I asked Cox, “So, what did you think of that show, biker boy?” There were some quiet intakes of breath around us at that, but Cox’s face didn’t register anything. He thought for a moment before he spoke, quietly,
“You got something to top that, Miss Congeniality?”
“I certainly have. But it needs just one man. And a room.”
He looked in my eye, “Careful now, child. You’ve only had boys, you don’t know what a man is.”
My stomach felt light and giddy and my breath caught as I was about to reply. He stepped forward and cut me off. He loomed up so close I could feel the warmth of his breath. He said, “Get upstairs.”
I hadn’t seen any stairs. I looked around. I saw his eyes go to a door ajar at the far side of the bar. I looked back to him. He said, “Go.” I felt awkward, conspicuous as I threaded my way to the door, and his heavy footsteps behind me made it worse. Through the door was a short, dark passage with a rough wooden staircase. As I started up the steps, I heard him behind me, closing the door.
I didn’t think it was going to be like that, the way that it was.
He had a room up there and I was surprised at what a nice room it was. Somehow I imagined a heavy-metal tip of brown blankets, beercans and sun-dried pizza, but it was nice.
We talked, I don’t even remember what we talked about, it was just... easy. We sat on the couch, sat on the bed, he played music on a stereo.
He knew how to touch me. First on my shoulders, then the top of my thigh, but softly. He stroked the inside of my forearm, touched my palm and my fingers as we talked. He touched me like he knew me, like he’d known me since I was a child, like he knew where I hid, and how I yearned to be found, discovered. Revealed. Opened. He opened me.
Like he knew the child in me, knew how to play with her, to coax her and release her, to stroke her and soothe her. He satisfied the child so that the woman in me could come out and be free.
He touched me softly, gently. His fingers knew just how to find and touch the parts of me that needed a man’s hand, a man’s arm, a man’s body. A man.
He had an instinct to touch me, and a slow, insistent rhythm in his strong fingers. A rhythm that knew what to touch, where to go. When to wait. But always with that pulse, like the beat of the pistons under the seat of his Harley-Davidson.
Like he longed for the strength and the sweetness in me, like he ached to tap the sap that rose in me.
He tasted me. Softly at first, gladly, with appreciation. Then hungrily. Then all over my body in a lashing torrent.
His body covered mine, wrapped it. When I first felt his skin against mine, my arms and legs snapped around him like they were sprung. He opened me and he filled me. He wound around and into and through me. Every part of me.
Every connection, every muscle memory, every moment of me he took and tamed. He stretched me out over himself, rolled himself into me. We melded together like two great currents in the sea.
And then, when I felt we’d known each other’s deepest inner selves for generations, like we’d been many lives apart to become this thing together, then, there where we were open and complete together, there he turned it all loose.
I clawed at him, I beat on him with my fists. Bit his neck, his chest, his thighs. I shrieked, I sobbed and moaned. At the end, he filled me so much, so hard, my legs crossed behind his back and they gripped with all the strength I had.
His body was hard as a tree trunk, and his sweet round ass pumped him into me like a freight train whipping through a mountain tunnel. My whole body clenched and convulsed and my head shook as I clawed at him and bucked on him.
The volcanic gush at the end, mine and his, went on and on, cresting, splashing and bursting. And he said my name,
“Nikka!” and it finally left me spent. I curled up in his huge arms wet, soft and helpless. My nose was in the ridge of his chest and I was drifting away on a misty lake.
And that’s exactly when a hammering started on the door. A voice outside said, “Cox, you got to come. Looks like a raid.”
He was in jeans and a tee and at the door in a half a heartbeat, and I was behind him as fast as I could move. At the bottom of the stairs I caught him up by the door to the bar and I heard the raised voice grating from amid the commotion in the bar.
“We are here acting on intelligence regarding a serious felony,” he sounded such a comical ass. As if anything that Dwayne would have told him could remotely be classified as ‘intelligence.’
“You will all be checked and searched for drugs, firearms and parole violation.”
The scene in the bar looked like a freeze-frame in a biker movie. Cops all around the room, all pointing weapons, and about four times as many bikers sneering and snarling at them.
Lump had his nose against the barrel of an evil-looking pump-action. Officer Glenn was holding it fairly steady, but you couldn’t mistake the beads of sweat on his top lip. The voice at the center of the room boomed on, “If anyone can provide us with information...” in the middle of the room he was actually standing on a chair.
I didn’t want to use the little girl voice. That may have been the first time I realized that was what I would normally do. Say, Oh, Daddy... and wait until he crumpled. I didn’t want Cox to hear me do it. And I didn’t want to hear me do it, I didn’t want be that whiny little girl any more. Somehow I was done with that.
I realized then that I didn’t want to do it to Daddy either. It was a big night of firsts for me. As it was, he stopped talking when he saw me.
The atmosphere shifted immediately. The electricity in the air somehow drifted, blew like smoke. Cops fingers were still on the triggers of their weapons, but the knuckles were not white anymore. There weren’t so many clenched teeth.
The cops all looked mightily relieved, most of the bikers looked bitterly disappointed. Daddy looked about an eighth of an inch smaller all round.
I said, “Daddy, let’s you and I meet at the diner for breakfast in the morning, OK? I’m here and I’m fine, we’ll talk tomorrow.”
Cox said, “You go on with your daddy, Nikka. I’ll meet you at the diner after breakfast. If you’d like. Would you like that?”
God, he looked fine in loose jeans and a white tee. I said, “Yes.”
Dogs of War
Bogart had offered men and equipment to Butcher, as much as he needed. He said that all that he wanted was explosives and heavy ammunition. Nobody knew all of the details of the deal, not even the full council.
When Butcher came to the club to pick up his supplies, even the Norwegians were quiet. Everybody watched in silence as the huge man, covered in ink and scars, lumbered through the clubhouse to the back, picked up two massive crates and carried them, one on each shoulder, back out to his truck.
He wore a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, open, nothing covering his trunk of tattooed muscle. Along with a heavy belt hung with black leather pouches and several sizes of hunting knives, he wore combat fatigue pants and heavy boots.
Leather straps were wrapped tight on his biceps and around his ridged, sloping forehead. His thick bottom lip was studded, and he had four sliver teeth. He was bald with no eyebrows, a thin black mustache and he was ugly enough to frighten coyotes.
He took the stairs up to the small room upstairs in the corner. Left a couple of backpacks up there and the floor shook as he lurched back down, and out. On his back was a patch that said, Warhog. The clubhouse stayed quiet for a many twenty minutes after he left.
This was some heavy weather.
That evening, the atmosphere in the clubhouse was subdued. In part that may have been because the only available girl in the place was Angelica. She had a look on her face that left no room for doubt; anyone came near her, she’d break off their thumbs or worse. Her sister Inez was nowhere to be seen, nor was Gypsy. Cox and most of the Savage MC were absent elsewhere, too.
Only Bogart and Hacker perched at the bar with Rusty passing them shots. A call came on Hacker’s cellphone a
nd he stepped outside to take it.
Came back in after a few minutes and said to Bogart, “That was Jake. The Muertos want to talk.”
Bogart didn’t look up from his shot glass. “Shame they didn’t have anything to say yesterday. Could have saved a lot of mayhem.”
Hacker got a beer from Rusty, took a sip and sat alongside Bogart, “He said that Butcher shot three of his men.”
Bogart said, “Mm.” Without any obvious interest.
Hacker told him, “He shot them with a grenade launcher, Bogart.”
“Mm.” Bogart said again. “His manners are pretty challenging.”
Hacker began, “At least having him around has quietened the...” but Bogart held up a hand. He knew that Hacker was going to say ‘Vikings,’ and he didn’t want the slightest risk of one of the Vikings hearing it or hearing about it. A war inside the clubhouse as well as the one outside would have been way over the line.
Everyone was uncomfortable at leaving the enforcing in Butcher’s hands, but the vote was unanimous, and they were going to follow Bogart’s plan. All the way to its end.
Twenty minutes later, they heard the truck engine climb the slope outside and Butcher returned. He stomped up to the clubhouse and across the barroom floor, and he looked at Bogart on the way. Bogart looked over the tops of his shades at the big man.
Butcher reached around the bar and took a fresh bottle of Jack, then climbed the stairs to his room. Angelica looked at Bogart. Drew a breath and her face tensed momentarily. Then she picked up a clutch bag and went upstairs, chewing the inside of her cheek.
Much later, in the dead of night, Bogart was still in the clubhouse, sat at a table with an almost empty bourbon bottle at his elbow. Rusty was with him at the table. A few other bikers slept on couches or in the softer, fraying chairs.
Butcher came down the stairs heavily, one of his backpacks over his shoulder. He passed Bogart a look on his way out to the truck. The engine coughed into life, and then faded as Butcher drove away down the hill. Bogart checked his watch.
About ten minutes later Angelica came down the stairs. Looked around the clubroom. Saw Bogart was awake and asked him, “You know where Beanie is, American?”
Slip Kid
From inside the car I made a call on my cellphone. As soon as I got an answer I said, “Hi, it’s me. Listen, don’t say anything, don’t speak, okay? I need you to meet me, right away. You know that place we’ve been, at the edge of town? Don’t say anything, just make a sound to tell me that you know where I mean.” a grunt came from the phone, “Can you meet me there in forty-five minutes, it’s really important, okay? Will you do it?” Another grunt. I hung up.
The dark sedan stayed way behind me as I made my way across town. I parked right by the metal entrance door of the neat little diner. There was almost no-one there at that time in the afternoon. I took a booth in the window, ordered coffee and I waited.
Sure enough, as I nursed my coffee, I watched as the dark sedan pulled slowly into the far side of the parking lot, and it was soon joined by another car just like it. From that distance, I could just make out a red bob of hair.
Daddy showed up, out of uniform and in his private car. When he slid into the booth opposite me he said, “So, what’s this all about, baby doll? What’s with all the cloak and dagger and the, ‘don’t say anything.’?” I was about to tell him when the dragon lady from the FBI slammed her hand on the side of the table and pushed her badge in Daddy’s face.
Tall and wiry in her charcoal pant suit, a white shirt open way too far, she seemed thrilled breathless by her mantra, “Special agent Heaver, FBI. Put your hands on the table where I can see them.” She leaned over the table at him and Daddy gave her a long dry look as he laid his palms on the table top. “Show me some ID, and tell me the purpose of your meeting here.” I knew Daddy would have great timing, but I couldn’t wait. I said,
“Oh, haven’t you been introduced to my daddy? You would probably know him as police chief Ballmer.”
Daddy said, “Have you been harassing my little girl, Heaver? Because if you have, there’s a report going straight up the line to my old army buddy, Section Chief Fullerton.”
Heaver’s green eyes widened and her face twitched as Daddy went on, “Tell me, is Sam Fullerton your boss’s boss or is he your boss’s boss’s boss? The case will be of particular interest to him, since he is Nicoletta’s godfather.”
Agent Heaver sagged as Daddy said, “Now, would you like some coffee while you tell us what it was that you wanted to know?” Heaver mumbled and flustered as she backed away from the table and almost ran out of the diner.
Daddy and I both waved through the diner window as she stomped all the way across the parking lot.
Down in the Hole
Bogart took the call from Jake. Hacker got up to leave him in privacy, but Bogart waved him to stay.
Into the phone, Bogart said, “Yeah, Jake... Well, what can I tell you. You fucked up the deal. I gave you a chance to make it right, you didn’t do it. Yup... No, Jake, you have to get me what I need. Then I’ll call it off.”
There was a pause, “How do you get out with it? Jake, that isn’t my problem. This is your fault, not mine. Yup... uh–huh... Yeah, you get me what I need, it stops right away.” Another pause. “Yeah, he’s a real vicious bastard, ain’t he?” and Bogart hung up.
He said to Hacker. “He’s got it. Says he can’t get here with it unless we call Butcher off.”
Hacker said, “Shame.”
Bogart said, “Really.”
Half a spliff later, Bogart’s phone rang again. He picked it up and listened a moment and said, “Uh–huh. Good,” and he hung up again. Bogart looked at Hacker, “Seems he thought of a way.”
Hacker said, “Like he just remembered where he had fifty K stashed.”
Bogart said, “Mmm–hm.” They both took a sip of bourbon.
Ten minutes later, Bogart went out back and collected a large, heavy backpack. He told Hacker, “Jake shows, check what he brings. Double count it, then call me.”
Bogart and Hacker gripped hands and bro-hugged. As Bogart was turning, Hacker put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Stay safe,” Bogart went out and climbed onto his bike. The engine crackled into life and carried him away down the hill.
Bad Company
I waited in the sad little motel room, sat on the bed by the bathroom with the TV on loud. Why Snori and Trols would have believed me, I couldn’t think, but it seemed as though they did.
Beanie told them to come and that I would be there, ready and waiting for them. I couldn’t have told it to them myself. I didn’t know if I could go through with any of this, either. I didn’t know if I could, but I knew that I had to and I knew that I would.
And I knew that if Cox ever found out, he would probably kill me.
The knock came at the door and my heart dropped. I said, “It’s open,” and Snori and Trols walked in, grinning as they saw me, sat on the bed. They came and loomed over me, taking up all the air in the room and standing between me and the big, flimsy closet. The closet that Beanie came out of with a gun in each hand.
He put the guns to the backs of both of their heads and said, “Kneel.”
I produced the nine millimeter and told them, “Hands high.” As they knelt I could see the guns in Beanie’s hands both shaking.
That was the plan, for Beanie to come out behind them from the closet. The only reason that I had a gun at all was that I was too scared to do it without one. Daddy had taught me since I was little how to handle guns. I was a biblical slayer of beer bottles and tin cans.
Silhouette targets didn’t have a prayer around me, but I never pointed a weapon at anything with a pulse before, much less fired one.
And it wasn’t the plan now. The plan now was to confront them, to find out the truth about Cap and take appropriate action. Beanie and I had discussed how that would be.
The two men knelt and Beanie’s voice trembled as he said, “Turn to Je
sus, motherfuckers, do it now. Cause no-one else is going to give a fuck about you.”
Snori said, “Did I hear that before somewhere?”
Beanie told him, “Probably when your mama called.”
Trols moved fast to grab that awful blade, but kneeling down, he couldn’t pull it out in time. By reflex alone I’d squeezed on the trigger and fired into the middle of his forehead, and moved the gun onto Snori. He was turning and had his hand on a revolver, so I let another shot out into his temple.
It was over before I even knew it was happening and as soon as the second shot was out of the gun, I had to run for the bathroom. The world went white and spun horribly, and I sank to my knees, missing the john and blasting the oatmeal walls with vomit.
In the far distance, like through a fog I heard the muffled ‘pop’s of the two more shots. Then Beanie came and put an arm around me. “It’s okay.” He told me, “You did good.”
He got me a wet cloth and a glass of water, but we both knew we couldn’t waste any time. We’d squared the manager and he swore there were no guests in the rooms, but we needed to be gone and fast.
Perfectly Bad: a bad boy romance Page 32
