MANHANDLED: Sigma Saints MC

by Nicole Fox

  And with that, he pulled his hood up over his head, tipped it the way one would tip a hat, and ambled from the bedroom, leaving me gaping after him, both blushing and flustered.

  Eventually, I caught up with the pair of them at my door. Dominic looked at me, and then at Thunder, who said, “Right-o. I’ll meet ya outside. Goodbye, Ms. Carter.”

  And he left.

  Dominic and I looked at each other awkwardly.

  “Thanks again,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” I replied. “Hopefully, one day you can come over without getting blood all over my house.”

  He chuckled, then pulled me against him. For a while, we simply stayed like that, hugging, breathing in each other’s scents.

  “I will see you again, right?” I asked at last, desperate for his answer.

  He hesitated. “I can’t make that promise, Erica,” he said, and I felt my heart break. “But not for the reasons you think. As you know by now, I live a very dangerous lifestyle. I could be dead tomorrow for all I know. That’s why it’s important to enjoy yourself when you can, and never make promises you can’t keep.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me, that he could very well die. Even when he was injured, he’d always seemed so virile, so massively and indubitably alive that the notion of him ever being defeated seemed ridiculous.

  “Even a bullet fired by a weak man can kill,” he murmured, kissing my hair.

  I inhaled deeply, breathing him in, then exhaled before pulling away.

  “Well, if you don’t die, you better come back, okay?”

  He smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I would like that very much.”

  He kissed me one final time, then turned away. He left through my front door, rejoined Thunder, and less than a minute later they were gone, slipping in among the shadows. Minutes later, I heard the roaring of two motorcycles, and I imagined it was them.

  # # #

  I stayed at my door, gazing dreamily out at the early morning streets for what seemed an hour before I remembered that I had to go to work that morning. Feeling flustered, I rushed back into the house, wrestled awhile with the laundry––for some reason, so many of my towels kept getting ruined!––and hopped into the shower.

  I stood in it so long, thinking of the streams flowing over Dominic’s naked body, that my hot water ran out and I had to leap, shivering, from the blasted thing and flee straight to my bathrobe to keep warm. Then, I received a shock as I looked into the mirror:

  Soft bruises, up and down my neck and peppering all the way across my tits.

  “Goddamn it, Dominic!” I complained, but secretly, I was pleased. “It’s about time people knew that I am capable of having fun,” I thought. Therefore, I only lightly made them up, making sure they were still visible, and deliberately chose a low-cut shirt to show off the kiss marks on my breasts.

  “Let’s see what you make of that, Mr. Blade,” I muttered, settling myself into a push-up bra. Despite my slightly sore pussy and my mussed hair, I felt spectacular––more beautiful, in fact, than I ever had felt. I almost wished Blade would come after me again, so I could kick him in the groin and tell him exactly who he was messing with.

  Silly, childish fantasies. I knew it. But that did not stop me from enjoying them.

  Slipping on an actual pair of high heels, I hiked up my breasts, spun my car keys around my fingers, and jaunted into my car for work.

  Just as fate would have it, there was no traffic that morning, and I got there precisely on time. I was feeling pretty damn good as I marched right up to the door, barged in, and made right for my desk, fearless and confident. “Mess with me now,” my eyes challenged the men in the room. “Let’s see you try.”

  I felt powerful, unstoppable. It’s amazing how nice a secret dose of cum inside you can make you feel.

  I slammed down into my seat, booted up my computer, inhaled deeply, and began facing my daily tasks.

  And got absolutely nothing done.

  Have you ever had one of those days at work, where you’re stuck in a dark and dreary office while outside the sun shines, the birds sing, and there are the sounds of children playing? And though you try to focus, all you can do is gaze dreamily out the window, buzzing with impatience and thinking, Out! Out! Out!

  That was exactly how I was feeling, except that, instead of lovely weather drawing my attention, it was Dominic. Every time I closed my eyes to try to focus, an image of him would materialize before me. His serious, piercing eyes. His lithe, muscular body. The glistening of black leather as he mounted his bike.

  Mr. Blade entered. I could feel it in a stiffening of everyone in the room. Everyone scooched their chairs closer to their desks, clicked harder, typed faster. I, however, leaned back and smiled.

  Blade met my eyes, and seemed puzzled by my brazen audacity in staring right back at him. Then, his slimy gaze traveled over my neck and tits, and suddenly he smiled, too. Without a word, he swept right past me and into his office.

  Man, it felt good not to be manipulated or intimidated. Yeah, he leered at me, but so what? He knows he cannot have it. That’s why he retreated right into his office––in defeat.

  By this point, I was feeling pretty brazen. To reward myself, I minimized the tab for my day’s work, pulled up a search engine, and entered Dominic’s name.

  My first thoughts were simultaneous: Holy shit, and Oh, yeah.

  There was Dominic, his face and name on a hundred newspapers. Rewards for organizing motorcycle club charity events. Accusations of terrible crimes, for which he was never convicted. This in and of itself turned me on, and not because it made me believe he was innocent––I was sure he was guilty of at least half the crimes of which he stood accused––but because he was clever and cunning enough to never get into trouble. He was a man who knew how to navigate every danger, whether it came from the gun of another motorcyclist, or the incessant meddling of the police.

  And while the contents of the articles filled me with warmth, and, one more than one occasion, made me full-out wet, it was the pictures I enjoyed the most:

  Him on his motorcycle. Him at a podium. Him at the head of a hundred other bikers, the alpha lion among a pride. I leaned back in my chair, grinning to myself and shifting the muscles of my thighs so that they squeezed upon my pussy. I was just reaching down between my legs with a finger, lifting up my skirt when –

  “Terrible criminals, really, those motorcyclists.”

  The slimy, slithering voice of Mr. Blade cut through my fantasies, as disturbing waking to find a poisonous serpent in your bed. He grinned, and pointed at my computer screen, which was littered with articles about Dominic.

  “That’s Dominic Molina, you know,” he said, his voice very strange. “Head of the terrible Broken Spires. He’s killed a fair number of people, I’d imagine. Do you know him?” As he asked, his eyes shifted over the markings on my neck and chest.

  Suddenly, I had a very bad feeling.

  “Uh, no sir,” I stammered, my composure lost.

  “Then why were you looking him up then?”

  I swear, the tongue that poked out to lick his lips was forked.

  “I heard some people at a bar talking about him, and was curious,” I lied.

  “Hmm,” he replied. I wasn’t sure if he bought it. “Well, you’d best be careful what you get curious about, especially in the office. Now, will you please get back to work?”

  I nodded, feeling both stupid and chastised. I closed the window where all the articles about Dominic had been, and reopened the one on which I should have been working.

  “Good girl,” simpered Mr. Blade, his voice like syrup. “Good girl.”

  After that, he disappeared into his office, and I did not see him for the rest of the day.

  The whole encounter was––especially after the good feelings of the morning––very unsettling to me, and not for any reason I could put my finger on. I kept one eye on his door the entire time, expecting him to emerge, demanding more information, per
haps mocking me for the hickeys on my neck, and launching into a propriety-at-the-office lecture, with his eyes all the while glued to my cleavage. But…nothing.

  As the afternoon wore on, and my restlessness increased, I even thought of calling Dominic and reporting my suspicions. But what, exactly, would I say? “Hi, Dominic…Listen, I was stupid enough to look up sexy pictures of you at the office, and my boss knew who you were. I think he suspects that we might know each other…”

  The obvious retort to that would be, of course, “So what?” Why did it matter that I knew Dominic? Why did it matter to anyone else that I was, for the first time in my life, being soundly screwed? I couldn’t see why it would matter to my boss, other than to be jealous or even nervous around me. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

  “Get over it, Erica,” I told myself. “You’re just being silly. Come on. Dominic is finally taking you seriously––hell, you’re finally taking yourself seriously. The last thing you want to do is fuck it up.

  And so, I squashed my feelings of unease, muddled through the rest of my day’s work, and went home without giving the matter another thought.

  Trust yourself. Be honest with yourself. These were the promises I had made only the night before, thinking about Dominic in the shower. Yet, once again, I found myself clamming up because of a man.

  When, oh when would I learn?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dominic

  After Thunder and I left, I felt thoughts of Erica threatening to occupy my attention, but I pushed them away. The day of the heist was approaching, and for the safety of my men and myself, I needed to be absolutely focused.

  I delivered Thunder to the Vet, who stitched him up in minutes, and gave him some antibiotics for good measure, so that was one less thing to worry about. I wanted Thunder with me the day of the heist, and I took comfort in the fact that with rest, he would be recuperated enough to join us. I, too, needed rest. I had a lot on my mind, and I wanted to make sure my mental faculties were in pristine condition.

  So, as tradition, all of the Broken Spires got drunk.

  The next day, blinking away our hangovers, I called a meeting. Fernando, I was told, had important news. I allowed Thunder to continue resting in the back of the clubhouse. I could tell him anything he needed to know later.

  At last, once the main men of the Broken Spires were assembled, amid a clouded room of cigarette smoke and the fumes of alcohol, Fernando spoke.

  “Alright, everyone,” he said, enjoying the readied attention. “Tonight’s the night. The heist is set. Our scouts have verified that a particular shipment entered the Jaws’ compound on the outskirts of town, which means the money is in place.”

  At his emphasis, a smattering of gleeful chuckles broke out among the club members.

  “But!” Fernando interrupted, and the group was silenced. “The money will only be in place tonight. Tomorrow morning, it will be shipped off to a variety of Crooked Jaw business to be laundered. That means tonight is the one shot we have. We start at midnight.”

  The silence that followed was apparently not what Fernando expected. Judging by his prideful grin, he had been hoping for applause.

  “What’s the matter?” He demanded, annoyed that his plan had not been met with a more satisfying reception.

  It was Tristan who stirred. “I didn’t realize we’d only have one night,” he admitted. “There’s no time to scope out the place, and see how they’re guarding it.”

  “Yeah, and we must assume that it will be well guarded. This is the Crooked Jaw’s most vulnerable point. They would know that.”

  I let them discuss for awhile, without getting involved. It was important that they learn how to solve these issues without too much of my intervention. “After tonight,” I promised myself, “I will be retired.”

  “And then I can go spend some time with Erica without putting her in danger.”

  I acknowledged the thought, then brushed it aside. This was not what I should have been thinking about. I needed to focus, to stay sharp, one last time.

  Instead, I pulled at the frayed and bruised thought that we were missing something. Some aspect of the Crooked Jaw organization that we didn’t know. Was it safe to put my men through such uncertainty? Through such danger?

  I returned my attention to them, listening as they naturally came to their own decision.

  “It’s worth it,” Dorian was saying. “Sure it’s dangerous, but why else did we join the motorcycle club?”

  “Oh, you mean it wasn’t for the women and fast bikes?” Tristan commented.

  Everybody laughed.

  “Alright, we’re in then!” Fernando exclaimed excitedly. “Sir?” He asked, addressing me. “What do you think?”

  “We should do it,” I answered. “We’re strong, tough, and smart men. I’m sure we can take whatever the Crooked Jaws think they can throw at us.”

  “Hurray!” The men cheered, rising to their feet to clank glasses and shove one another in anticipation.

  I smiled. While I would not miss the danger, I would miss this: that sense of camaraderie. We were a family, we Broken Spires.

  Smiling to myself, I grabbed a pack of cigarettes for Thunder and marched to the back room, thinking he’d appreciate me lighting one for him. I paused next to the door, thinking fondly back to the meeting moments before, and how I was going to relay all the details to him, then opened it.

  “Jesus Christ,” I growled, and dashed into the room.

  “Thunder!” I hollered. “Thunder!”

  He was nowhere to be found! There, the rumpled couch where he had been sleeping, his blanket tossed on the floor. I rushed to it, and touched the cushion. It was still warm.

  And there! Across the way: one of the windows was shattered, as if something large had crawled through. And between these two things: a long, winding trail of blood, smeared across the floor.

  “Thunder!”

  Fear pounded in my heart, but so did something greater: the need for action.

  Without thinking, without calling to my men, I sprinted to the far side of the room and leapt up to the shattered window, slipping through it as quickly as a snake. My leather jacket protected me from its biting shards, while I noticed that the blood sticking to my palms––Thunder’s blood, left behind from his reopened wound, or God knows what other horrible injury––was still liquid and warm. It told me that they’d only just escaped with him. He was nearby.

  Once out of the building, I looked left, to the parking lot, and right, to a dark and winding alley. In the parking lot was my motorcycle––by far the quickest way to catch up to whomever I was chasing. But a motorcycle meant noise––announcing my presence––and sometimes stealth is needed.

  Without a backward glance, I sprinted down the dark and winding alleyway.

  There! On the ground, ten yards away. Another puddle of blood, this one even fresher. From the spray of drops surrounding it, I could tell they had turned left.

  I slowed, drew my gun, and jogged forward.

  Suddenly, a pair of men came into view.

  One was opening the door of a pickup truck, calling back to his buddy, “Hurry up! Those damned Broken Spires are bound to be here soon!”

  The other, meanwhile, was loading a large, black bag into the back of the roofed truck. From it, I could hear the sounds of muffled screams, and the rustling of motion. Every few seconds, its corner dripped blood.

  “Thunder!” I murmured, leveling my gun at the man stuffing the bag into the truck. Ready…aim…

  Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz! I felt my phone go off in my pocket.

  “No!” I grunted, fumbling for it to terminate the call, to silence it before the Crooked Jaws noticed.

  Too late!

  BOOM! The sound of a gun exploded in my ears, and I dove behind a dumpster. Frantically, I rearranged my aim and fired back into the fray––at the driver, who had emerged from the truck to shoot me.

  “Uh-uh,
asshole,” I heard, followed by the cocking of a gun.

  I froze. The first guy––the one holding the bag with Thunder trapped inside, had his gun leveled––but not at me.

  The muzzle was right against the outline of Thunder’s head.

  “Drop your gun,” he ordered, and I had no choice but to comply. My gun fell and skittered away across the pavement. I heard Thunder moaning, immobile, as the corner of the canvas bag steadily dripped blood.

  “Now back away,” he continued, and, slowly, my mind whirling for options, I did so. Distantly, I heard the ding of my phone as it went to voicemail.

  With me defenseless, the driver leveled his gun at my chest while the second guy finished stuffing Thunder into the back. He slammed the doors and wiped his hands with a satisfaction that boiled my insides with anger. Then, he marched around and hopped into the passenger seat.