by Jessie Cooke
I waited a good ten minutes and got nothing back. Shit! Maybe she’s already at the party. I headed out to the parking garage. I figured I’d drive down to the Dolphin Club where the party was tonight and see if she’s there. If not, I’m sure there will be eighty or ninety other big-booty girls who might be looking for a date. My bike was parked way in the back. I never used the motorcycle parking stalls. Every ass wipe in Vegas thinks they have a right to walk along the row of bikes and touch them. I got sick and tired of wiping strangers fingerprints off my chrome. They’re lucky I’m not with C.S.I. or I’d run those prints, track them down…and make them wish they had better impulse control. I was almost there when I heard voices. They were coming from the alcove that blocked the elevator from view. I could hear a guy laughing…more than one, I think…but what caught my attention was the female voice. It sounded like Lizzie.
“Please…you don’t want to do this.”
“Oh baby, we want to. You’re gonna love it.”
“Please,” she sounded like she was crying and then I heard her say, “I’m pregnant…”
“I don’t mind,” a male voice said, “Do you mind?”
“I don’t mind at all,” another guy said, slurring his speech. “I actually prefer banging a chick that’s already knocked up, and then I don’t have to worry about it.” Lizzie’s pregnant? What the fuck?
“You sure looked hot shaking your ass in the cage tonight. Come on and give us a shake, baby.”
“Stop it! Don’t touch me.” Shit! They’re touching her? They’re about to have the same problem as the Harley touchers…
“I’ll shake my ass for you.” I said it as I stepped into view. I wish I had a camera. The looks on these two Ivy League asshole’s faces when they saw me was priceless. I might request a copy of the security tape that the stupid, drunk fuckers probably hadn’t even considered. I glanced at Lizzie. She’d changed into a pair of jeans and a V-neck t-shirt. She was looking at me with gratitude and relief on her face.
One of the guys, who looked like he was trying way too hard to look like Brad Pitt and failing miserably said, “You’re Brock the Rock!”
“Yep, that’s me and guess what?”
They grinned. Fucking morons. “What?”
“You’re gonna get to go home to New England or wherever you’re from and go to that Ivy League school of yours and tell all of your friends that you got knocked the fuck out by Brock the Rock…that is…once they unwire your jaw and you can talk again.” The only thing I saw then was the ass end of two pairs of designer jeans as they leg bailed it out of there. Lizzie was still standing about three feet away from me and she was looking at the floor in front of her.
“Hey, are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
She looked up at me. Her pretty dark eyes were filled with tears. I took a step towards her and she closed the rest of the space and flung herself into my arms. I was surprised…but not bothered by it in the least. She was warm and soft and she smelled like springtime.
I held her and drank her in with all my senses. It was what I’d wanted to do for so long…I didn’t mean to kiss her. Those assholes just scared her half to death…if I was any kind of gentleman I would have just held onto her until she stopped crying and then I would have seen her home. I’m no gentleman and I get routinely popped upside the head by my mother as proof. I slid my hand up from her waist to her neck and rested it there as I pulled her in closer. I felt her tense. I’m not a gentleman, but I’m not a complete dick either. If she didn’t want this, I wasn’t going to force it on her. I felt her warm breath against my face then as she looked up at me. I saw the look her eyes. I’m no stranger to that look. She wanted me. I let my lips meet hers and I experienced something I’d only read about…and of course made fun of…my knees literally went weak. For a second I thought they weren’t going to hold me up. I didn’t care. If I fell on my face in the middle of this garage, that sexy kiss she gave me would be worth missing a few teeth for.
When she broke the kiss she had an uncertain look on her face. There was nothing uncertain about how I was feeling. “Come home with me?” I whispered it…not trying to be sexy but because I could hardly breathe.
She nodded. Thank God. I didn’t waste any time. I took her hand and led her over to the bike. That was when she balked. She was eyeing the Harley like it was a snake and might bite her. “Maybe I should take my car and meet you there.” I didn’t answer that. Instead I leaned down and kissed her again. This time she parted those pretty pink lips and let my tongue slip in between them. I kissed her long and slow and when I pulled back, her face was flush and she was out of breath.
“I guess it will be okay…” I handed her my helmet and grinned.
Read Brock Here!
Bonus Book - Conan
1
Conan
I stepped up through the ropes and glanced to my right. Even in the dimly lit warehouse I could see him. The well-dressed and impeccably groomed Mexican man sat in his usual spot, surrounded by his elite force of bodyguards. Rumor in Ciudad Victoria said that sometime in the late 90’s the man, whose name was Arturo Javier Guzman was the commander of one of Mexico’s most elite Special Forces units. It was along the lines of (GAFE), or Grupos Aeromoviles de Fuerzas Especiales, only even more deadly and secretive. When Guzman left his command, he took with him twenty of the organizations finest. These men quickly and easily carved out their own paramilitary narco-army and as Guzman began to build his Cartel, they protected him and did his bidding. At last count, the numbers of the men in his paramilitary force had soared into the hundreds and Guzman never went anywhere without at least four of his best in tow.
I held out my hands and let the trainer that had been assigned to me, tape them up. A few days earlier, I’d been in Ciudad Victoria to work with kids that wanted to train with professional fighters and find a way off the streets. It was going to be my way of giving back to a world that had been good to me. As I thought about it now, it was hard for me to believe how quickly things had spiraled out of control. I guess in Mexico it pays to know more about the kid you’ve taken under your wing than his name…but that’s a whole other story. I was supposed to get my ass kicked…I had a feeling that would be the case no matter what happened in the make-shift ring that they also used for cock-fighting on Friday nights. Guzman had a fortune riding on the guy I was about to fight and all I had to do was let him kick my ass and then supposedly, walk out the door, get in my car, and drive back towards the border…back towards home. I also had a feeling that no matter what happened…that was never Guzman’s plan. Once he knew for sure that I could follow his orders, he’d have plenty more to issue…I was sure of it.
Guapo, my trainer taped up my hands. While he did that I wondered if Guapo was his given name. I could make sense out of it then. I’m sure he was handsome to his mother at one time or another, but if it was a nickname, I’d have to guess it was like when you called a huge guy “Tiny,” it means the opposite. Guapo was one of the homeliest people I’d ever seen. I’d have been willing to overlook that and give him points for personality…if he had one. When he finished that I went to my corner and stretched out against the ropes while I scanned the audience. Guzman wasn’t the only man in the old warehouse wearing a three-thousand-dollar suit. It looked like North Vegas…only the skin was darker and the language a little harder for me to understand.
I knew the basics and I was trained like Pavlov’s dog to answer the call of the bell. I listened to the announcer who held only an old megaphone and then I heard that sound. I don’t think I’d made up my mind until the second the adrenaline began to course through my body…but I knew right then that I wasn’t going to fold to Guzman’s demands. That could have been the last decision I’d be alive enough to make, but as I looked around the warehouse I could read the devastation that was akin to death in most of the people’s eyes. I’d rather meet my maker than worship at the feet of a Mexican drug lord. I came out swinging. When I met my opponent
in the center of the ring I lunged forward at a manic pace. I launched combos of left, right and straight punches so quickly that I don’t think he even saw them coming. He wasn’t prepared…he knew that I was supposed to lose. I kept pushing forward with punches so furious that he was completely overwhelmed and eventually found himself tangled up in the ropes he’d backed up into. I guess that worked out okay for him because they held him upright and kept his skull from bouncing off the hard floor even after I knocked him the fuck out. The crowd was on their feet…all except for Guzman. The noise level in the warehouse had reached deafening levels. The fight had lasted less than a minute and as the referee announced my victory in Spanish and held up my arm, I saw Guzman stand up, brush lightly at his suit and exit through the path his men had cleared for him. Short of a miracle happening…it was going to be the night that I died…alone, on the streets of Mexico. I’d made my choice. The only decision left would be to fight until they killed me, or to just make it easy on everyone and lie down and die. The truth is, I’ve always done everything the hard way. I couldn’t see why it should be any different. Besides, I wasn’t a fighter simply because it was something I learned along the way. I was a fighter because it was something that lived inside of me. I was born with it and for a time I struggled to learn how to control it. I could hold back if I had to…but I’d rather fight. I thought about taking one of his soldiers with me when I left the earth so I wouldn’t have to travel alone.
When I walked out the back of the warehouse, the sky was dark, but still streaked with murky purple clouds. The street looked deserted and the city was silent. That was my last thought before the iron bar slammed into my skull.
When I woke up I could smell something that burned my nostrils and it took every ounce of strength in my body to pull open my eyelids. My vision was blurry, but I could see enough to be able to tell that the walls were light green and the large wooden crucifix with the ceramic statue of Jesus was the only thing hanging on them. I tried to turn my head, but the pain was so excruciating that I quickly decided that seeing what was to the right of me wasn’t at all worth it.
I closed my eyes again and let the darkness consume me once more. It was peaceful in the dark. I don’t know how much time passed but the faces that appeared and disappeared in front of me throughout were all the same. They spoke in hushed, whispered voices in Spanish and I got the impression from what I could understand, I was very lucky to be alive.
“Here he is, Father.” I heard one of the women who had been caring for me.
“Thank you, sister.” Sister? Father? I looked at the crucifix on the wall again. Was I in a hospital? A church? My head began to pound again like someone was banging on it with a hammer. I let my eyelids slip shut once again and escaped into the darkness.
I woke up sometime later and someone was rubbing oil on my head and saying a prayer for my soul. I’m not Catholic, but if I recall, it’s what they do right before someone dies. I thought about my mom and my sister and for the first time in my twenty-four years of life I said a prayer. I apologized to God for…most of my life…and I asked him to watch over Mom and Camille. Then I closed my eyes again and waited for it to happen.
FIVE DAYS LATER
“I’m not sure he’s ready, Father. He still has problems with his balance.” Sister Margarita is 86 years old, I found out. She looks about sixty, acts about forty, but she’s almost as deaf as a doornail and whispering is not at all in her bag of tricks. Father Ernesto Cruz is new to the parish. He’s twenty-nine and I found out over the course of the past five days…an ex-prize fighter from Cuba. He killed a man in the ring one day and afterwards he found God and ultimately went into the seminary. As it turned out that was to my benefit. The locals have told the story of that fateful day so many times that it had morphed into an urban legend where the young priest had been chosen by God and he had something more than an iron fist…he had some kind of higher power guiding that fist. In their version, the good Father killed not one, but five men in the ring. The superstitious nature of the people of Ciudad Victoria caused some of them to be terrified by the very sight of him…the ones that had something to hide.
The night I was being beat senseless with an iron bar; Father Cruz happened to be out taking a walk. He told me that he heard a commotion and when he walked towards it, he saw me on the ground surrounded by four of Guzman’s men. He cleared his throat and when they turned and saw who it was, the bar was dropped to the ground and the men scattered. I’d been in the rectory at St. Dominguez being taken care of by the Sister’s ever since. I’m not a religious guy…but after this, I might consider Catholicism.
“He’ll be fine, Sister. Will you please go gather the snacks from the kitchen?” Sister Margarita looked like she wanted to argue further, but even the nuns here were a little touched by the stories. She quickly changed her mind and scurried off.
“I can’t thank you enough, Father,” I said through my broken teeth.
He smiled and clasped my shoulder. Thankfully it was the one that hadn’t been dislocated. “I’m not the one you owe thanks to. I was only doing God’s work.”
“Well, I appreciate it anyways.”
“Sister Margarita does make a good point. Are you sure you’re up to driving?”
“I have to be, father. Guzman’s men are only leaving me alone because they’re afraid of you. The minute I step out of this church it will be open season. If I want to get out of Mexico alive I need to do it tonight.”
According to one of Father Cruz’s loyal supporters in the city, Guzman had pulled all of his men off church detail. There was some huge drug thing going down and he needed them all there. This was my chance…probably my only one. Father Cruz simply nodded and when Sister Margarita came back with the massive bag of fruits, breads and dried meats they’d packed for me, I was ready. Father Cruz had already sent someone to the room where I was staying to retrieve my passport and a few other things I needed. I stood up and threw the pack of food over my shoulder. Sister Margarita stood up on her toes and laid a soft, withered hand on the side of my face. “I can see your light, Conan. Don’t forget to let it shine.” Her English was very broken, but that was the jest of what she said. She claimed I had a light inside of me and that was why Guzman was so afraid of me. I hadn’t realized he was afraid. Silly me, I just thought he was pissed.
I covered her hand with mine and winked at her. The old nun blushed as I said, “For you Sister, I will try.”
I said goodbye, thanking Father Cruz once more. Then, I climbed into my Ford F-250 that the Father’s man had also picked up for me and I headed for the border. I’d be back in the States, crossing the border between Matamoros and Brownsville in under an hour. It would take me another four or five to get home to Austin from there. Once I was home, I’d figure out what to do about the price I knew Guzman was going to put on my head once he found out that I was gone. There were 883 homicides in Tamaulipas state this year. Father Cruz was the only reason I hadn’t been number 884, but I wasn’t naïve enough to believe Guzman’s reach wasn’t a long one.
When I got to the border I was stopped and questioned about the state of my face as the border patrol agents searched first me and then my truck. They took my fruit away which thoroughly pissed me off, but eventually, they let me go. Although I knew being truly safe would be a long time coming, I still felt relieved that I was home. As I drove through Brownsville I realized I was starving. I stopped at a Jack-In-The-Box not far from the border and went inside to take a piss and get something to eat. I forgot what my face looked like, but I was quickly reminded by the looks on everyone else’s. I ordered my meal and when it was ready, I decided to take it to go. I’d just walked out of the restaurant when I saw the yellow and red flannel disappear underneath the tarp on the back of the truck. Son of a bitch! I had a stowaway.
2
Catalina
I managed to make it across the border. It was my fifth try in the past two months. Twice, the border patrol caught m
e, groped me and sent me home. The other two times my uncle’s men caught me. They at least know better than to grope me…that is if they’re attached to their hands. They returned me to my mother and I got to listen to my uncle’s threats to lock me up if I didn’t behave. His idea of behavior is marrying me off to some piece of shit Irishman. In other words marrying his Cartel to the biggest crime syndicate in Ireland…like that would stop any of those stupid mother fuckers from killing each other over a brick of cocaine. I supposedly have no say so in it. He can just sell my pussy like it’s his own, like he did my mother’s. She told me he took her away from the only man she ever loved…my biological father and made her marry the piece of shit that beats her on a routine basis and fucks anything with two legs. She might be too much of a coward to fight back, but I’m not. My uncle was not going to dictate my life. Fuck that. I was in America now. My father is an American so I had every right to be here. I just needed to find him…and avoid my uncle finding me in the process. Piece of cake, right? I lay down in the back of some redneck’s pickup and pulled the tarp back over me. Hopefully he wasn’t a native of this piece of shit town. It may as well be Tijuana from the looks of it.
I heard the jangle of keys and held my breath as I told myself I’d already braved being driven across the border folded in half in the floor board compartment of a Cadillac. It should be a breeze compared to that. It seemed like it was taking forever for the guy to start his truck and take off. I was turning blue by the time the phallic Ford fired up and I felt it being pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the highway. I was exhausted, but afraid to go to sleep. I lay there and imagined what my reunion with my father would be like when I found him. According to the newspaper clippings my mother still doesn’t know I found, he was an important man in Nevada. I imagined him not knowing I existed. When he finds out, his eyes are filled with tears as he tells me he’s always wished for a daughter. He opens his big, strong arms and I fold into them…and I live happily ever after, the American daughter of a Nevada politician. I smiled and closed my eyes. Sleep was pulling at me hard…and I was just about to give in…when I felt the truck veer off the road. He didn’t stop right away, but for a while we bounced across gravel and what felt like dinosaur sized pot-holes. I knew enough about back woods places to know he’d gone pretty far off the main road. He knew he had a rider.
