MANHANDLED: Sigma Saints MC

by Nicole Fox

  I screamed, and kicked the debris away. I was done. Done with being the good girl. Done with always doing what she was told, with marrying the “right” guy, with pleasing my parents, with bending over backward to let my boss humiliate me day and night.

  “No, Erica Carter,” I grunted aloud. “You are done.”

  And that meant that tonight, I was going on a mission.

  I, Erica Carter, perfect student, perfect fiancé, perfect woman, was going to pick up a man––and not just any man. A bad boy, as different as possible from the clean-cut, crisp-collared man that Brian was.

  My first stop was the shower. Not only was I going to shave my legs, as usual, but I was going to shave everything, if you catch my drift. I used to, but when Brian and I had stopped having sex regularly, I figured, “Why bother?”

  Tonight, there was a reason to bother.

  When I was done with that, I soaped my hair, washing away the pain and humiliation of the day. The tears from my cheeks. The stench of lowly office buildings that seeps into your skin. No, tonight I was going to smell wonderful. Finally finished and pink from scrubbing, I emerged from the shower feeling like a new woman. I liked it. This new person could (I hoped) be a confident one.

  My next step was my wardrobe. At first, I appraised it with a sad sigh. Just hanger after hanger of boring, beige suit jackets, knee-length skirts, and low-slung black pumps.

  “No,” I thought. “Those won’t do at all.”

  I was about to turn away, about to give up, when a flash of red caught my eye: there, buried in the back of my designer closet! A wine-red trunk. The one I had taken to college, in which all of my college outfits were stored.

  “You’re too old and fat for that,” I heard Brian’s voice say in my head. For a moment, I almost listened. Then, the image of his secretary, bent over before him, filled my mind, and all doubt was blown away. With a snarl, I pressed myself into the back of the closet, seized the handle to the trunk, and heaved it onto the bed.

  Looking through its contents was like looking at the mementos of another person. High-heeled boots. Fringed flapper dresses. Skin-tight pencil skirts, to show off voluptuous hips. Makeup. And, Jesus Christ, not the kind of makeup I had in my bathroom now, full of dull shades of brown. No, this was RED! PURPLE! LIME GREEN! An assortment of colors so crazy I could not help but laugh. Smiling, I tossed aside the gaudy ones, then held onto my favorite: the bright red lipstick, and a soft, shimmery eye shadow.

  I placed them atop my vanity for later use. First, I needed to pick the outfit.

  Though I was unbelieving at first, I was very pleased to find that most of the outfits fit me. They were far too young-looking, of course, but still, that my waist remained the size it was in college filled me with enormous satisfaction. “Looks like eating right and working out paid off, Brian,” I snapped at the air, at the same time reminding myself not to go too crazy. Eventually, I found the perfect look: a cherry-red cocktail dress that hugged my hips and booty, had a wonderfully textured front to hide my little bit of tummy, and a low, flowing neckline to emphasize what I had to offer. I decided to pair it with glossy leather boots, and I was set.

  Underneath it, I wore my laciest bra and a thong. Generally, I think thongs are silly, but if ever there was a night for one, it was tonight.

  Next, I went for my hair. My hairdryer beneath the sink was so unused it was dusty, but, after a little bit of practice (and some trial and error) I was able to fashion my hair into a curly, wild look that flew away from my face like a runway model’s––at least, that’s how I hoped it looked. The dark and scared part of me insisted I looked like I had grabbed onto an electric wire.

  “Shush, you,” I told myself. “You look great.”

  Makeup. Shoes. A little clutch purse I hadn’t used since my cousin’s wedding. In it, I threw my I.D., some money, and a couple of condoms. I was on the pill, thank Christ, but it could never hurt to be safe.

  All ready to go, I took a final pause in front of the mirror. What I saw almost made my cry.

  “What are you doing, Erica?” I cried aloud. “You look ridiculous! Dressed like a teenager! Makeup like a vaudeville actress! My God, what were you thinking?”

  I thought about that. What was I thinking? What was I doing? And it was then that I realized: stop. Stop thinking. Stop worrying. You have been doing that your entire life, and look where it has gotten you! A shattered engagement, a job you hate, and a cold and empty rental house.

  “Don’t think,” I told myself. “Just do.”

  I took a deep breath, and then, staggering slightly in my heels––which I hadn’t worn in years––I made my way to the kitchen of my apartment. And then, I did something I also hadn’t done in years:

  I ordered a taxi. Beforehand, Brian would have given me no end of trouble for wasting the money. Money that would be better off going to his new fancy car, or that designer suit he loved so much. But now––finally––I did not have to worry about him. All I had to worry about was me. And “me” wanted a goddamn taxi.

  While I waited, I fished out a bottle of rum from the back of the freezer that Brian had left there ages ago and sipped it, feeling rebellious. By the time the car arrived, I was pleasantly tipsy and warm, but, even more appropriately, I felt courageous.

  “Okay, man-world,” I said, tottering to my feet. “Erica Carter is coming.”

  I got into the taxi, told the guy to take me to the most exciting bar he knew, and set off.

  Chapter Four

  Dominic

  I swear to God, when she walked in, the whole place went silent. Everyone––the people bustling for an order at the bar, the guffawing Crooked Jaws, the drunk dancers gyrating in the corner. There was a rustle. The music kept thumping, but somehow the volume had been turned down for all our ears. She shifted, seemingly uncomfortable. I would have been, too, with all those eyes on me. I could tell in that instant she had had no idea what she’d walked into. She was…too classy. Too suave. That red dress was way too expensive of a material to touch the ash-stained seats of the bar chairs, still sticky with beer.

  She walked. Her hips and her ass undulated back and forth like the pistons of a smooth, well-oiled machine. Her cleavage in the bar light was the color of milk, and her lips so red and vibrant they could have been blood. Silently, everybody watched her. The tapering flow of her waist, down to her navel, visible through the sheer crimson fabric. Her thighs, unlike her tiny center, were huge, soft and muscular. Exactly the sort of thighs to fasten around your neck.

  With the tiniest of smiles, revealing white teeth, she settled down on the stool next to me at the bar. Her buttocks nestled perfectly into the seat, and her tits pooled against the bar’s polished surface so deliciously that even that damned robot of a bartender had to look her way. Once she sat, the bar resumed its talking, but I continued to stare.

  “That’s it,” I declared inwardly. “Forget the mission. I’m taking her home tonight.”

  “Can I get you a drink?” I asked politely, leaning in to speak with her. She blinked at me, as if surprised, before returning my smile.

  “Why, thank you!” She said. “I didn’t realize you were the bartender!”

  Now it was my turn to blink. It took me a solid five seconds to figure out she was joking before I threw back my head and laughed.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, biting her ruby-red lips and looking embarrassed. “That was a pretty lame joke, wasn’t it?”

  I winked at her. “About as lame as it was adorable,” I said. I noticed her wince at the word. “Okay,” I told myself. “Don’t call her ‘adorable’. This girl wants to be taken seriously.”

  Eager to regain control of the conversation, I called the barkeep over and ordered another whiskey for myself. Then, I told him to buy for the lady whatever she wanted.

  “Uh, um…” She stammered, looking supremely uncomfortable with the bartender’s leering eyes all over her. Obviously, she was not used to such scrutiny, but I could not imagine
how. A woman that sexy.

  “A vodka cranberry?” I offered, making sure to meet her eyes when I did so. Not like the damn bartender, who was only meeting her tits.

  “Sure,” she mumbled, and the man, at last, went away. She breathed a sigh of relief, then looked over at me, much more composed. “That was a good choice,” she said. “The cranberry, that is. If I spill it all over myself, it won’t matter!”

  She chuckled, and I smiled at her. Man, she was nervous. So nervous I could practically hear her teeth chatter.

  “Okay,” I thought. “Gotta get her out of her shell.”

  “You look amazing in that dress,” I said, figuring that straightforward would be the best approach. “May I ask your name?”

  “Oh!” She piped, genuinely startled. “It’s Erica!”

  “Erica,” I replied. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dominic.”

  I held out my hand for her to shake, making sure to keep my voice down when I mentioned my name. Her fingers felt tiny and cold in my grasp.

  I imagined the rest of her would feel much warmer.

  The drinks arrived. I sipped patiently at my whiskey, while Erica attacked her cocktail like a seasoned veteran.

  “Rough day?” I asked, as she sighed with contentment at the drink.

  “Oh, you have no idea,” she replied. “First at the office, and then at home, and––oh! Surely, you don’t want to be talking about this?”

  I took her hand again. Already, it felt warmer. “Erica,” I murmured. “I am willing to talk about whatever the hell you want to talk about.”

  She smiled, sadly somehow, and twirled the ice in her drink around with her straw. “There’s something new,” she said.

  “So, Erica,” I pressed. “Tell me, what is it you do?”

  “Oh, I’m just a paralegal.”

  “Just?” I exclaimed, impressed. “That takes a lot of schooling!”

  She shrugged. “Well, I’m actually studying to be a full-fledged lawyer, but…with everything going on…”

  I wrinkled my nose a little. “A lawyer, huh? A fine, upstanding citizen of the law.”

  She caught my meaning, and, for the first time, met my eyes.

  “A lawyer plays with the law the same way a basketball player plays with a ball. There are rules, sure, but there are still plenty of ways to make sure the right people win. Especially…” She shimmied her hips. “With all that wiggle room.”

  I laughed, at once mesmerized by the movement of her hips, the meaning of her metaphor, and, if I am being fully honest, the thought of her playing with balls.

  “Well, Erica,” I said, shaking myself into focus. “I can tell you this: I am far more likely to need a lawyer than ever to be one.”

  “Hey, if I need to practice, I’ll give you a call, alright?” She said, and together we laughed.

  Knowing clearly the next step to take, I reached out and touched her leg. She gasped lightly, but did not object.

  “So, Dominic,” she whispered, leaning close. “What is it that you do that might require a lawyer?”

  I smiled mischievously. “I am a businessman of sorts. High risk, high reward, that sort of thing.”

  She frowned. “I feel like I have never taken a risk in my whole life. Not really.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She sighed deeply, and continued to play with the ice in her cup. “Well,” she said at last, “I’ve always played it safe. Safe school. Safe job. Safe boyfriend. Safe life.”

  I could hear the bitterness in her voice. It was as strong as the vodka in her drink. “And how’s that working out for you?” I pressed.

  She snorted, then downed the remainder of her cocktail. “Peachy fucking keen,” she replied. Promptly, I ordered another drink for her.

  “Funny,” I said after the drinks arrived. “If you’d talked to me a year ago today, I would have felt for you. Strongly. But now…sometimes a little safety can be nice.”

  She glanced at me in surprise. “What made you change your mind?” She asked.

  “Well, risk means that, sometimes, no matter how hard you try, people get hurt. Innocent people.” I sighed deeply, emoting my regret. Was I putting on a bit of a show for her? Yes, I was, but that did not mean that my sentiments were false. Besides, I could feel her fascination for me building with every word I spoke, and every sip of drink she took.

  “I’d bet,” I said, gulping my whiskey, “that you’ve never had a conversation quite like this one, either.”

  “No,” she replied, playing with the jewelry on her hands. I noticed there was no ring there, yet, her ring finger was indented, as if she was accustomed to wearing one. “Interesting,” I thought.

  “It’s a shame,” I said. “I’ve been enjoying this. Haven’t you?”

  She smiled, nodded, and then, out of nowhere, started to cry. In a second, I was up, with my arm around her shoulder.

  “What’s the matter, Erica?” I asked.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. It’s just that… today, I caught my f-f-fiancé in bed with another woman, and…” She broke down into sobs.

  Carefully, like one would handle a child, I scooped her out of the bar stool and steadied her on the floor. “Come with me,” I said. For a moment, she looked terrified, so I explained, “Don’t worry. We’re just going outside. Come on.”

  With my arm still around her shoulder, I led her to the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered again. “I’m so stupid. This is probably the least sexy thing a woman can do…”

  I had us halt outside the door. Then, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a pair of cigarettes, and offered her one.

  “Oh. I don’t smoke.” She protested, but I cut her off.

  “Of course you don’t,” I agreed. “But tonight, if anyone in the world needs a cigarette, it’s you.”

  She chuckled wetly, then took the offered cig. I raised the lighter and lit it for her before attending to my own.

  “Look,” I said, after we smoked in silence for a while. “I’ll be honest: if you were just some dumb floozy, I would say, yes, crying is not an attractive thing to do. But, thirty seconds after you opened your mouth, I realized there is more to you than that. I like talking to you. Do I want you to stop crying? Of course I do, but not because I think it’s ugly or anything. It’s because I hate to see a good, beautiful woman cry.”

  “Ha,” she laughed, taking a drag of her cigarette and choking a bit. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Don’t I?” I said. “Let’s see: I know you’re a good girl, who’s always done what she’s been told. I know that, even though you look stunning in that dress, you don’t at-heart believe you do. You think you look fat, and much too old for it.”

  She stared. “How could you possibly…”

  “The way you hold yourself,” I explained, flicking some ash away. “Arms and legs crossed. Hunched over. As if you are trying to make yourself look as small as possible. You’d turn invisible if you could.”

  Another tear fell from her eye and paused in its descent on her cheek. It was beautiful, like a crystal on white linen.

  “I also know that, because you came here, there is more to you than those things,” I continued. “You being here means that you are adventurous, and looking for a second chance, and––”

  “Listen, buddy,” she interrupted, her voice as sharp as a knife. “I don’t know who you think you are, prying into my thoughts like that, but I’m telling you now, to back off. You don’t know anything about me, and––”

  I grabbed her round the waist and drew her to me. She jumped, startled, but then allowed herself to be guided, right up against my body, right up against my lips. I kissed her, hard. I could taste the salt of her tears. Her eyes widened in surprise, and then, slowly, fluttered shut, as she lost herself in the pleasure of it.

  “If I don’t know anything about you,” I whispered, “then how come I knew you really needed that?”

  She chuckled, then smiled, wiping her eyes dry. I notic
ed her cigarette on the ground––she had dropped it in the ecstasy of the kiss––and retrieved it for her.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

  “Hey, Erica,” I replied. “You yell all you want. Yelling, I can take. It’s tears that get me nervous.”

  She laughed, and puffed her cigarette, playing with the smoke as it trailed from her lips. We did not kiss again, but I noticed her standing much closer to me, as if drawing from my warmth. Like that, we remained outside for a while, chatting and smoking, until, at last, the need for another drink drove us in.

  During our brief time outside, the atmosphere of the bar had changed dramatically. The three Crooked Jaws were no longer in the corner, but now in the center of the bar, hollering and drinking together. A ring had formed around them, and it was only my great height that allowed me to see what all the fuss was about: a knife, held high in one guy’s hand, about to be drawn down between the knuckles of his buddy. Overheard, onlookers tossed money around, betting and ordering drinks.