MANHANDLED: Sigma Saints MC

by Nicole Fox

  She pointed behind me, and I whirled just in time to see a group of Crooked Jaws, shoving their way angrily through the crowd. My mind raced. We could not outrun them. They were young and fit, and both of us were worn and injured. I glanced around, looking for something, anything to help us escape.

  “Nothing!” I growled. “Nothing! Just stupid kids and stupid fucking couples––!”

  I trailed off, suddenly inspired. In a single movement, I swept Erica into my arms, pressed her against the wall, and kissed her.

  “What are you…” She tried to say, pushing me off her, but I kept up my pressure. Dimly, I was aware of the Jaws approaching. I could tell by the heavy, clanging footfalls of their iron-tipped shoes, and the affronted squawks of the pedestrians they pushed aside.

  Erica’s mouth opened. She let my tongue enter her. She relaxed her body, so that my embrace could envelop her completely and that her breasts could swell right against my chest. Had she realized what was going on? Was this an act, designed to fool the approaching Jaws? Or was she simply responding to my touch, like a sheltered flower to sunlight?

  I could not be sure. Part of me did not want to know.

  The Jaws were right behind us. “Where’d those fuckers go?” One growled angrily at his cohort. “They can’t have gone far!”

  Heart pounding, I kissed Erica harder. I felt her hands looping around my waist and heard a sharp intake of breath as she pressed against me, as if she’d cut herself. I did not have time to wonder at her actions, however, because every granule of my awareness was focused on the bikers behind me, willing them to go away.

  “Aw, come on,” one said. “They’re obviously not here. Besides, if they were, that Molina prick would be leaving a blood trail a mile long.

  “What are they talking about?” I thought, but I continued kissing. At last, they turned and stomped away. The very next instant, Erica shoved me off of her.

  “I’m sorry!” I snapped, insulted that she would take to kissing me so poorly. “I thought that––”

  “No, Dominic, look,” she interrupted. Slowly, and with trembling fingers, she raised her hand up to my eyes––the hand that had been looped around my waist.

  It was covered in blood, so much that she seemed to be wearing a dripping, bright red glove.

  “Jesus Christ,” I muttered, the pain that I’d noticed in my side doubling. “One of the knives must have got me when I was climbing up the fence…how did we not notice?”

  Erica spun me around and squeezed the hem of my jacket. There was a sound like twisting a sodden sponge.

  “Oh, God,” she murmured, stepping away from the blood that spattered onto the ground. Now that the adventure was over, I could feel myself growing dizzy. The pain in my side grew.

  “Hey,” I chuckled, feeling giddy. “Thank God for black leather, huh?”

  And with that, my vision dimmed.

  I was only distantly aware of her settling me down against the wall and ripping out her cell phone to call a cab. Passerbys did not spare me a second glance. They assumed I was drunk, and the gleaming puddle that was pooling beneath me was so dark in the moonlight that it could have been water. I felt myself veering in and out of consciousness, until, at last, the taxi arrived.

  “To 16 Parry Drive,” she ordered smoothly, leaning me against her chest like a sleeping child. The taxi accelerated, and I felt new pain shoot up my core as if a savage hand had gripped my insides and yanked.

  “Thanks,” I murmured. Then, I buried my head in her breast, and all went black.

  # # #

  I was a man of violence. That means, like any man of violence, I was plagued by dreams.

  Dreams? Images? Memories? They were too fragmented, too disordered, and yet too real to truly tell. In these dreams, I saw blood flowing. My first fight. Young and naïve, I was, still drunk on the idea that being the leader of a motorcycle club meant fun and glory, not the endless cycle of violence that it turned out to be. A punch in the face. A broken jaw. An old man, a bystander in this conflict, piercing his hands on glass broken by my own fist. His look of terror. Erica’s look of terror, when the stupid Crooked Jaw drew his knife. All of these images swirled around in my head, a nauseous cocktail flaring in rhythm with the jolts of pain leaking their way through my unconsciousness.

  “Don’t worry, Dominic. You’ll be okay. I’ve got you.”

  A voice. A distant voice. “Don’t be stupid,” I wanted to tell it. “I’ve got me. I’m the only one who can handle this. Me!”

  And yet, the sound of it was so comforting.

  But then, the worst of it, that old, familiar nightmare. The sound of bones being crushed into powder. Have you ever heard bones ground like that? Maybe you’ve heard bones break––a dry snap, like a seasoned block of wood popping in a fire. But to be crushed? It’s like a thousand eggshells, smothered in a giant’s fist. It’s the sound of scraping fingernails across rough surfaces. Car paint. Chalkboards. It’s a sound that starts out solid, then turns to liquid as the shards of bone are pulverized into a pulp.

  That was the sound that haunted me––that has haunted me since the first days of my leadership of the Broken Spires.

  I knew that one day, I would pay for that sound. If it did not demand my life, it would demand my sanity.

  “Shhh…It’s okay. I’m taking care of you. Don’t you worry. It’ll be okay.”

  There! That stupid voice again! How dare it try to take care of me? I, who did not deserve to be taken care of…who only traded in violence, never in comfort.

  “No!” I cried, aloud or in my head, I would never know. “Let it end! I want it to end.”

  Silence. The images faded. The sounds grew muffled until they were nothing more than a rumble, like a distant rain on the other side of a mountain.

  Peace filled me. It was so strange at first, that I barely recognized it. Distantly, I could feel gentle hands touching me, soothing my pain away.

  “Erica?” I murmured. Then: “Don’t be silly. She was just some chick at the bar. Some dumb floozy who…”

  I could not finish the thought. All I could do was focus on those tender hands, and the face, outlined in light, attached to them.

  Chapter Seven

  Erica

  By the time we arrived at my apartment, Dominic was nearly unconscious. He’d explained enough to me before he passed out for me to know that I couldn’t call the police. The Crooked Jaws would be waiting, and besides, the cops would ask too many questions.

  My fingers sticky with blood, I threw Dominic’s arm around my shoulder and pulled him from the cab, tossing the driver a fifty on my way out and not waiting for the change. The guy must have taken that as a hint, for a moment later he was gone, asking no questions about the red fingerprints on the bill.

  I gazed at the house before me, and its long, meandering driveway.

  “Come on, Erica,” I said aloud. “You spent five years carrying Brian’s lazy ass. You can certainly manage this.”

  I took a deep breath and heaved Dominic inside. His leather outfit and ten-ton boots looked huge and ridiculous on my soft, white carpets, and yet I thought the place improved. Sweating, and puffing my hair away from my lips, I set him on a kitchen chair.

  “Okay,” I told myself. “The first thing I need to do is clean him.” Gazing down at his tattooed, leather-armored body, I thought, Good grief.

  I started by wrestling off his jacket. It was so sodden with blood and naturally heavy that it felt like it weighed fifty pounds. At last, after pushing his massive, muscular arms through the sleeves, I was able to wrench it off him.

  Beneath that he was wearing a white t-shirt, now splattered with as much crimson as a Halloween costume. For this, I simply grabbed a kitchen knife and cut it away. It was cheap, and––after everything we’d been through tonight––I could imagine that he could afford a new one. The sticky, stiffening fabric hurled in the trash, I finally saw the wound.

  “Good God,” I mumbled. There it was, a d
ivot deep in his hipbone, a little valley of blood and gore amid blood-speckled skin. As I bent to examine it, I realized that while it was not wide, it was very, very deep, and that I needed to close it up immediately.

  I threw a sheet on the ground, lowered him onto it, and then with a wet towel, I began to sponge bathe the wound site clean. Every once and awhile, Dominic’s eyelids would flicker, and he’d mumble something incoherent. When he did this, I simply stroked his long, rich brown hair and muttered comforting nonsense. “Don’t worry, Dominic. You’ll be okay. I’ve got you.” I whispered, time and time again. I am not sure if it helped. Perhaps I was saying it to comfort me as much as him.

  At last, the spot was clean, except for the rivulets of blood that flowed from it every time I removed the pressure from my hand. Nervously, I pushed a towel down upon it then rushed to my cabinet, where the first-aid kit was waiting. From it, I yanked a series of gauzes, and, after desperate searching, several butterfly bandages. I unpeeled these and, as quickly as I could, used them to seal the wound shut.

  Then came the gauze, then the bandages, and then, at long last, a waterproof plastic seal, covering the entire site. It had been awhile since I had taken first aid in college, but, nonetheless, I was impressed with my handiwork. Sighing deeply, I set the coffee pot to brew and threw Dominic’s jacket in the wash. Was it dry clean only? Probably, but at that point, I’d decided Dominic could suck it.

  At long last, he stirred.

  “Erica…?” He mumbled, his voice as weak as the hiss of a flame. Immediately, I rushed to his side.

  “Thank God, you’re okay,” I said, cupping his head in my hands. I knew I had only just met him, but, for some reason, I felt strangely protective of him. I guessed that was what happened when two people saved each other’s lives.

  “Jesus Christ,” I muttered aloud. “I saved your life!” It had never, ever occurred to me that I could do that for someone––for anyone. To save a life. Wow.

  Dominic blinked at me, then smiled. “Maybe,” He grunted, straining to sit up. “Maybe not. I’m a tough guy to kill.”

  “Apparently,” I said. “And an even harder one to undress. Your jacket’s in the wash. I hope I didn’t stretch it.”

  “Trust me, taking off my clothes is not usually a problem,” he replied, “especially with a woman like you around.”

  I blushed. I could not help it. Him––a criminal, a bad boy, a man with a gun––complimenting me like that!

  He scratched at his chest, which was still caked with dried blood.

  “Man,” he moaned. “What I wouldn’t give for a shower.”

  I gaze at him. Though his wound was clean, the rest of his skin was caked with drying blood. His hair was stiff and sweaty, and from the way he smelled, he had absorbed a handle’s worth of liquor, gliding across the bar.

  An idea––born from pity at first, but then morphing into reckless titillation––burst in my head.

  “Here,” I said, leaning down to aid him getting to his feet. “I can help.”

  He took my hand and stood. I reached out to hold him up, but he swatted my hand away.

  “No,” he said. “I can do it.”

  And he marched solidly to my bathroom.

  There, with me hovering around uncertainly behind him, he began to unbutton his pants. This he did without a problem. It was bending over, to actually remove his jeans, that was a challenge. I figured he would want to tough it out and do it himself anyway, but as he strained I could see little blossoms of blood forming on the fresh gauze, so I gently took his hands away.

  Then, fully aware of what I was doing, I bent down onto my knees.

  “I figured you wouldn’t object to this,” I laughed, as I hooked my fingers into his belt loops and pulled gently down. His pants slid off, revealing clinging black boxers that outlined an enormous bulge.

  I gasped. Brian had been big enough, sure, but he didn’t even come close to this. And Dominic wasn’t even fully hard.

  “Enjoying yourself down there?” He asked, ruffling my hair. I gave him a fake glower and pulled off his boxers in a single pull.

  “This is serious!” I said, rising to my feet. “If you want that wound to stay safe, we have to get the rest of your body cleaned up. Got it?”

  He grinned, because he noticed me, despite my firm glare, stealing a glimpse or two of his cock. If he wasn’t injured, I would have pushed him and his smug face right into the shower.

  Instead, I leaned in, turned on the water, and waited until it was warm but not scalding. Then, I stripped down myself, aware of his eyes upon me as every inch of clothing fell away.

  “I’d wear a bathing suit,” I said mock-scathingly, “except I’m worried you’d get blood all over it.”

  “Uh-huh, sure,” he replied, his gaze heating my breasts as if I was leaning close to a fire. I blushed. It had been a long time since I’ve felt like a man truly enjoyed my body. Brian certainly hadn’t made me feel that way. Then, his eyes widened. “Ouch,” he whispered, reaching out to touch my hip. I glanced down, past my breasts, and was startled to see a huge bruise, running up the length of my hipbone. It looked as if a biker had dipped his wheels in purple ink before riding over my flesh. He ran his fingers along it, wincing as I winced, and tracing the bulge of flesh that swelled beneath the bruising.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For getting you into all this.”

  “Just get into the damn shower,” I said, having fun ordering around a man who could obviously have snapped me over his thigh like dry kindling the moment I pissed him off. “We can worry about apologies later.”

  So, together, we stepped into the shower.

  “Oh, yeah,” he moaned in satisfaction as the warm, soothing water washed over him. It turned his already dark brown hair jet black and cast his rich, thick bangs over his furrowed brow. I gazed at his face, outlined by the water. A scar on his cheek. A cleft chin, strong and pointed, emphasized his solid, salient jawline. Lips firm and full, unaccustomed to smiling and yet prone to laughter. A strange mixture. A joyful frown. And above all this: his eyes. Dark and glistening as a horse’s. Intelligent and yet savage, and also––the longer I looked into them––sad. They had both the hardened wisdom of an old man and the youthful energy of a young one.

  I reached out and touched his skin. Beneath the scars, and the roughness, I could feel something else: it was soft, and clean, and beautiful.

  Then, he blinked. Some of that embattled strength faded from his eyes, and he sagged against the wall, wincing as the skin on his side stretched.

  “Sorry,” he murmured. “Still recovering, I guess.”

  I smiled, took the bar of soap from its resting place beneath the shower head, and rubbed it between my hands. “Don’t worry,” I said, my hands now full of suds. “I am having a great time.”

  I touched the suds to his skin.

  His body poised before me, sleek and glistening beneath the flow of water. I ran my fingers over him, relishing the rippling hardness of his muscles, the v-shaped indentation of his abdomen. Where there was blood, I pressed against him, watching the water whirl away in red streams, until the flesh beneath was pink and clean.

  Satisfied, I leaned back to admire my accomplishments, when he seized my hand and kissed me. “Good girl,” he growled. “Now, wash lower.”

  He grabbed the soap bar, slammed it into the waiting palm, and guided my hands down, down between his legs.

  I grinned, and began to wash.

  His manhood was huge, and warm beneath the water. I watched the bubbles form around the rough black hair that covered his chest and zipped down in a happy trail all the way beneath his belly button. His balls were large, filling the whole cup of my hand, and as I moved to his shaft I heard his breathing deepen. He grew harder and harder in my grip until it burst from the length of both my hands and touched me on the belly button.

  I gasped. The contact was electric. Even in the flowing water of the shower, I felt myself growing wet in a dif
ferent way.

  “Okay,” he grunted. “My turn.”

  He took the soap and began to wash me.

  Circles around my tits. Pausing, pinching on my nipples. Great swirls around my hips, ever–so-careful of the bruise that had formed there. His hands slippery with suds, he pulled me against him, his cock hard and throbbing against me, reaching all the way up to my navel. His fingers fastened upon the flesh of my butt, and began flexing, like a chef kneading dough.

  “You have,” he growled, “A great ass.”

  He lifted, spreading my cheeks wide. He began rocking his hips, rubbing his dick against me, and I moaned, throwing my arms around his shoulders and letting him do as he would. Carefully, deliberately, inch by inch, he finger-walked his hands down between my glutes, spreading wider and wider.