by Amy Law
(Excerpt)
Tiffany spent the bright spring Saturday morning at the mall, putting wear and tear on Daddy’s cards.
She cruised the food court, picked out some Thai vegetarian nibbles and schlepped her big bags full of upscale grungewear and Urban Decay makeup, most of it in shades of black, over to a table.
Leaning on the balcony rail above were two bikers. They looked pretty hardcore, probably members of Blades MC, the local trouble. Or the local heroes, depending on whether you took Daddy’s outlook or her sister Jesska’s.
Mean shades poked out between their unruly masses of wiry hair. One had a mess of light brown tangle, the other had a dirty blond thatch. The darker-haired one wore a thick, neat beard.
Cut-off leather jackets over cut-off hoodies left the hard cords of their arm muscles on show, and their jeans covered but did nothing to conceal two heart-stopping clenched asses. You could stack a row of books on those asses. If books were what was on your mind, that is.
Tiffany didn’t see the bikers take any notice of her at all but, if they were around any longer than her samosa, she meant to make sure that they did. She had used up most of her morning plan for spending Daddy’s money, so she had nothing else in mind for the day.
Bikers. Tiffany’s little sister, Jesska had always been fascinated by bikers. Fascinated to a point of obsession. She rode motorcycles herself, and Tiff was sure that Jess had been hanging around some biker bar. She wondered why she was so sure.
It was a few weeks ago Tiff decided that was what happened. Why. Because Jess stopped talking about it. Duh! Obvious as soon as she thought about it. Was she having sex with bikers? Wow, you heard pretty wild things about biker’s clubs. All exaggerated, Tiff was sure. But still.
She sneaked another glance at the bikers. They were pretty hot. In a rough kind of a way, but definitely hot. They didn’t look like any of the boys in med school, that was for sure. She gave her attention to her veggie nibbles.
Tiffany casually checked then noticed with satisfaction that the two Blades men were still in sight. In fact they had hardly moved. They still didn’t seem to have registered her tiny faded denim skirt or her black stockings, torn across her thighs and laddered all the way into her short, patterned cowboy boots.
Not even the deep scoop of her tee shirt seemed to have caught their eyes yet. The tee, without too much study revealed that she wasn’t wearing a bra. That was in case the pert, bouncing nipples under the soft white shirt hadn’t made that point, those points, already.
Tiffany dressed in black, mussed up her dyed-black hair and wore black makeup, so as not to be noticed. She said so all the time. Deep cover, as a smart-ass in med school called it. As she stepped onto the up escalator, she thought she saw another man in the bikers’ cut and jeans on the far side of the food court.
He slipped backwards behind the pillar with the clock. Ten of two, the clock showed its happy face.
When the escalator let her off on the first floor, she saw only the blond biker but that wasn’t so bad. He was the cuter of the two. Tiffany’s hips rolled slowly as she strutted nonchalantly by and the heels of her boots snapped nicely on the polished floor.
As she passed him his scent wound and curled into her head, but she felt it land deep in her stomach. A dark scent, unusual to her nose but definitely not cheap, patchouli and something exotic, as well as a light but unmistakable sweet-stale whiff of freshly burned weed. Behind all that was the kicker. The only word for that smell is ‘man.’
Her shoulders slouched to shove open the door to the parking levels, and her eye just happened to peek back at him. A thrill beyond satisfaction fizzled up through her as she saw, he was pulling up his hood and he was following her. And he was speeding up.
Tiffany let the heavy door swing closed behind her, and headed behind a partition for the pay station. She sensed that was somebody there already. Before she moved to look around, a huge gloved hand clamped over her nose and mouth. An arm across her stomach pinned her arms and squeezed the breath out of her.
Struggling against the force that held her, Tiffany could hardly move her head. She shouted but only the tiniest grunt escaped past the gloved hand. As her body shook, the restraining arm didn’t move, but the fingers of the hand on her stomach, her abdomen and her hip pressed in, exploring.
She tried to kick backwards but she was held too tight, forced against the hot, hard body of her captor. She felt the taut ropes of his abs, the tough thighs pressed against the soft cheeks of her ass. Between his thighs she felt a thick, uncoiling swelling press against her.
As she shook and tried to shout, she felt a quick, rhythmic pulsing in the body of her attacker. He was chuckling. It amused him to feel her desperate attempts to shake or kick herself free.
He hadn’t made a move for the purse under her arm, but her phone, her money, her cards–well, Daddy’s cards, they were all in there. Tiffany was sure that was where this was headed.
Daddy would shout and yell about it and make it her fault. Give her endless lectures about her being irresponsible and not taking enough care. Then the insurance would pay. So what, no biggie.
Rapid footsteps thudded from behind and the blond biker stood in front of her. His hood is up and he has a red and black bandana over his nose and mouth. How much more perfect could it be? She gets attacked in the car park and the biker is right there to rescue her.
Only he doesn’t rescue her. First he looks hard in her eye and puts his gloved finger to his pursed lips. Her eyes are wide and afraid now, but she makes a rapid nod. When the hand comes off her face, the blond biker straps tape across her mouth.
She tries to shake her head, she wants to tell him, It’s OK, I’ll do what you say, but he grabs her by the jaw, his pale blue eyes burn over the top of his shades. His finger goes to his lips again. A tear threatens to well in her eye. He pauses to brush it away with his thumb, giving her time to catch a slow breath through her nose.
He turned her by her shoulders and took her shopping bags and she heard him put them down. As she was turning, she tilted her head to look for security cameras. Someone would see this. She’d be out of this in no time. These assholes were going down.
She located the camera. It was right above her head and there’s no way it would have a view of what was happening here. They had chosen their spot. They knew what they were doing. Her hands were pulled behind her back and a tight plastic strap vibrated as it tightened around her wrists.
A dark van pulled up sharp by the pay station and another biker got out. The one from behind the pillar when she left the food court. A girl in leather and denim with big shades covering her face and a hoodie up appeared with her hand out.
The blond biker turned her again to face him. He said, “Car keys, parking ticket.” He pointed at the purse under her arm. She nodded. He took the purse, didn’t yank the strap, snapped the purse open, but held the opening towards her so she could see.
He found the pocket in the side where the ticket was, and her car key. He handed them to the girl, then he snapped her bag closed, and put it back under her arm. His eyes were hard and cruel, but his movements were soft and kind.
The girl went to the pay station as Tiffany was bundled through the side door onto a bench in the back of the van. The bench looked like it came out of the back of a long-dead Chrysler sedan. Smelled like it, too. The partition between the front and the back of the van had a scratched, milky plexiglass window.
The brown haired biker, he was the one who grabbed her from behind, he slid in to drive and the blond biker sat up front with him. The other one climbed in the back after Tiffany.
He sat on a crate and watched her as she lay across the bench in the darkness. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the narrow black shades.
The engine started and at the same time, from the far side of the parking level, Tiffany heard her turquoise Mini chirrup its cheery greeting to the key. The van moved and Tiffany was wedged into the crook of the bench, her arms tw
isted and cramped under her.
When she struggled to get less painfully uncomfortable, the biker lunged forward. Her head jerked as he slapped her across the jaw and he grabbed her thigh, hard. He held a big, balled fist up close to her eye. She couldn’t see anything of his face, just the bandana and the shades. No expression, no clue.
He was black haired. He had straps on his biceps, fingerless leather gloves and a black bandana over his face. Her first instinct was to just nod and comply, but she didn’t see how she could go any distance with her arm hurting so much.
She raised her eyebrows and twitched her head towards her shoulder, keeping her eye on the faceless face in front of her, hoping that he would understand. He was still.
Then his hand jerked her thigh, pulling her legs apart. Her tiny skirt rode up. The tops of her torn hold-ups were exposed and the bottom of her sheer black knickers.
She was yanked onto her back. His grip on her thigh was rough, and his fist was still at her face. The head in front of her cocked to the left. It was a question. Better? Her arms were less painful now. She nodded, once. She tried to wriggle to get her skirt down. But the fist held closer to her face, so she stopped.
As the van lurched through the barrier, out of the car park and into the sunshine, Tiffany thought, Everybody’s wearing shades, and she realized, Nobody talks. It gave her hope. They don’t want me to be able to identify them. That means they at least have a plan that involves not killing me.
This second part will be available soon.
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© Amy Law, TzR Publishing, 2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.
All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary.
Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing
