by Layla Wolfe
Overly cheerful too, Gudrun skipped ahead to meet Madison. “Oh, good! I sure could use some things.”
Roman followed as Gudrun whipped the bag from Madison and continued around the side yard. Madison lingered behind a little to talk to Roman. He instantly felt like a student being scolded by a teacher.
“You shouldn’t be doing that. Did you notice Reg Eastwood watching you?”
“Is that guy a pervert or what? I just don’t trust him.”
Madison scowled. “I think it’s you I should be mistrusting, buddy. We put you here because you’re related to Gudrun, you’ll protect her and keep her safe. Not feel her up the second you’re left alone.”
Roman dug his hands deep in his pockets. His bulging horse’s cock had shriveled as though he’d jumped in a cold pool under the scolding of The Bare Bones old lady. Madison was almost as terrifying as her husband. And Ford had been rumored to have shot his own father down in the Sonoran desert. “I know. Sorry. Got carried away for a second.”
Madison’s expression softened. “Well. My mother was living with Ford’s father when we first hooked up. I’m a fine fucking one to talk. I just think Slushy might have a thing or two to say about it. I don’t want to get on the bad side of our lawyer.”
“No, no, don’t worry, Madison. You’re right, I’m wrong. She’s not a fucking groupie. She’s a sensitive woman who’s been through a fucking lot, losing her husband. I shouldn’t be using her like a fucking blow-up doll.”
“Well, that part’s true. You can’t just use her then toss her like a cigarette butt. You have to think about the results of your actions for once.” Madison couldn’t have known about Roman’s celibate practices. Members didn’t discuss that sort of intimate detail with their old ladies. She couldn’t have known this behavior was highly out of character for him.
“I won’t,” he vowed. “I know she’s no groupie. And right now’s the exact wrong time to be putting the moves on her.” He didn’t enlighten Madison that it had been Gudrun who had whipped up her shirt and bra. That was none of Madison’s business.
“Good.” Madison finally allowed Roman to walk back toward the front of the house past trellises heavy with fluorescent bougainvillea.
CHAPTER NINE
GUDRUN
Nothing is as boring as other people’s bad luck.
That’s what I kept telling myself as I passed Roman Serpico in the hallways of that beautiful Spanish home.
He didn’t want to hear about my past travails. He couldn’t possibly care that I’d left home at fourteen to make a living modeling—but really, to get away from yet another criminal boyfriend of my mother’s who treated my burgeoning breasts as bowling balls. If I was going to be saddled with these boobs, I figured I might as well make money off of them. So I moved out, idealistically thinking that within weeks I’d be in the pages of glossy magazines. Within a week I had my face in a photographer’s crotch with promises of a glossy magazine spread. The only thing being spread was my thighs.
Although I did get compensation for it, I have to say. The casting couch exists for a reason—it works. My manager was a pit bull of a gal who demanded terms up front. So many blowjobs for a half a page. A full page required an all-day marathon of athletic prowess. I usually thought I was on the fast track, snorting meth to get up and taking drugs to wind down at night. But late at night, in my own bed or someone else’s, sometimes I’d cry. I knew I wanted more—more security, more comfort, more kindness. That was what I found in Vince.
For the first time ever, I felt loved. I didn’t wake up panic-stricken at three AM thinking my entire world was collapsing on me. No longer did those deep night sessions include anxiety about whether I’d forgotten to pay the electric bill, who I’d forgotten to blow, how I’d forgotten to take the garbage to the curb, how fucked I was going to be at tax time because I had forgotten to prepay any estimated taxes. Now, I was truly and utterly loved. And that meant not having to worry about trivia like that, because it was all taken care of for me.
“Is that how you met your husband?” Roman asked.
We were eating dinner in the dining alcove. It was an unspoken rule that no one went into the back yard anymore. Some meals Wolf joined us, but he always complained about how Tracy had been sent up into the mountains, away from him, and was “probably flopping in the hay with that Tobiah weirdo.” He was convinced the bowl-headed nerd was getting it on with my friend, the girlfriend he felt the world owed him. Tracy and Tobiah were always “on bush patrol,” “going for a bologna ride,” and having a “four-legged frolic.” It was hilarious at first, and Roman and I laughed behind our hands. But sometimes it was nice when Wolf missed a meal.
I liked being alone with Roman, even though it had been weird between us since Madison had caught us practically making out. Maddy was the one who had first thought Roman looked at me with love, so I don’t know why I should be so mortified she would see him massaging my boobs. I wasn’t really mortified by Madison, really. I was embarrassed by Roman.
My father was married to his mother, and it just seemed all levels of wrong.
It didn’t stop Roman from being a smoking hot piece of man candy, though. I nearly collapsed when I ran into him in the hallway after he’d just showered. He had one of those flimsy white towels wrapped around his waist, and he was nonchalantly drying his long, black, spiky hair with another. He wasn’t beefy or bulky—he was lean and mean, his abdomen almost concave with hunger and exercise.
With his arms lifted, I was at armpit level, and I just wanted to bury my face there in the silken tufts. One nipple was pierced with a pirate’s hoop and I wanted to tease that with the tip of my tongue. But all I could muster was, “My MRI appointment is at four today. Don’t worry, though, because Maddy’s taking me.”
His face appeared, looking down at me. And by “down,” I mean he was a full foot taller than me. He was probably used to looking down at everyone. He had that stooped sort of eagle’s look, and the sunlight from a high window bounced off the sand-colored wall to light up his beautiful, exotic face. This man has felt my boobs was all I could think. And it made me proud.
I had felt his enormous erection against my ass. I wasn’t an inexperienced virgin by a long shot. That wang was like another limb, it was so thick, so solid, so long. I could actually feel the pussy juice bloom between my lips and trickle down my inner thigh when he humped that massive pecker against me. His beautiful hand had a fine tremor running through it, as though electrified, when he captured my breast. His words barely seemed to matter when the warmth of his breath against my ear made my nipples harden.
I wanted it to happen again. And I didn’t.
“Okay,” he had said in the hallway. A humid heat wafted from his body, like he’d had the shower on super-hot. “Good luck. I hope they find something they can correct.”
And he’d sauntered to his bedroom, long arms dangling at his sides, seemingly unaware of his own beauty, the effect it had on me.
Now we were fully dressed, sitting like two proper people at the dining table. Roman wanted to know about Vince.
“Yeah, he was a fashion photographer. He sort of saved me from the druggy, slutty life I was messed up in.”
“Kind of like me.”
I had to pause, my fork full of salmon in midair. Roman was right. Lord knows what might’ve happened that night—and following day—with Riker in that shitty trap house. They nabbed Shannon. They were probably just waiting for me to sober up to take me to the next safe house in their fucked white slavery ring. Tobiah had gotten the cops—the Leaves of Grass pot plantation was on good terms with the local constabulary—to put out a BOLO with the Arizona Highway Patrol on Shannon’s car. So far, nothing.
“Yes,” I said softly. “Kind of like you. But you know what? We’re both basket cases, Roman, you and I. How do we expect to help each other? You picked me up out of that disgusting bed, but I have to do the rest myself. Maddy tries to make me feel that I’m part of the club,
but I’m not really. Women can’t be members, and unless I’m someone’s old lady, who am I? Just another fucking pass-around.”
I’d been fishing for compliments, and I’d lured him in. Roman’s eyes flashed. He pointed his fork at me. “No one’s passing you around! I’ll be on you like boom on an A-bomb if that’s what it takes, but I’m not letting anyone touch you, Gudrun. You’ll be safe as a bug in a rug around me. That’s why they picked me to be your bodyguard. I’m your stepbrother. And I’m celibate.”
It was just too good of an opportunity not to bring it up. “You were all over me like tie die on a hippie the other day in the backyard.”
It was hard to tell if Roman felt ashamed or proud. He smiled slyly to himself. “Who wouldn’t be, Gudrun? You were crying and I was comforting you.”
“With your hands on my boobs.” I was smiling too.
He shrugged. “Can you blame me? I may be celibate but I’m not a eunuch. Can I tell my stepsister she has a nice rack?”
“You may.”
“Then you have a nice rack. My hands just swerved. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”
And was I all levels of wrong to feel disappointed by that? But I didn’t know what to say. “Go ahead, feel free to do it again”? I didn’t want any damned boyfriend, and I sure as hell didn’t need any new hookup, any new one night stand. That damage had been done. It was time for me to start undoing the damage, to heal.
“You’ll be safe around me, around the club.” Then he started sing-songing something unusual. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
My heart skipped a beat, instantly remembering the song I’d been chanting to myself after Riker had molested me. It became unreal when Roman sung the incorrect words that I had been lulling myself to sleep with.
“His love to guard me through the night, and wake me in the morning’s light.”
He sang it quietly, looking at the pile of wild rice on his plate, pushing his food around with his fork like a sitcom actor.
“Those are the wrong words,” I said. “I was singing that at Riker’s house, too. Only I sang those two wrong lines. ‘His love to guard me through the night’…”
Roman locked eyes with me. “You’re kidding. It just popped into my head. Now that I think of it, it was stuck in my head the other day, too. Might’ve been the same day your friend was kidnapped. But I think those are the right lyrics. You must’ve been thinking it because you didn’t want the Lord to take you. You just wanted me to watch over you.”
That did flood me with a warm and fuzzy feeling. It was obvious he’d been reading my mind—and from afar too, I might add. It was heartening we were on the same wavelength.
“Yes. I do want you watching over me, Roman. But I keep worrying what a fall this is for you, from your rock star days to guarding a nurse’s assistant. I’m not even a nurse. I didn’t even get that far in the program because the car accident happened.”
“That wasn’t your fault.” I was glad he didn’t say “It was Vince’s fault for having had a couple drinks.” I was not going to tolerate any slander of my beloved husband. Instead he said, “Life’s events got in your way. Maybe now, with the club’s backing, you can finish and get your RN license.”
Actually, Maddy had talked to me about that. Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff had a nursing program she was confident I could get into. In fact, she wanted me to apply right now, even though I wasn’t ready to show my face in public just yet. “Yes. I think that’s possible. I don’t know where I’ll live yet—Maddy said I could stay with her until I get an apartment—but she’s been very encouraging. She loves nursing. It’ll be a good change for me. There’s no reason for me to keep living with my mother in Phoenix. A change is just as good as a nice, long nap. Change is refreshing. I love change.” I really did.
“I obviously embrace change,” said Roman, “although lots of people don’t think I changed for the better. Lots of people don’t understand the move to MC life.”
I frowned. “Who’s to say? You’re following your true path. Is being a rock star your true path?”
Roman stabbed the table with his forefinger. “It was back then. This is now, and being in this MC is the number one most important thing in my life. I’m so over the shallow self-indulgent lifestyle of being a rocker. Believe it or not, it gets old.”
“Oh, I do believe it. People think being a photographer’s model is the most glam thing on earth. It isn’t. It’s standing in uncomfortable positions under hot lights with the pancake melting off your face in four inch heels that make you feel like your hip is broken. Oh, God. Well, maybe just my hip.”
His smile was dazzling. His eyes were so beautiful, as though someone had hit him with a handful of stars. “See, we are a lot alike. We’ve both been in trivial, shallow businesses where the physical mattered more than the emotional. I’m looking more for the emotional.”
“I am, too,” I said with authority.
“Would you like another couple Oxys to get you through the night?”
I took them from him, but I wasn’t about to pop them right away. I had a sly, selfish plan in mind. I didn’t even take the wine he offered me. Apparently he wasn’t afraid of combining too many painkillers and wine anymore, but tonight I didn’t accept it.
I felt like I had a luxurious secret as I went to bed much earlier than normal. I had asked for, and Maddy had brought, some slinky nightgowns. One was a pink satin affair with spaghetti straps that made me look like Jean Harlow. Maddy had an eye for selecting just what I’d need, and this number did the trick. The draped neckline set off my boobs to the greatest advantage, but only I was going to gaze on this splendor tonight.
I sort of propped myself on the heavy wooden footboard of the bed. All the furniture was designed in the Arts and Crafts style, heavy, functional, with hammered hardware. A giant mirror reflected my image back to me, and I hitched one bare foot up on the footboard, slutty. With my hair parted on the side and hanging like a heavy curtain over my eye, I was the epitome of the femme fatale. Maybe ten pounds too heavy, but hey, I was too old to be an anorexic anymore. It was too hard—and dangerous—to maintain that skeletal form.
Dipping my hand into a creamy, pearly jar of coconut oil, I applied a couple of fingers to my labia. I was as whorish as I’d ever been now, my vulva exposed to the mirror like that, secretly wishing Roman would barge on in, there being no lock for the door. I imagined him barging in and just taking me like a fucking animal, maybe flipping me around with my ass sticking out in the air, doing me dog style the way he’d grabbed me in the backyard, with that sexy older neighbor looking on. Was I an exhibitionist? Well, maybe all models were a bit. I’d been involved in plenty of racy shoots with tons of people looking on, and it always excited me. They’re looking at me. It would spike my adrenaline to know I was being admired. Who doesn’t want to be admired? Knowing I was giving someone a chubby heightened my arousal even more.
If only I could finagle to position myself somehow where Roman could see me. Accidentally, of course. The past week had been so uneventful my mind had wandered to sex. I loathed men still, of course. Well, all men other than Roman. He’d helped me. And Wolf Glaser was all right. And Ford Illuminati had really gone out of his way to help me. And some of the Bare Bones brothers seemed all right, although they probably weren’t. Remembering that sexy silver fox, Reg Eastwood, eagerly eyebanging my boobs got my juices flowing. I swirled my fingertips around in the mushy pot of my sex, purposefully avoiding the clit, not wanting to come too soon.
Roman must have felt some competition with Eastwood. He’d been showing Eastwood “this woman is mine, all mine. And you’ll never touch her.” That had turned me on. Remembering how Roman had cupped my tits, diddled the nipples as Eastwood looked on, well I flicked a new blob of white cream from the coconut jar. This time I applied it to a nipple, watching myself in the mirror avidly as my heart rate increased, my pussy lips filled with boiling blood, my clit engo
rged and peeked out from between my lips like a tiny penis.
I went for it now with abandon, rubbing the enlarged plum of my clit, not needing any more oil, I was already so lubricated. Because I didn’t love myself I couldn’t love the sight of myself receiving pleasure in the mirror. But I could imagine someone else admiring me and possibly loving me, so I began to allow a few sighs to break loose from my lips. Sighs, at first tiny and feminine, appropriate for my attire. But as I dove more into the masturbatory bliss, fixated on my goal, all my senses shutting down around me, I probably let fly with a few unladylike grunts and hiccups.
As the craving built in my pelvis, my focus shifted from the silver fox Eastwood to the man who resembled a Hungarian count, the former rock star, Roman Serpico. Because of course he was the real center of my fixation, even if I couldn’t admit it yet to myself. Now, since I was safe and secure and alone in my room, I let my wildest fantasies wander. I diddled my nipple, imagining that Roman’s long artistic fingers were fiddling with me. Then it was his erotic fingers flicking back and forth over my clit, manipulating my bursting cooze into the greatest heights I’d ever achieved. If he somehow burst in right now, flinging himself to his knees before me, spreading my labia like a torn orange and lapping at my very core, I’d combust into a flaming vortex—like the deep, spiritual, and powerful vortices Shirley MacLaine was always ranting about around the Pure & Easy area.
Before I realized the extent to which the sudden orgasm gripped me, I fell through a trap door. Some hole had opened up under me, and I was falling, falling, like Alice down the rabbit hole. A seizure gripped me as my uterus and all the surrounding organs were clutched by the most powerful contractions I’d ever known. I must have been writhing on the ground like a kid who had viewed a Pokémon cartoon depicting fireworks. I had never, never had such powerful contractions giving such a stranglehold over all my internal organs. Strong arms reached around the back of my uterus to wring it of all life-giving properties, just squeezing every last drop of fluid from it, leaving it a dry cornhusk of an organ.
