A Gorgeous Mess

by Layla Wolfe

  “Will the authorities let you keep her?” asked Mayo. “They can be assholes about that sort of thing.”

  Slushy said, “Just say you’re the grandpa, which you are, and your daughter vanished, which she did. You’re the next of kin, right? There should be no issues.”

  At last, a sense of relaxation came over the knot of men crowded around the butcher block. As everyone saw the baby was suckling, men exhaled with relief.

  “Do you know who the father is?” Slushy asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t think Sheena does. She looks pretty much Diné, though. I’m a Tomahonky, a half-breed, though I guess my Dad’s Spanish. My ex was a full-blood, so Sheena’s three-fourths. This little gal’s already looking like a Dineyazzie.”

  The swinging kitchen door opened, and little Brick blazed in as though on skates. He put his armload of empty salad bowls down. “What the hell? I heard a baby was left on the—whoa!”

  “Get on down to the store, pronto,” I snapped. “Get some of those disposable diapers. Go!”

  Brick held out his hand. “Can I take your ride?”

  I forgot. We hadn’t gotten around to getting him a scoot yet. With my free hand I unclipped the key from the chain at my waist and tossed it to him. “And what else, Hobie? Some kind of formula?”

  “Well, it’s been awhile,” Hobie said skeptically. “And I never was terribly hands-on. But it might be obvious at the store. Make sure it says newborn or infant. Use your common sense.”

  Brick saluted. “Gotcha. I’ve raised two little siblings, so I know this shit.” He flashed out of the kitchen.

  “There goes our guest room,” said Ormond, at my ear.

  Ormond’s house had four bedrooms. We shared one, and we’d given one apiece to the two Prospects. We liked having a guest room so any brother could crash if he drank too much. Now the blitzed guys would just have to crash on the living room couch, or at Lock and Turk’s a few blocks away.

  “This is amazing,” marveled Rover.

  I laughed. “Not as amazing as it is to me, pal. Oh, crap. She drank it all.”

  “We’ll improvise,” said Dipstick. “Milk is milk, isn’t it? Can they drink cow’s milk? I’ve also got some soy milk, for those lactose intolerant Lions.”

  As everyone debated the merits of cow’s and soy milk for infants, I took the empty bottle to the sink to wash it. Wasn’t there something about sterilizing bottles? Not in this environment, that was for sure.

  Ormond was at my side. “You’re taking this all so well.”

  I shrugged. “Do I have options?”

  “It’ll mean another big change for us.”

  “What else is new? It’s been nothing but one giant upheaval since I met you, Ormond. Never a dull fucking moment. I have the feeling it’ll always be this way.”

  His fingertips brushed the back of my neck. “Do you mind? I cannot help being exciting.”

  “Ah, lover,” I said, nearly at the end of my rope. I was so close to losing it at that point, I had become calm at my core. The crazier things got, the mellower I became. Sometimes, in the midst of chaos, the best thing to do is to sit still. “You don’t know the half of it. I’m a fuckin’ mess, man.”

  “Yes, you are a mess. But a gorgeous mess.”

  My only option was to laugh.

  EPILOGUE

  ORMOND

  It had taken them a while to get this far.

  Ormond had spent a month in Los Angeles working on the new Hunger Games film. His leg still wasn’t healed, so he couldn’t work as fast as he would have liked, hobbling and crutching all over the place just to use the vacuform machine or, most impossibly, unmold a heavy cowl. He had assistants, trainees, for sure, but he still wasn’t able to work as fast as he’d like.

  Now the doctor had declared him healed. They were finally, finally going to head into New Mexico and look for Sheena. Ormond put the baby Shonda down for her nap, hoping she’d stay that way for a while. Everyone remarked on how much quieter she was than their babies or the babies they’d seen or known. Ormond hoped it wasn’t due to the prenatal drug addiction—her lack of wailing lungs, her low weight. Not one peep from Sheena since she’d left Shonda on their doorstep. Ormond didn’t expect much from this road trip, but it would be nice to get out on the road with Anson. Of course, they’d had to buy a cage, an SUV built like a tank, to accommodate the baby.

  The two teenage Prospects were at work in the warehouse connected to the weed dispensary, Herbal Legends. They had set up a safe, open-air shatter operation there, moving all suspicion and liability off the Rez. So far, there had been no blowback from the incident at the geoglyphs, a situation that made Ormond suspicious. They had killed a lead officer from a rival club and the sicario sent to keep them all in line. Did no one truly know The Bent Zealots had taken down those assholes under their own steam? There wasn’t much point to it if they couldn’t gain street cred, but they’d been moving Mexican marijuana up and down the Colorado River since then, using the Rez’s network of docks, without one colossal asswad opening his mouth and squawking about it.

  It made Ormond feel that the Hellfires were planning a bit of retribution of their own. Lock Singer had been chasing a fugitive down in the Hellfires’ neck of the woods, Gila Bend. He’d run into two Hellfires at a gas station. Of course Lock wasn’t wearing his cut, as he was hunting down a bail jumper, but the Hellfires seemed to know Lock anyway. They had sauntered over with a vitriolic fire in their eyes, snarling, practically growling. One of them had said to Lock, “We’ve got eyes on you faggots. Every moment, every day, we’re fucking watching you.”

  “It was super dramatic and moronic,” Lock had related. “But it was obvious what they referred to. The disappearance of Iceman.”

  “The liquidation of Iceman,” Rover had goofed.

  So everyone had been on high alert, waiting for the Hellfires to hit back. They couldn’t exactly hit the Hellfires first, and it was frustrating waiting for the other shoe to drop. That was another reason Ormond was relieved to be getting out of Rough and Ready for a while. He had even been working in his studio one day when, out the big front windows, he’d spied a couple of Hellfires loitering across the street, eyeballing him. It was getting too close for comfort. But this was part and parcel of what an MC could expect, so he’d better get used to it. Ormond had already killed a cartel operative, a feat recognized by his being given a “Filthy Few” patch by Turk. He didn’t add the patch to his cut, though, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He had shot that motherfucker in cold blood, so he’d best gear up for the possibility he might have to do the same again—to another Anglo who was just fighting him for something as stupid as turf.

  Anson had just texted that he was on his way home from his bail bonds office. Ormond got ready, this time not by taking his post-exposure prophylaxis pill. He hadn’t done that for a month now. He trusted Anson enough that he didn’t need to whack out his body’s adrenal system with yet another unnecessary drug. Especially after it hit home what meth had done to Anson’s daughter, Ormond was striving to be as drug-free as possible. Except maybe an occasional toke of weed. But weed was a far cry from a man-made drug. It was natural.

  Working out at the gym twice a week with Anson, Ormond was fitter than ever. He’d seen Anson carefully watching him when some guy with tight buns would strut by. Weirdly, Ormond hadn’t been tempted, not once. He even found himself purposefully speeding, just to see how he’d react if pulled over by a hot cop. He wanted to test himself, to see if this newfound monogamy was for real. No one had pulled him over yet, but he’d been in a coffee shop with a couple of firemen he’d blown on different occasions. One had even sat across from him, tantalizing, his full package on display, while his buddies guffawed. Ormond had even talked to the guy, pretending not to pick up on his blatant references to pearl necklaces and how his engine needed a piston job.

  Ormond had just sipped his coffee until the cup was empty, said nice to see you again, and left. He’d
left! The firemen seemed mystified, that was the funny part. Ormond looked in the reflection of the glass door as he made his dignified exit, and the men were all looking quizzically at each other. The pride that surged through his limbs made him feel better about himself than ever. Anson had been right. Getting a shred of self-respect was doing wonders for his peace of mind. He no longer panicked about where the next erect cock was coming from. He didn’t need a face full of anonymous jizz to tell him he was worth something. Hell, he was owned by the hottest, longest, thickest, manliest cock in the southwest. He didn’t need faceless, zipless hookups to make him temporarily feel good about himself.

  Continuing packing toiletries into his bag, Ormond had to go to the kitchen to find his travel coffee mug. It still had stale coffee in it, so he was rinsing it out when the front door opened. Warmth flooded his being at the thought we have six days off together. Six days. Anson’s rapid steps seemed eager. Ormond was still drying the cup with a towel when Anson entered the kitchen and literally swept him off his feet.

  “Holy…” Ormond had to toss the cup back into the sink when Anson flipped him around to face him. Anson was on him like white on rice, dry humping him, like he’d just come from watching porn.

  “I can’t wait for you,” Anson growled.

  “That’s fucking nice, but wouldn’t you rather go to the bedroom?”

  “Why?” Anson took a big bite out of Ormond’s Adam’s apple. His fat, bulging prick flexed against Ormond’s, twitching with some kind of animal need to discharge. Slipping a hand between their crotches that were glued together, Anson grabbed a handful of Ormond’s penis and squeezed. “Shonda’s napping? No one else is here.”

  “Just one for the road, eh? Ah!” Another squeeze, and several drops of come spurted from the tip of Ormond’s cock. He was fucking ready.

  Apparently, not ready enough.

  Standing tall, Anson whipped something metallic from his back jeans pocket. Leaning forward, he clicked it around Ormond’s wrist. Handcuffs. Ormond’s nipples stiffened with erotic anticipation, and he grinned like a schoolboy.

  “Tools of the trade.” Anson referred to his bounty hunting business. He’d just gone out that morning to collar some moronic child molester who had jumped bail in Lake Havasu and had been too lazy to get farther than a local bar. They liked laughing at idiots like that. Now Anson clicked the other wrist shut so that Ormond’s hands were behind him, locked together on the Formica countertop, propping up his butt.

  Anson leaned back to admire his handiwork. “I like you helpless.” He stroked Ormond’s face with the back of his hand. His other hand flew to undo Ormond’s belt. “Reminds me of the first time I boned you, in Stumpy’s disgusting kitchen. I was so carried away I couldn’t wait for anyplace more sanitary. You were just dying to give yourself to me.” His grin was crooked, but Ormond couldn’t tell if he was serious.

  “You fucking took me by force!” he protested. “You were a monster, mi amor. You shoved me in there and slammed me on top of that disgusting countertop. Who knows how many dead bugs and mice were lying around there, but you didn’t care.”

  Anson lifted Ormond’s steaming hot cock into the open air. His thumb slicked the drops of jizz around the slit, making Ormond gasp and hiss. “I didn’t care,” he agreed. “I only cared about my own satisfaction. I just wanted to screw you bad. You were driving me insane giving every badge within a hundred mile radius a skull job.”

  Ormond shimmied his hips to allow his jeans, heavy with keys, chains, and devices, slide to his knees. “You cared about more than your own satisfaction, my love. You also couldn’t wait to wrap your hand around my dick and jack me. You fucking wanted to watch me, you said. You wanted to watch me jizz all over that filthy countertop because you like it. You wanted—”

  “Did not.” A cloud came over Anson’s face. He did not like being shown up. Holding Ormond’s cock by the root, his other hand slapped it. And again. And again. “Did fucking not. All I cared about is myself. You want me to prove that?”

  Each slap stung, but the stings spread out through Ormond’s balls with an inviting, tension-filled warmth. Anticipation built in the pit of his stomach. He was going to keep riling Anson if this was the attention it got him. “Yes! Prove how much you only care about yourself, Dineyazzie. Take me. Molest me. Assault me. Your slaps are just making me hotter, harder.”

  The fury that imbued Anson’s face now seemed real. His PTSD meds were definitely helping, but Ormond knew he’d need to get some kind of combat counseling one of these days. Whack! That slap hurt, and in a flash, Anson had his own cock out and was smearing a palmful of spit on it. “You want to be violated by a rough, tough guy like me? Is that what you like, being taken by force?”

  It really was, so Ormond said truthfully, “That’s what I like. I like brute force. I like big, strong men in charge to take their pleasure of me. I live to please. I’ll bet I can come just by being assaulted by you.”

  “Can not.” Anson’s mushrooming dickhead was hot at Ormond’s hole. Just feeling it there, poised to drill him, had Ormond’s penis twitching like a rabbit’s nose. “There’s no way in hell you can come just by me reaming you.”

  “Try me.” Ormond knew Anson could never resist a challenge. “Do me, you motherfucker. Take me like a fucking animal, like the monster I know you are. Take me by force, even if I resist you.”

  Anson lifted on eyebrow. “You’re going to resist me?”

  That was a new challenge. “Of course. Who wants to be fucked on a godamn kitchen counter?”

  With one shove, Anson penetrated Ormond with his fat prick. Ormond was actually unprepared for how deeply Anson violated him on the first lunge. His spine arched and his eyeballs rolled up into his skull. Being forced to lean back against his bound hands gave him almost no leverage, no resistance. He could meet Anson’s lunges with his own, but that was hardly resisting, was it?

  In between thrusts, Anson slapped Ormond’s purple, bulging cock. They were the stimulating, arousing slaps of before, almost as though Anson knew each blow was inciting Ormond to higher levels of craving.

  “Admit it,” Anson ground out between clenched teeth. “Admit it, you fucking slut. You love being drilled like this. You love having a big cock invading your hole. You’re just an empty shell of nothingness without being filled by a big prick.”

  Anson told the truth, so what could Ormond say? “I want only you,” he gasped. “I want only your prick, my gorgeous, stunning master. Every strike you make just makes me hotter. Each time you slap me, I just become more aroused, because it’s you, it’s you, Anson, fucking me dry.”

  Anson fell on him then, pasting giant licks to his erect nipple. Each squiggle of Anson’s hot, fat tongue brought Ormond closer to orgasm. He’d show Anson. He could come without being stroked.

  ANSON

  “You come when I tell you to come.”

  I could sense Ormond getting closer. I drilled him deeply, pinging up against his sensitive P-spot, wedging my cockhead as far inside him as I could. His dick was juicy, plump, ripe for orgasm. Every time I slapped his tool, his balls, I saw and felt it fatten up, fill with jizz, prepare to explode.

  Orgasm denial was one of my favorite things. All those years, having rarely ever pleasured any of my partners, having kept them from their own satisfaction, that was one of my sadistic traits and skills. I did it well. Walking away knowing the guy would have to go jack himself into oblivion thinking only of me, that was my thing. It allowed me to get away with never touching another man, maybe maintaining some of the farce that I wasn’t gay, that I was at least bisexual or bi-curious, that I was just doing it because there were no other women around. It gave me plausible deniability. It also pumped my ego, knowing I always left them wanting more.

  Now, though, I knew that watching Ormond shoot his load, maybe all over his chest and even chin, that was my ultimate goal here. So I slapped his pecker just hard enough to keep it on the edge of jizzing, knowing that its readine
ss was driving him apeshit.

  “That’s it, boy.” Slap. “Jack that load up. Get ready to shoot. You like this, don’t you? You’re pretending to struggle, but I know you love it.”

  Truth was, his struggling was getting me off. He squirmed and writhed like a sub at the end of a leash, and the next thing I knew, I was grabbing a handful of his white wifebeater and tearing it from his body like he was shedding a skin. I pounced on his naked nipple, nibbling with the tips of my incisors, flicking my stiff tongue-tip across its beaded surface, nuzzling the monsters he’d painted on his own pec.

  To distract him, I slapped his balls with big cupped palms, satisfied at the hollow clap it created. He gasped and writhed, each one of his moans sending erotic vibrations down my shaft. I was buried balls-deep in him, as close as two men can get. I only had to plunge my tongue down his throat now. Our bellies rubbed together this way, our pubic bones practically creating sparks.

  Gripping a handful of his hair, I yanked his neck back. In truth, I was the one on the verge of a meltdown. My balls, slapping up against his ass, had never felt fuller, hotter. “You love being assaulted by me. Go ahead. Say it.”

  “I love being violated by you,” he gasped.

  “You love when I drill you up the ass like this. You love being helpless, at my mercy. You love being taken by a big, muscular man. You love giving up all power, all control to me.”

  However, all at once, it was me who had lost the power. Without any warning whatsoever, my orgasm surged up the length of my dick, like a sudden tsunami that came on a sunny day. I gasped, my own words catching in my throat, my entire body one enormous spasm.

  My mind was flooded with sensation. There was no room for any rational thought as one almost painful wave of bliss after the other gripped my core. I had the presence of mind to slice a hand between our bellies, just in time to thumb Ormond’s cockhead, to feel the jets that spurted between us. My thumb felt the forceful spurts as his dick practically convulsed, stimulated beyond the point of no return by the friction of our bodies. My hand was a messy, gooey blob, but I reveled in the messy sensation. I had lifted Ormond’s boots off the ground with the power of my pelvis, his hands were bound behind his back, and his penis still squirted delicious, tasty spunk all over my hand. My mouth actually watered to taste it.