Pleasing Dom

by Nicole Fox

  “Really?” I said. “Because I see a problem for you, buddy. A big problem. There are two of us, and one of you, and you are all alone––”

  As soon as the words had formed in my mouth, I knew.

  I whirled, opening fire behind me as three more Crooked Jaws swooped down from above, guns blazing. I hit one in the chest. The other two dove for cover inside the open shipping crates. Even so, with them before me, Wolf’s Head behind me, and God knew how many more, we were surrounded.

  I seized Thunder by the shoulder. “Run!” I cried, and we made straight for Wolf’s Head. He was the only one in sight without a gun drawn, so the path through him was the clearest.

  “Argh!” He roared in outrage, leaping back. The Crooked Jaws behind us emerged, knocking metal chunks the size of sand shovels from the crates as they fired after us. Wolf’s Head hit the ground, shielding himself from friendly fire, while Thunder and I sprinted onwards into the unknown.

  “Where to?” He gasped, as we dodged round another crate. I could hear the Crooked Jaws whooping to one another to form a pursuit, sounding more and more like a wolf pack with every savage cry.

  “To the loading station!” I grunted back. “We cannot be caught in the open!”

  If the crates in the storage yard formed hallways and corridors, then the crates at the loading station formed a labyrinth. Piled to incredible heights, these gargantuan boxes made a jungle in which it would be just possible to hide––our only choice. We had no chance of outrunning the fresh legs of the new Crooked Jaws.

  Between us and the loading station was a single line of crates, open pavement, and water.

  Hiding in the shadow of the crates was our best option.

  “Come on,” I murmured to Thunder, who was breathing heavily. I’d have to be careful. He was older than me, and not as fit. It was his brain that had made him so useful in the club––not his athleticism. I’d need to make sure he kept pace.

  With both our guns drawn, we nodded towards each other, and bolted for the first crate.

  “There they are!” Someone cried, and I heard the sounds of feet pounding pavement behind us. It sounded like at least five of them. I dove into the open crate, hurling Thunder behind me, and waited for the first of the approaching Crooked Jaws to pass.

  He paused right in front of me, looking for us. “Where the hell did they––” BOOM!

  My gunshot echoed through the night, striking him in the chest and knocking him down. BOOM! From behind me, Thunder fired at the next Fang in line, hitting him in the throat. With a gurgle of blood and surprise, he was down.

  “Come on!” I urged Thunder, not wanting to give the Crooked Jaws time to regroup. We had taken out three of them total, but there were at least three left, plus Wolf’s Head, who was armed, I was sure by then. Now that I had made them taste blood, they would be more cautious.

  In a flash of movement and speed, we darted behind the second crate. From the widening of a Crooked Jaw’s eye, I could tell he saw us, but he did not rush forward like the others.

  “Come on then, you scared?” I called to him, trying to provoke him into range. I heard him chuckle in response, and then a sound that at once was familiar and mundane and yet unequivocally dangerous:

  The sound of a lighter being struck.

  I heard the Molotov cocktail soaring through the air before I saw it. And yet, even with this forewarning, what could I do? I could not shoot it out of the air. That would light it just as effectually. Perhaps I could catch it.

  “Dominic, no!” Thunder cried, sensing my intention in his intuitive way and seizing me by the collar, yanking me back and through the doorway just in time. The bottle shattered against the pavement, and the ground and half the shipping crate were immediately engulfed in flame.

  For a split second, I could not believe it. They’re gonna burn the whole place down! I thought. Who knows what’s in these crates? I said a quick thank-you to Thunder. My chances of catching it would have been slim, and, if I had failed and we remained where we were, we would now be trapped inside the crate, blistering with heat.

  Thunder had saved us from the fire. Now, we were in the open.

  Chapter Five

  Dominic

  “Don’t move!” A Fang yelled, closing off the exit on our left. Behind him, he had two more men, both raising guns at us. Before us, our path was blocked by flame, and another Crooked Jaw. It was Wolf’s Head, who was readying another cocktail with a grin on his face.

  “Shame to waste such fine whiskey on you two, huh?” He said, sticking a strip of cloth into the bottle. Up to this point, I was cool and collected, keeping a hold on my temper, but the sight of his smug little face and that stupid tattoo made me mad.

  “How did you know we’d be following, huh?” I demanded, brandishing my gun. Part of me hoped someone would fire, giving me the excuse to shoot them in the face. The fingers tensed on their triggers, but nobody fired.

  “Oh, the boss said, ‘watch out for meddling Spires. They’re looking for us. And when you watch them, put them out!’”

  Grunts of approval erupted from the other Jaws. Others might have been scared of their bloodlust, but for me, it was good news: they knew we were Broken Spires, but not the president and vice president specifically. Otherwise, they would have gunned us down immediately. For now, they simply wanted to toy with us.

  I leaned in towards Thunder and whispered, “I’ll play the fool. Then, when you’re ready, give Wolf’s Head a taste of his own medicine.”

  Thunder grinned to show he understood. From across the bridge of flame, a Crooked Jaw called, “Hey! No whispering!”

  “Sorry!” I piped back, my voice suddenly weak and shaky. “Please! Don’t shoot us! We’re just newbies, trying to show off to impress the head honchos! We don’t want any trouble!”

  Very carefully, I lowered my gun and placed it on the floor. All eyes were on me. Thunder cowered behind me, as if scared. No one was looking at him.

  Wolf’s Head laughed, holding his bottle of liquor up as if he was about to take a sip, the rag still hanging out of it. The smoke curled around his features, giving him a savage, animal grin.

  “Well, you’ve found trouble. Rough ‘em up, boys!”

  And the three Crooked Jaws not blocked by flame holstered their weapons and approached, fists clenched and ready to beat us bloody.

  Exactly what we were waiting for.

  “Now, Thunder!” I cried, whirling to the side to expose him to full few. For a split second, every one of our enemy’s eyes trained on him, now standing proudly with his gun raised.

  He fired.

  The bullet flew through the air, pierced through Wolf’s Head’s hand, and struck the glass liquor bottle. Flame burst from it, combining with the existing inferno and bursting in a small but super-heated explosion. Wolf’s Head cried out and tumbled back in agony, his hair and clothes aflame so thickly that it seemed as if the fur of his very wolf tattoo was burning.

  Thunder and I flung up our hoods and leaped, up and over the inferno. The flames licked on our pants and jackets, and melted the texture of our boots, but we emerged unharmed.

  Thank God for black leather.

  Now, once again, we were on the run.

  Whether Wolf’s Head was dead or not, I couldn’t say, but he was certainly out of the fight for a while.

  “There’s only three left,” Thunder panted, as if reading my mind. “I say we take them.”

  I glanced at the gun in my hand. I had only used a couple shots, and I had plenty more to go.

  “Agreed,” I said. “But from where?”

  We both looked around, and Thunder pointed. Up ahead, a loading crane, perched upon a crate. It would offer massive cover, and still, a means of escape if things turned bad. If I was going to be shot to death, I would rather it be done in an open firefight, rather than chased down a hole like a rat. I nodded to him, and we made for it.

  DING! Just as we emerged, a bullet bit into the metal of the shippi
ng crate beside us. I ducked, and Thunder cried out, but we kept running. We were far enough away that unless they were incredibly lucky, their shots would go amiss.

  CRACK! Concrete ten feet the left of us exploded. WHOOSH! A bullet flew overhead. It took all my self-control not to turn back and laugh at them. Now was not the time for taunting.

  Jump! Up to the ladder of the crate, scurrying up like a lizard, Thunder close behind. I grabbed a handle on the crane and flung myself up and over, just as a bullet shattered the glass of its windowpane.

  Thunder landed beside me, the two of us now safe in cover. His breathing was harsh and ragged, and his skin pale, but otherwise he looked okay.

  “Poor guy,” I thought. “He’s getting too old for this.”

  “You ready?” I asked, reloading my gun to full. He nodded, his fingers trembling as he slid the bullets into their chambers. I clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Soon, more than their fucking jaws will be crooked. Ha!”

  I leaned over our makeshift bulwark and fired.

  “Argh!” One of the approaching Jaws cried. I’d hit him in the shin. He was down, but he could still aim a gun.

  BOOM! Thunder fired. His bullet clipped the bicep of a second Fang, but he kept coming.

  Now, they fired.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  We ducked. The bullets clanged uselessly against the outside of the crane. I saw Thunder shudder, but I put it off to fear.

  “Again!” I cried, and leaned up to fire.

  I took injured-shin guy down with a single shot. My second shot struck the shoulder of another, who hit the floor but was still moving. Thunder finished him off with two of his rounds.

  There was only one guy left, who was now looking at us not with bloodlust, but with terror. He dropped his weapon, and raised shaking, trembling hands.

  Thunder leveled his weapon, readying for the kill.

  “No!” I said, cutting him off. “Let’s leave the one.”

  I looked over the bulwark, just enough so he could hear me speak. “Go back and tell your masters, hound,” I called. “What happens when you mess with Broken Spires!”

  BOOM! I shot my gun into the air as he turned with his tail between his legs, and sprinted away.

  Thunder sagged against the crane, his gun falling from his hands.

  “You did good, old man,” I laughed, patting him on the shoulder. He nodded, then pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a trembling hand. It bobbed in his mouth like a buoy on rough water. Which is when I noticed that it was stained red.

  “Thunder!” I grunted, rushing towards him. I seized his hand and saw his palm and fingers smeared with blood. “Jesus, they got you? Where?”

  He opened his jacket, struggling with every motion, to reveal the source of the blood: a bullet hole, right where his shoulder joined his torso. His whole left hand hung dead, and stupidly, the first thought that went through my mind upon seeing the wound was how impressed I was that he had made so many of his shots, let alone have been able to lift a gun at all.

  The second thing that went through my mind was panic. I allowed it to course through me for three seconds. One...two...three...

  And then it was gone. Thunder was my friend, yes. Perhaps the best friend I have ever had. Being scared for him, however, would not save his life. Therefore, with cold, calculating eyes, I ripped his shirt away from the wound and studied it. I even slipped a finger inside.

  “It’s just in the muscle,” I told him. “You might have chipped the bone, but I don’t see too much swelling. It’s bleeding but not so much that I think you’ll bleed out any time soon. Here, hold this against the wound.”

  I handed him a strip torn from his own shirt, which he balled and slapped against the wound. He grimaced, but seemed fully aware. That was good, for I needed time to think.

  Where to go? The Vet would be my first choice, but he was miles away. The cops would be swarming around this place soon. There was no time to get to him.

  The next obvious choice was quickly discarded. I could not take him to the doctors. They’d have to call the police, and we’d end up arrested, or worse. All members of the Broken Spires knew the risks. Thunder would rather die than compromise the club.

  Then, it came to me––the perfect answer, the solution for all of us: Erica! Her apartment was right nearby. And she had done such a good job fixing me up, I imagined she and I could stabilize Thunder enough until we could get him to the Vet.

  I grinned. “There might be other benefits to seeing her again,” I thought. Even at the thought of her, I found my loins stirring. “Down boy. Focus on Thunder first.”

  Getting Thunder down from the crate would be a challenge, but not impossible. Mindful of his wound, I grabbed his wrist and flung him over my shoulder. He groaned, and I felt hot blood seeping into my shirt.

  “It’s okay, old boy,” I murmured. “I’m taking you somewhere safe.”

  With my left hand holding Thunder in place, all I had was my right hand to navigate us both down. I scowled, and focused all of my strength in keeping us balanced. Though I slipped once, I was able to catch us, and we made it to the ground without further mishap.

  As we were creeping away, I heard a soft cry.

  “Help me....help me...”

  I turned. There, lying on the ground, his face bright red and then splotched black from burning, hideous as Freddy Krueger, lay Wolf’s Head. His hand was outstretched towards me in supplication, and the flesh of his neck so destroyed by flames that his tattoo looked like melted wax. I scowled at him, then crouched down.

  “Help me...” He wheezed. “Help me. Water. Please...”

  I saw, next to his hand, the tattered remains of his sleeve beside a scorched but still-functioning cellphone. I took the rag, dunked it in the water nearby, then plopped it on his face. He twitched, and his sigh of relief was audible. Then, I picked up the phone, dialed 911, and placed it back down on the pavement beside him. He’d get his doctor––and handcuffs to boot.

  Now rushed, knowing that the cops would be there in minutes, I broke into a jog. Thunder was heavy, but I could handle it. In fact, the steady pounding of my feet and the rhythmic pulsing of my breath settled my nerves, and set me in a sort of tempo.

  I heard sirens in the distance, and I ducked into an alley, just in case. Two men, both clad in leather and covered in blood? We were bound to attract attention. I waited for them to stream past before emerging.

  “Don’t worry, Thunder,” I murmured to him. “We’re almost there.”

  I could see at last, across starlit lawns glistening with dew in the early morning, the outline of Erica’s house on the horizon.

  We’re almost there.

  Chapter Six

  Erica

  After much restless, fitful daydreaming, half about Dominic in bed with me and the other half concerning a glorious scene in which I told him to screw off, I was finally able to get to sleep.

  Not a moment later, I heard the doorbell ring.

  “Who the hell could that be?” I thought, wrapping up in my fluffy bathrobe and slipping on some slippers. I really hoped it wasn’t Brian, but if it was, I had the flat side of a frying pan with his name on it. Drawing my face into a scowl, I marched up and answered the door.

  “Dominic!” I gasped, my hands flying to my mouth. “What are you doing here? Oh my God. Who is that?”

  In my surprise at seeing the very man who was the base all of my fantasies, I had failed to notice the second figure in my doorway, flung over Dominic’s powerful shoulders like a rag doll. As my eyes flew over his limp form, I began to notice something else: both of them were covered with blood.

  “Jesus,” I gasped, sagging back against the doorway.

  “Erica,” Dominic declared, his voice calm and in command. “This is Thunder. He is a good friend of mine and has been injured in a fight. Will you help us?”

  I gazed at them. My first instinct was to ask why they didn’t call the polic
e, but I quickly swallowed it. I knew why, and certainly didn’t want Dominic to think I was an idiot.

  My second instinct was to shout at him, for leaving me completely in the lurch when we’d hooked up, but I managed to stomach that complaint, too. Dominic had made no secret about what kind of man he was. Finding an empty bed in the morning was simply to be expected. I knew that.

  So, after a long moment’s silent whirring in my head, I simply responded with, “Okay.”

  Dominic dragged Thunder inside. Feeling way too practiced at all this, I quickly seized an old bedsheet––the same bedsheet I had used to fix Dominic up, in fact––and flung it across the floor, to prevent staining from the blood. An instant later, Dominic laid Thunder across it. He then proceeded to take off Thunder’s clothes from the waist up.

  Meanwhile, I went to the kitchen and tried to gather anything I thought I might need: bandages, paper towels, hydrogen peroxide, even kitchen knives and a pair of tweezers. After tossing these beside Dominic, I went to fetch one of the most important things: a bowl of warm water.

  Thunder was shaking. He looked much older than Dominic, and thinner, his skin so white it nearly matched the tattered old bedsheet. His wound looked small––no bigger in diameter than a dime––but the blood was flowing freely, and, at the sight of it, I felt a great fear, so much deeper than the one I had felt when Dominic had been here last.

  If we weren’t careful, a man could die in my house. Imagine explaining that to my landlord.

  I took a deep, steadying breath, dipped a towel into the bowl, and laid it across the wound, dabbing the half-dried blood away.

  His sigh of relief was immediate. The warm water was soothing him.

  “Get him a blanket!” I cried to Dominic, who leapt to his feet at once to search out a blanket. I was aware in the sudden, ironic reversal of roles here: me giving the life-and-death orders, but neither of us chose to comment on it.