by Bijou Hunter
Stretching his long arms, he murmurs, “The ones worth keeping around do.”
“And why is that?”
“Who knows?”
“You know.”
Oz snorts, fighting laughter, “Yeah, I know, but I’m not telling you.”
“See that’s the problem about you and me,” I say, stepping closer. “We’re both interested, but if we take the next step and get naked, we’ll open a can of worms we’re not capable of closing.”
“Say that again, but with your tits less pouty.”
I ought to ignore his deflecting comment, but I can’t help looking down to my breasts.
“If you and I joyfully dislocate our hips, we’re in this thing for real,” I say, regaining my train of thought. “I’m not someone who thrives in relationships. I suspect you aren’t either. Until we know why we suck at it, should we even try having any kind of relationship?”
“Yes.”
“But you and I injure each other when we’re playing. Can you imagine what kind of destruction we can cause if we’re fighting for real?”
“I sense my cup won’t be enough to protect me.”
“No, it really won’t. My M.O. is castration.”
Oz’s smile falters. “No shit?”
“If the guy dies, I shove his balls in his mouth. Sometimes, I slice off his dick too. Mostly depends on my mood.”
“Is it weird that hearing you say the word ‘dick’ made me hard?”
“Not at all. It turned me on too,” I admit, crossing my arms to avoid him seeing how much his dirty talk is affecting my body.
“We’re too...” Oz pauses and considers his words for once. “What’s a nice way to say this? Huh, we’re too tragically right for each other to not take this shit to the next level.”
“We could make a deal.”
“Yes, to whatever it is.”
“That’s your dick talking.”
Leaning down, he smirks. “Ginger, ninety-nine percent of the time, it’s my dick talking.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, but I still think we should work out the details.”
“Sure. Have at it. Just hurry it along because I need to take off my cup before it bruises my hard dick.”
“You’re a regular Don Juan.”
Oz unzips his jeans and digs around for the cup. Once he pulls it free, the man sighs like he has a mini-orgasm. I’m admittedly curious if that’s the actual expression he makes when he comes.
“We’ll do the date thing normal people do.”
“Sounds about right,” he says, sitting on a display couch and stretching out to allow his dick lots of breathing room.
“On normal dates, people lie or at least fudge the truth, so they’ll look better. Instead, we should tell the brutal truth. If we get through a few of those dates and still want to spend time together, we get a private room and rut like animals until exhaustion kicks in.”
“I like everything you said.”
“Really or can you only remember the part with the rutting?”
“I’m not stupid, Ginger,” he says, spreading his arms out on the back of the couch. “I know from your tower looking down at us commoners that I might seem no more than an uneducated fool unworthy to even kiss your feet, but I’m actually pretty sharp on the intake.”
“That was quite a sentence.”
“As I said, I’m not dumb.”
“So we’ll go out and show our worst sides and see how badly we want to fuck. Like can we overlook each other’s ugly baggage enough to get to the fun stuff?”
“Or we could do all the fun stuff.”
“And I could get attached to you and then stalk you until you reject me and then we’d get to that castration problem.”
“Yeah, we need to avoid that,” Oz says, wagging a finger at me. “I mean, I can take you in a fight, but...”
“I’d crawl through your bedroom window and cut it off while you’re sleeping and defenseless.”
I hold his gaze, making clear how I’m not a sweet girl playing tough. Every nasty rumor he’s heard about me is probably true, and no doubt watered down. If he wants me to share my body with him, Oz will need to deal with my vile past, nasty temper, and every other dreadful quality that comes along with my foxy bod.
“Are we still on the same page?” I ask.
Oz doesn’t reassure me with words. He’s too busy thinking about fucking me to throw out more poetic comments about his dick. His only response is a horny smirk and eyes smoldering with lust.
Yeah, we’re on the same page.
➸ Oz ★
Despite her clear lust for me, Ginger still insists the Heretics share the Pasadena job with an out-of-town crew. Then she insists the other crew work on her unit as if I might defile it. Though to be fair, I plan to scent it plenty with her once the place is finished.
On our first day on the job, Blackjack scratches his black beard and shakes his head. “They’re going to need security specialists to hook up all the cameras and sensors they want installed.”
“What do they need all this security for?” Camo asks.
Sketching out which guys will work on what projects for the day, I mutter, “To feel secure, I guess.”
“Secure from what?”
“Threats.”
Camo rolls his eyes and the questions end. Glitch, though, needs to jump in because silence terrifies them for some reason. I wish I had thought to play music on my phone to keep them silent.
“So these chicks were hookers back in Little Memphis?”
“Not recently.”
“They went from hookers to our partners?”
“No, they went from hookers to pimps to crime bosses to our partners. You’re skipping parts of their evolution.”
“How does a chick go from hooker to crime boss?”
“My guess is it involved a whole lot of killing.”
“They don’t look like hookers,” Camo says, sounding like a damn child.
Glitch nods. “Or crime bosses.”
“Well, the one named Pepper seems like she’d be a crime boss,” Devo says, having finally stopped texting his wife. “Her eyes are cold.”
“That’s the lesbianism,” Camo explains like a dummy. “Chicks I can’t seduce seem scary.”
“Seduce,” Glitch snorts. “You’re fucking James Bond.”
Camo flips him off, but Glitch keeps laughing.
“They’re young to have evolved that much,” Blackjack mutters. “Gotta assume they were hella young during the hooker phase.”
“Let’s not worry about that shit and instead focus on getting the job done.”
“Do you think those names are real? Like do you write checks to someone named Cayenne or Clove?” Camo asks.
“Joker said those are their names now, and not to make fun because apparently they have no sense of humor about it.”
Glitch smiles. “So they weren’t blessed with such matchy names.”
“Can we stop talking about their fucking names and how they got rich? Let’s get this job done.”
“Why are you so antsy about pleasing those foxes?” Camo asks.
“Ginger has another crew working on this job. I know more than a few put in bids. She also plans to renovate houses and businesses in Rawlins. That’s a lot of money we could have come our way if we do a solid job here. Or we can let those fuckers from outside Rawlins steal it from us.”
“Shouldn’t our allies hire us on default?”
“Joker and the Little Memphis club are our allies. Ginger and the Everything Nice Crew are their allies too. We’re not allies with those foxes yet, so stop yapping and start working.”
The guys shoot disapproving looks behind my back, but I don’t give a shit. I have a club to rebuild. That’s on me, not them. I’m the president, and I’ll be the one who gets blamed if things turn to crap. So making nice with Joker and the Everything Nice Crew is my main professional goal. Getting in Ginger’s pants is my main personal goal. The fact that they intersect is just
a bonus.
Chapter Five
a hui hou
➸ Ginger ☆
A week into the renovation, I ask Oz to meet me at my townhome. The kitchen floor remains covered by protective plastic, and the countertops are missing. When I arrive, I’m hit by the stink of the fresh, beige paint on the walls. I open the back door to air out the home before setting up a folding table and chairs for my makeshift dinner date.
By the time Oz arrives, I have paper plates, and the Chinese food containers set out. I add a can of beer for him and one for me.
“Dinner’s ready, dear,” I announce as he enters the kitchen wearing a black shirt and blue jeans. “Dig in.”
“Smells good, but I’d rather have you spread out on the table with your pussy as dinner.”
“You say these things, but I don’t think you realize how low in nutrients pussies are. Shouldn’t you eat healthier for your kids?”
Oz smirks before yanking the chair away from the table and sitting down. I wait to see if it gives out under his weight. When he doesn’t hit the ground, I sit across from him and start spooning food onto my plate.
“Work should be done soon,” I say and hand him the container. “Hiring more than one crew was a smart move.”
“Smart for you, but my guys could have used the extra work.”
“Quit your bitching.”
Oz snorts. “That’s what I tell my mom when she wants me to move closer to town.”
“You live on Route 7.”
“Nice stalking there.”
“Well, I needed to know where to send my sniper.”
Oz loses his smile. “Let’s pretend you never did that.”
“If you want me, you’ll need to accept my ugly baggage,” I say and open my beer. “Of course, we could have a hard fuck and then promise to stay away from each other.”
“My dick insists on nothing less than full access to your body for more than one fuck. We’re talking dozens. A hundred even.”
“Then you’ll have to deal with me, warts and all.”
“Warts are foxy.”
“Then accept I sent a sniper to your house.”
Oz’s dark eyes flash with anger I’d find scary if I wasn’t me. “Fine, but I still don’t believe you would have made the call.”
“Believe what you want.”
Oz eats quietly and drinks half of his beer before leaning back into the chair and nearly killing it.
“Will you tell me how you became Ginger Snaps? Unless you’re afraid to share.”
“My past doesn’t own me, so, no, I’m not afraid to share. If anything, my fucked-up childhood might scare you off and prove you’re not man enough for me.”
“Then share,” he challenges.
“Are you sure because the details aren’t first date material. Don’t you want to start with slightly less nasty stories?”
“Eating in a place reeking of paint fumes isn’t first date shit either. Let’s embrace your warts, so you’ll get around to showing me your juicier parts.”
Rolling my eyes, I marvel at how this man can keep so entirely focused on getting laid. Yet when I offer to fuck him this very moment with no strings attached, he refuses because he can’t bear agreeing to the idea that I’ll say no to him in the future either.
“Both of my parents were junkies. My dad was a piece of shit with a horrific criminal record including preying on young teenagers like my mom. She was fourteen when they started fucking, and she got pregnant soon after. Who knew eighth graders weren’t good at remembering to take their pills?” I say sarcastically. “I was a year old when Mom OD’d on heroin. We were living with my grammy at that point, and Child Services left me with her rather than putting me in foster care.”
I gulp down two mouthfuls of beer before freeing the memories of Grammy from the vault where I keep what I’d rather forget.
“My grammy was mentally ill. I think she was bipolar but never knew for sure. She had wild mood swings, and she took pills to help her, but I don’t think they worked very well. I just remember she cried a lot when I was little. Once I was older, I noticed she took a lot of risks with men and booze. Not like she was a sloppy person who just did whatever, but she craved the risks when she was in a certain mood. Once when we were walking home from the store, Grammy decided to play chicken with cars. It was so random, but I thought she was just really happy that day and wanted to play.”
Grammy’s face lingers in the back of my thoughts, unable to become fully realized as if I’d forgotten her so fully that she will always remain a ghost.
“She never abused me, though she’d forget to make food or misplace money for school. Sometimes, she’d sleep for a few days straight. We lived on welfare, and she had SSI for her disability. People knew she was sick, and sometimes, they’d take advantage of her. So bad things happened at times, but Grammy never hit me or was cruel in any way.”
Even after all these years, I can’t stop defending the fragile woman I viewed as my mom.
“The first time I blew a guy for money,” I say, not really seeing Oz now that my mind returns to the nasty memories I’d long stopped worrying about, “I was eleven, and some asshole had stolen our food stamps. Grammy was like most people in Little Memphis, and she never called the police. She did call the welfare office. I don’t know what they said or what she only thought they said, but we were out of luck for the rest of the month.”
The face of my old landlord floats to the surface, and I’m startled by how pathetic he looks now that I’m an adult.
“The guy who ran the apartments we lived in was always asking if I wanted to make any extra money to help out my grammy. I knew what he meant, and I’d avoid him the best I could. That part of Little Memphis is a minefield for women and kids. You never know what seemingly nice person might turn predatory. With the landlord, I didn’t think he’d force me, but I played it safe by staying away from him.”
Pausing, I take a bite of food. The silence allows me to distance myself from the memories rising in my mind.
“Then we were broke, and I didn’t know how to get food for us to survive for the month. I tried the church, but they started asking a lot of questions about my living situation, and I got scared they’d take me away from Grammy. She was a mess, and no one loved her except me.”
An unfamiliar heat threatens my eyes, and I blink furiously to remind myself that I don’t cry. The last time tears successfully spilled down my cheeks was when I got an innocent woman killed. That was years ago, and I had no reason to repeat the act now. Grammy was long dead. So is the little girl who protected her because she was too young to know better.
Oz reaches across the table and runs his finger along my chin. A simple gesture packed with a lot of meaning from a man normally focused on my T&A. I smile softly at his touch and then return to eating as if the ugly story is an afterthought.
“The landlord tried to lowball me with twenty bucks, but I told him I wanted forty or I’d ask someone else. Even then, I knew the power of sex and money. Afterward, he said anytime I wanted cash that he was around. I didn’t think I would ever want to do that again. Except when you’re poor, money is like a drug. Once you have a taste, you want more. Forty dollars for a few minutes of disgusting behavior felt more than worth it. That might sound horrible to you, but it made perfect sense to eleven-year-old Ginger.”
“No, I get it. Even before I joined the club, I knew they dealt with drugs and prostitutes. I knew they hurt people, sometimes, innocent people. I also knew they drove nice Harleys and had food for their families. Shit, half of the guys had second families with their side whores. They were rolling in cash it seemed, and I had nothing. So, yeah, I get the power of money.”
Oz sharing his past with me makes sharing mine with him a little less painful. I study his handsome face and notice waves in his dark hair. Would his hair be curly if longer? Do his kids have curly hair? How long can I think about hair before I’m forced to continue with my story?
&nb
sp; “How did you go from the landlord situation to becoming a pimp?”
Exhaling, I take advantage of a big bite of broccoli to prolong the silence. Oz patiently waits for me to finish.
“I guess I should talk about Mitch for the stuff with the future pimp to make sense. Or maybe there’s no making sense of it, but I probably just want to brag about my first kill.”
“Who’s Mitch?” Oz asks in a dangerous tone as if ready to murder him if I haven’t already.
“Grammy brought him home one night, and he ended up staying. They met somewhere, but she didn’t seem to remember where. I think she’d been off her meds and using booze to self-medicate. When she got that way, everything became a blur and Mitch was right there to take advantage.”
“This guy is dead now, right?” Oz growls. “If not, you might want to give me an address and let me fix that for you.”
“Would you really kill him for me?” I ask, leaning back in the chair.
“Sure. Men like that are the worst fucking scum.”
“Everyone says that.”
“I killed the father of one of Alani’s school friends. He beat on the girl and her brother. Mom too. She would kick him out, and he’d come back and pound on them again. The cops didn’t do shit, so I took care of it.”
“How did you do it?”
“Beat him to death.”
Smiling softly, I find this man more attractive, which is not helpful considering how much I already wanted him.
“I like that story,” I finally say.
“I thought you would.”
“Did it take a while or did he die quickly?”
“He was a big guy and put up a fight. Took me a solid twenty minutes before he stopped breathing.”
“I really like that story,” I say, struggling not to yank off his pants right here and now.
“I could use a handjob if you’re looking to repay me for killing the asshole.”
“Tell you what. If you get through these dates, I’ll reward you in many, strenuous sticky ways.”
“Good thing I’m not wearing a cup.”
“Do you want me to stop sharing now that you’re sporting a hard-on?” I ask, having lost interest in talking about my childhood.
