tell, she was wearing heels, sweat, beer and cum.

  Crash This Train

  I tried to talk to Cox, but he avoided me. I spent about an hour, padding around after him like that, him sliding away. In the end, I got bored and decided to drive home.

  On my way home I got stopped by officer Drebben. He found a half-smoked joint and enough coke for about a quarter of a line in my glove box. I felt a complete idiot because I’m damned sure I didn’t have to let him search it. Being the police chief’s daughter, I got sloppy, thinking Daddy would just show up and make it all go away.

  Next thing I know, I’m in a cold gray room with metal furniture and some FBI dragon lady with a bob of red hair, leaning over the table, all hot and excited about how I’m going to wear a wire.

  I told her, ‘No way,’ about a thousand times, but she scared me half to death with talk of criminal associations, common purpose and federal time, and saying numbers of years that kept on going up. In my heart I knew it was probably all BS, but she did get me twitching.

  Someday Never Comes

  There was much work to be done with the shipment. Most club members worked long hours in the shop out back with oil, screwdrivers and small wrenches. It took two days straight to prepare the merchandise. Drinking was discouraged for Savage MC members, although the Vikings continued to fully enjoy an open bar.

  When it was ready, Bogart, Cox and Hacker took a few prospects, hauled the crates into a truck and made the run over to The Meathook, the bar and whorehouse owned and operated by Los Muertos MC.

  All went well right up until the time came for payment.

  Standing in the arc lights by the truck at the loading bay in back of the Meathook, Jake told Bogart, “Look, we had a setback. We haven’t got your full payment for the hardware. So. Take something in trade. We’ll make it up on the next run.”

  Bogart was very still, and he spoke slowly and quietly. “We’ve got all of your coke, right? So what do you propose? No offense, but I don’t want any of your weed.”

  “Take two girls, man. I know they could help in your clubhouse. Look, they’re beautiful girls. What’s the problem, man?”

  “Jake, we buy your coke because we’re in the coke business, and yours is the beat damn coke around. We’re also in the weed business, but we don’t buy your weed because we get better weed from elsewhere. Matter of fact, you should buy your weed from us. You’d have better weed. Only, you would have to pay for it. Just like the hardware.”

  Jake looked around at his compadres. Bogart talking to him this way in front of the others wasn’t making him look good. He should have done this in private. Too late now. Bogart wondered if Jake would be dumb enough to make a beef over it. Unlikely, he guessed.

  Bogart went on, his voice still quiet, reasonable, but firm, “We don’t buy your women, because we ain’t in the buying and selling women business. No disrespect, OK? You do your business your way, we do it ours. The girls who work in our clubhouse do it because they want to do it. You’re going to have to think of something else. But you’re fifty short, so you need to think fast.”

  Jake opened his hands, “Man, we been doing business a long time. Why can’t you roll it this one time?”

  Bogart looked back at him through the shades, “There’s a rule; don’t ask for credit, as a refusal can often be fatal. Twenty four hours, OK? And because of out history, I won’t add interest before then.”

  Jake came back at him, “Look, Bogart, take a party with this girl in the back, just for my gratitude. I think you’re going to want to take her home but if you don’t, no problemo.”

  Bogart said, “No problemo.”

  When Jake went inside, Cox said quietly, “Theirs is the best damn coke around?”

  Bogart looked at him through the shades, “Best damn coke at that price on this block.”

  Hacker said, “This girl’s bound to be some skank, too. Some poor wretch from the barrios.”

  Bogart agreed. “I’m only going in there because I don’t want to insult him any more.”

  Cox sapped Bogart on the shoulder, “You don’t? How civil of you, old chap.”

  Bogart said, “Nope. Not before the twenty four hours are up I don’t. He was looking a little tense there. After that, if need be I’ll insult him with a chainsaw.”

  Hacker said, “Pardon me mentioning it but, didn’t we just give them all our RPGs?”

  “Yup. Heavy machine guns too. Oh, wait. Did I remember to load up the ammo?”

  Cox laughed, “You sly fuck! You knew this was going to happen.”

  “Never set out without a fuckup plan.”

  Hacker was rubbing his chin, “You got a plan for how we’re going to square the Norwegians?”

  “I don’t know, Hacks, ask me a few more stupid questions, maybe I’ll offer them your ears.”

  Riders on the Storm

  Bogart’s voice was low and hard as he looked the girl over. “You’re Angelica?” Tall, stacked. Beautiful eyes with a hungry look.

  He told her, “You’re a gift. From Jake to me. A ‘thank you’ for good business.” She stood pressed into the corner of the tiny, airless room. He took off the black shades. His dark, smoldering eyes traced her thighs and her tight butt in the frayed little denim cut-offs. Her big, soft breasts swelled and heaved, naked under the loose, low-cut tee as his eyes lingered and feasted on the rise and fall of her quaking curves.

  His wiry black hair, pulled back tight into a high pony tail, gave him a look like a Chinese martial arts guy. Over a black hoodie, he wore a black leather sleeveless motorcycle jacket.

  When he’d turned to shut the door behind him, she saw his motif of gang colors on the back. Savage MC didn’t mean anything to her, except a motorcycle club.

  She did see the patch on his chest that said President. A heavy chain hung through the belt loops. Pull it out of the loops, swing it around, looked like it would make a fearsome weapon.

  It looked to her like below the heavy silver buckle there was a fearsome weapon in the front of his black leather pants too. The tattoo on his cheekbone, the Savage MC ‘S’ with a dagger through it, sent a chill down her back.

  He stood in the doorway, the door closed behind him. Just the two of them in the little wooden room. Airless and dim, only a small lamp on a table in the corner and a bigger table in the middle. And a bed. No windows.

  Her big brown eyes burned at him and her husky Mexican accent stumbled awkwardly over the English as she said, “Does it matter at all whether I want to be your ‘gift’?”

  He looked down into her face and said, “Nope. Not a bit.” She bit her lip. He said, “If you don’t, well, Jake said I should fuck you anyway. ’Cause you need breaking in, he says. An extra part of the gift.”

  Her breathing was hard. He was big and she was small. She knew that she couldn’t have stopped him. He could have had her little tee and shorts off in no time. Do whatever he wanted with her. The thought made her breath catch. Thinking what he might do. The bulge in the front of his black leather pants was huge. Had to have been one hell of a big cock straining inside there.

  Only three days before, she was dancing at her cousin’s wedding in her home village. Her uncle Cesar made a big speech to her parents and his other two brothers and their wives.

  She was in the room when he gave the great news. That all of the girl children were going north to cross the border. Come to the USA. He had arranged people to escort them safely. Their, ‘Great Opportunity,’ was what he called it.

  All of the parents raised their drinks and cheered. Angelica looked at her li
ttle sister Inez. Eighteen years old, her birthday less than a week ago. All of the girls looked at each other.

  All around the same age. Their faces all frozen in disbelief. They all stared at their uncle. Did he believe what he was saying? Afterwards Angelica tried talking to uncle Cesar. “You know that I’m in law school in Mexico City. I don’t need to cross the border with some traffickers.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cesar told her, a brandy in his hand and a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, “You’ll finish your studies in California. New York, maybe. Or maybe you go to Harvard. How would you like that?” It was all bullshit, but Cesar was firm.

  Angelica had known this man all of her life, literally since she was born she knew uncle Cesar. Now, suddenly he was a stranger. Her father told her with a bleary smile,

  “It’s all been arranged. It’s going to be great, you’ll see.” Her Mama couldn’t look at her. She couldn’t believe it but, next morning at dawn, eight girls were woken up by Cesar and four huge American biker guys bundled them, tired and half asleep into the back of a truck.

  The bikers were nice enough and polite, but they were brisk and, however friendly they seemed, they all carried little black machine pistols. One biker, big bear of a man with evil, narrow shades and frizzy ginger hair tied back, sat in back with the girls.