by Nicole Fox
Blade met my eyes, and seemed puzzled by my brazen audacity in staring right back at him. Then, his slimy gaze traveled over my neck and tits, and suddenly he smiled, too. Without a word, he swept right past me and into his office.
Man, it felt good not to be manipulated or intimidated. Yeah, he leered at me, but so what? He knows he cannot have it. That’s why he retreated right into his office––in defeat.
By this point, I was feeling pretty brazen. To reward myself, I minimized the tab for my day’s work, pulled up a search engine, and entered Dominic’s name.
My first thoughts were simultaneous: Holy shit, and Oh, yeah.
There was Dominic, his face and name on a hundred newspapers. Rewards for organizing motorcycle club charity events. Accusations of terrible crimes, for which he was never convicted. This in and of itself turned me on, and not because it made me believe he was innocent––I was sure he was guilty of at least half the crimes of which he stood accused––but because he was clever and cunning enough to never get into trouble. He was a man who knew how to navigate every danger, whether it came from the gun of another motorcyclist, or the incessant meddling of the police.
And while the contents of the articles filled me with warmth, and, one more than one occasion, made me full-out wet, it was the pictures I enjoyed the most:
Him on his motorcycle. Him at a podium. Him at the head of a hundred other bikers, the alpha lion among a pride. I leaned back in my chair, grinning to myself and shifting the muscles of my thighs so that they squeezed upon my pussy. I was just reaching down between my legs with a finger, lifting up my skirt when –
“Terrible criminals, really, those motorcyclists.”
The slimy, slithering voice of Mr. Blade cut through my fantasies, as disturbing waking to find a poisonous serpent in your bed. He grinned, and pointed at my computer screen, which was littered with articles about Dominic.
“That’s Dominic Molina, you know,” he said, his voice very strange. “Head of the terrible Broken Spires. He’s killed a fair number of people, I’d imagine. Do you know him?” As he asked, his eyes shifted over the markings on my neck and chest.
Suddenly, I had a very bad feeling.
“Uh, no sir,” I stammered, my composure lost.
“Then why were you looking him up then?”
I swear, the tongue that poked out to lick his lips was forked.
“I heard some people at a bar talking about him, and was curious,” I lied.
“Hmm,” he replied. I wasn’t sure if he bought it. “Well, you’d best be careful what you get curious about, especially in the office. Now, will you please get back to work?”
I nodded, feeling both stupid and chastised. I closed the window where all the articles about Dominic had been, and reopened the one on which I should have been working.
“Good girl,” simpered Mr. Blade, his voice like syrup. “Good girl.”
After that, he disappeared into his office, and I did not see him for the rest of the day.
The whole encounter was––especially after the good feelings of the morning––very unsettling to me, and not for any reason I could put my finger on. I kept one eye on his door the entire time, expecting him to emerge, demanding more information, perhaps mocking me for the hickeys on my neck, and launching into a propriety-at-the-office lecture, with his eyes all the while glued to my cleavage. But...nothing.
As the afternoon wore on, and my restlessness increased, I even thought of calling Dominic and reporting my suspicions. But what, exactly, would I say? “Hi, Dominic...Listen, I was stupid enough to look up sexy pictures of you at the office, and my boss knew who you were. I think he suspects that we might know each other...”
The obvious retort to that would be, of course, “So what?” Why did it matter that I knew Dominic? Why did it matter to anyone else that I was, for the first time in my life, being soundly screwed? I couldn’t see why it would matter to my boss, other than to be jealous or even nervous around me. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.
“Get over it, Erica,” I told myself. “You’re just being silly. Come on. Dominic is finally taking you seriously––hell, you’re finally taking yourself seriously. The last thing you want to do is fuck it up.
And so, I squashed my feelings of unease, muddled through the rest of my day’s work, and went home without giving the matter another thought.
Trust yourself. Be honest with yourself. These were the promises I had made only the night before, thinking about Dominic in the shower. Yet, once again, I found myself clamming up because of a man.
When, oh when would I learn?
Chapter Nine
Dominic
After Thunder and I left, I felt thoughts of Erica threatening to occupy my attention, but I pushed them away. The day of the heist was approaching, and for the safety of my men and myself, I needed to be absolutely focused.
I delivered Thunder to the Vet, who stitched him up in minutes, and gave him some antibiotics for good measure, so that was one less thing to worry about. I wanted Thunder with me the day of the heist, and I took comfort in the fact that with rest, he would be recuperated enough to join us. I, too, needed rest. I had a lot on my mind, and I wanted to make sure my mental faculties were in pristine condition.
So, as tradition, all of the Broken Spires got drunk.
The next day, blinking away our hangovers, I called a meeting. Fernando, I was told, had important news. I allowed Thunder to continue resting in the back of the clubhouse. I could tell him anything he needed to know later.
At last, once the main men of the Broken Spires were assembled, amid a clouded room of cigarette smoke and the fumes of alcohol, Fernando spoke.
“Alright, everyone,” he said, enjoying the readied attention. “Tonight’s the night. The heist is set. Our scouts have verified that a particular shipment entered the Jaws’ compound on the outskirts of town, which means the money is in place.”
At his emphasis, a smattering of gleeful chuckles broke out among the club members.
“But!” Fernando interrupted, and the group was silenced. “The money will only be in place tonight. Tomorrow morning, it will be shipped off to a variety of Crooked Jaw business to be laundered. That means tonight is the one shot we have. We start at midnight.”
The silence that followed was apparently not what Fernando expected. Judging by his prideful grin, he had been hoping for applause.
“What’s the matter?” He demanded, annoyed that his plan had not been met with a more satisfying reception.
It was Tristan who stirred. “I didn’t realize we’d only have one night,” he admitted. “There’s no time to scope out the place, and see how they’re guarding it.”
“Yeah, and we must assume that it will be well guarded. This is the Crooked Jaw’s most vulnerable point. They would know that.”
I let them discuss for awhile, without getting involved. It was important that they learn how to solve these issues without too much of my intervention. “After tonight,” I promised myself, “I will be retired.”
“And then I can go spend some time with Erica without putting her in danger.”
I acknowledged the thought, then brushed it aside. This was not what I should have been thinking about. I needed to focus, to stay sharp, one last time.
Instead, I pulled at the frayed and bruised thought that we were missing something. Some aspect of the Crooked Jaw organization that we didn’t know. Was it safe to put my men through such uncertainty? Through such danger?
I returned my attention to them, listening as they naturally came to their own decision.
“It’s worth it,” Dorian was saying. “Sure it’s dangerous, but why else did we join the motorcycle club?”
“Oh, you mean it wasn’t for the women and fast bikes?” Tristan commented.
Everybody laughed.
“Alright, we’re in then!” Fernando exclaimed excitedly. “Sir?” He asked, addressing
me. “What do you think?”
“We should do it,” I answered. “We’re strong, tough, and smart men. I’m sure we can take whatever the Crooked Jaws think they can throw at us.”
“Hurray!” The men cheered, rising to their feet to clank glasses and shove one another in anticipation.
I smiled. While I would not miss the danger, I would miss this: that sense of camaraderie. We were a family, we Broken Spires.
Smiling to myself, I grabbed a pack of cigarettes for Thunder and marched to the back room, thinking he’d appreciate me lighting one for him. I paused next to the door, thinking fondly back to the meeting moments before, and how I was going to relay all the details to him, then opened it.
“Jesus Christ,” I growled, and dashed into the room.
“Thunder!” I hollered. “Thunder!”
He was nowhere to be found! There, the rumpled couch where he had been sleeping, his blanket tossed on the floor. I rushed to it, and touched the cushion. It was still warm.
And there! Across the way: one of the windows was shattered, as if something large had crawled through. And between these two things: a long, winding trail of blood, smeared across the floor.
“Thunder!”
Fear pounded in my heart, but so did something greater: the need for action.
Without thinking, without calling to my men, I sprinted to the far side of the room and leapt up to the shattered window, slipping through it as quickly as a snake. My leather jacket protected me from its biting shards, while I noticed that the blood sticking to my palms––Thunder’s blood, left behind from his reopened wound, or God knows what other horrible injury––was still liquid and warm. It told me that they’d only just escaped with him. He was nearby.
Once out of the building, I looked left, to the parking lot, and right, to a dark and winding alley. In the parking lot was my motorcycle––by far the quickest way to catch up to whomever I was chasing. But a motorcycle meant noise––announcing my presence––and sometimes stealth is needed.
Without a backward glance, I sprinted down the dark and winding alleyway.
There! On the ground, ten yards away. Another puddle of blood, this one even fresher. From the spray of drops surrounding it, I could tell they had turned left.
I slowed, drew my gun, and jogged forward.
Suddenly, a pair of men came into view.
One was opening the door of a pickup truck, calling back to his buddy, “Hurry up! Those damned Broken Spires are bound to be here soon!”
The other, meanwhile, was loading a large, black bag into the back of the roofed truck. From it, I could hear the sounds of muffled screams, and the rustling of motion. Every few seconds, its corner dripped blood.
“Thunder!” I murmured, leveling my gun at the man stuffing the bag into the truck. Ready...aim...
Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz! I felt my phone go off in my pocket.
“No!” I grunted, fumbling for it to terminate the call, to silence it before the Crooked Jaws noticed.
Too late!
BOOM! The sound of a gun exploded in my ears, and I dove behind a dumpster. Frantically, I rearranged my aim and fired back into the fray––at the driver, who had emerged from the truck to shoot me.
“Uh-uh, asshole,” I heard, followed by the cocking of a gun.
I froze. The first guy––the one holding the bag with Thunder trapped inside, had his gun leveled––but not at me.
The muzzle was right against the outline of Thunder’s head.
“Drop your gun,” he ordered, and I had no choice but to comply. My gun fell and skittered away across the pavement. I heard Thunder moaning, immobile, as the corner of the canvas bag steadily dripped blood.
“Now back away,” he continued, and, slowly, my mind whirling for options, I did so. Distantly, I heard the ding of my phone as it went to voicemail.
With me defenseless, the driver leveled his gun at my chest while the second guy finished stuffing Thunder into the back. He slammed the doors and wiped his hands with a satisfaction that boiled my insides with anger. Then, he marched around and hopped into the passenger seat.
“Your friend is ours now,” the driver sneered, backing to the door, his gun trained on me the entire time.
The first flicker of panic––real panic, not controlled fear––surged through me.
“Why?” I demanded, lunging forward. “What do you want with him?”
The driver grinned and jumped into the seat. “Go back to the room we stole him from,” he growled. “An old friend is waiting to speak with you.”
“An old friend? What the hell does that mean?”
The asshole winked, slammed the door, and with that, they drove away. I forced myself to watch, even as they disappeared into the distance.
“Don’t worry, Thunder,” I murmured. “I’ll find a way to get you safe.”
My heart and my mind set, I turned around, and jogged back to the clubhouse.
WHEN I ARRIVED, THE club was in an uproar.
“Dominic! Jesus Christ!”
It was Tristan, running towards me as I entered through the doorway.
“What happened?” He demanded, as the rest of the group surged around me.
“Thunder is gone,” I said dryly. “He’s been kidnapped.”
“Why?” “By who?” The questions bounced around the room like bullets.
“I can’t be sure, but I’m guessing the Crooked Jaws. I don’t know why. They must want something from us.”
“But what?”
“Hey boss, over here!” It was Fernando, emerging from the back room where Thunder had been kidnapped. I rushed over, thinking he had found a clue, and was surprised when he handed me a cell phone.
“This was on the table,” he said, “right where Thunder slept. I don’t recognize it.”
“Me, either,” I admitted. “It’s not Thunder’s.”
I scrutinized it, holding it close to my eyes for examination, and yet I found nothing remarkable. It had no saved contacts. There were several missed calls.
“Hey, Fernando, do you know this number––”
Before he could answer, the phone began to ring.
I hesitated, glanced at Fernando, and then answered.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Dom, old friend,” a rough, growling voice replied. “I’d wondered when you’d pick up.”
My heart skipped a beat.
It was not an old friend, but my oldest enemy. Marco “La Gancho” Herrera.
The Hook.
Chapter Ten
Dominic
Marco’s voice hit me like a bucket of icy water, and all at once I felt my memories overwhelming me, from all those years ago when I, Dominic Molina, nothing but a young prospect for the Broken Spires, burst my way through the barroom door, like a cowboy entering a tavern. Back then, my leather jacket was still new and shiny, without the ten years of violence and road dust to dampen its impressive glistening. I was skinnier then too––less muscular, but quicker for it. And man, did I have attitude. You could see it in my swagger, in that stupid, cocky grin, and the way I drew all eyes towards me as soon as I entered the room. It would take me several years to learn that ostentation is not the same as impressiveness.
That night, I walked right up to the other prospects of the Broken Spires, and lorded over them, already confident in my place of authority.
“This bar was a good idea, hey guys?” I gloated, sitting beside them and ordering a double whiskey. “Not even full members yet, and already we’re staking out new bars as our own.”
The rest of my friends grinned and raised their glasses to me––all except one, who shifted nervously in his seat. It was Thunder––a version ten years younger––and he sipped his rum without smiling.
“I would be careful, Dom,” he said quietly. “This was not on the club’s orders. If things go wrong, the Broken Spires won’t protect us.”
I––the younger version of myself––scowled at him, but I tucked away m
y peacock feather preening and sat down nonetheless. Thunder was wise even then. Wiser than most of us.
Still, I could not be contained. My energy and my ambition would not allow for it. So, this time, I leaned in and said in a much quieter tone, “All we need to do is make sure that they are more scared of us than we are of them. You all got your weapons?”
Nods and grunts of affirmations around the table. We did not have guns yet, but each of us had been armed with some sort of bladed weapon.
I’d had an ox-bone-handled knife. It had been my father’s before he’d died, and I’d gone running to the Broken Spires, armed with his weapon and an attitude.
“Good,” I said. “Be prepared for trouble. And if you see a Crooked Jaw, you know what to do.”
This really was what I was telling them. To attack first and ask questions later. To deliberately start a barroom brawl, with dozens of innocents surrounding us. This was how young I was. How naive.
We continued to drink, laugh, and exchange bawdy stories, getting louder and more reckless with every round we consumed. Eventually, Thunder prodded my shoulder to get my attention.
“That guy over there,” he whispered, surreptitiously pointing. “He’s been watching us for at least an hour.”
I glanced over. It was just some young guy, sipping his drink and glaring at us in silence. My first instinct was to laugh. He was about five-five and probably weighed fifty pounds less than I did.
“So what?” I snapped at Thunder. “I’m not afraid of that skinny litter fucker.”
Thunder glowered at me. “It’s not the skinny little fucker we should be afraid of. It’s what he might represent.”
“Oh, fuck it,” I said, rising to my feet. I could feel my aggression surging through me, muddled and yet amplified by the booze, and I marched right over to the man Thunder had pointed out.
“Hey, asshole,” I said, slamming my boot down on the chair next to him. “You have a problem?”
