Bad Boy Quickies: A Collection Of Steamy Short Stories - When All You Have Time For Is A Quickie

by Gabi Moore

  I didn’t need to visit Antonio any longer.

  I opened the bag and found that everything had been quick, though effectively wrapped in plastic, and was mostly airtight. The passports were there, both mine and Tyler’s. Not taking him into consideration, I had all of the paperwork necessary to go basically wherever I wanted. I knew from working with Antonio before that his passports were basically as good as gold. He was the best in the industry. What made things even better was that I didn’t have to worry about whether or not my escape would be predicated on meeting up with anyone else that I knew from my time with Maurice.

  Of course, there were the drugs.

  I know. I haven’t explicitly mentioned them before now — but that’s what’s been in the bag if you haven’t pieced that together already. Without going into the details I can tell you that I’m not proud to have been involved, but I’m not too proud to find a quick distributor and get the fuck out of Italy. That was where things got a bit hairy.

  My previous calculations would have been wrong then. I would have to go with someone I knew from Maurice’s syndicate.

  Fuck, I can’t fucking escape — every little thing pulls me back.

  I considered whether or not to just ditch the drugs altogether.

  Yea, I could just beg, or be a stowaway. That might be a bit easier to do than risk another run-in with Maurice.

  I paused my reflections for a moment, and allowed myself to feel a sense of relief — to really just sit in it, and breathe. Sure I was soaking wet, but I had everything I needed to go somewhere new. Somewhere far, far away.

  India perhaps. I might be able to go to India and start a small business. At least the exchange rate would be favorable. I could probably leave out of Barcelona.

  And so my thoughts went, weaving together theoretical scenarios about my many possible futures. All in all, I had been gifted a fresh start. I was sick to death of the area anyway.

  “That's it for me,” I told myself, leaning back against the rocks, and listening to the rhythmic crash of the waves. “No way I’m going back to that life.”

  I made solemn promises to myself so that I would be able to move forward and know that I would never stoop down to the level of working with someone like Maurice ever again. A lot of times, people who got caught up in bad business ended up staying there — not because they loved it, but because they had grown used to it, and didn’t have another way out.

  Sure, there were other ways out; there were always options. Anyone who told themselves they didn’t have any options was either a fool or someone who had problems with being honest with themselves. The worst part about someone who isn’t honest with themselves is that usually they are the last person to be aware of that fact. Information has to practically reach out and smack a person in the face for them to realize what they are doing, and what needs to change. In spite of the fact that people have the capacity to be incredibly dense, the clues which lead up to that moment of transformation are plentiful, and subtle.

  I was almost sure of my course of action until my hands inevitably found their way back toward Tyler’s passport picture. The name was fake, but the picture was real. He looked so handsome and strong. I thought about everything that he and I had gone through, and I actually began to cry. One tear lead into another, until the salt from my face was mixing in with the incoming tide of the sea. I thought about Tyler, and I thought about my dad. I thought about the life that I had worked so hard to build for myself in Venice, and I thought about how difficult it would be to start over from scratch.

  All of the momentum from my glorious moment of bravado washed away, and I sat there feeling sorry for myself. In my mind’s eye, I amounted to little more than a half-drowned rat who had been thrown off from the top of a cliff, only to be forgotten and pushed away by whatever shitty little social constructs managed to designate themselves as a society.

  A rat can fall from an airplane and hit the ground without dying. The terminal velocity of their bodies is too low to actually crush them. For entertainment’s sake, or perhaps for empathy, think about how it might feel to be a rat who has been thrown out of an airplane. You’d have a hell of a time finding anyone that you could trust again after that. Not to mention that it would hurt like nothing else you might ever experience in life.

  So what if you stayed alive.

  Being alive is only useful if you have someone you can share the time with, and if you have some place constructive to devote your energies. I had pissed away my previous opportunities to devote my energies in a more positive direction. The fruits of those decisions were demonstrated all around me.

  As for having someone to spend my time with — the only person I had spent any time with recently who hadn’t fucked me over somehow, was Angela.

  Excluding double entendre.

  Angela, I thought to myself, feeling a sudden surge of inspiration.

  I thrust Tyler’s passport back into the plastic bag and rooted around until I found the object I was looking for. Within another closed bag, was a small, pre-pay, cellphone — a gift from Angela, because she knew that I would be headed into some trouble, and I never have a phone on me.

  “Next time you can be a fucking gentleman, and call me before you come over,” she had said when she handed me the phone; offering me a wink and a nod.

  I opened up the phone and turned it on. For one terrible moment, I thought that the battery might have been fucked up somehow in the water, but the bag had done its work, and the phone was alive. It buzzed, and shook in the palm of my hand as the phone activated and connected to its network.

  I watched as the phone connected, wondering what I was expecting to happen. I realized at that moment that more than anything else, I just wanted someone to talk to. I wanted a familiar voice to give a shit about who I was as a person, and take care of me, even if it was just to listen, and talk to me about what was happening in their lives.

  Angela was that person for me — there was no question about it.

  The phone found its service, and I dialed in the number Angela had set aside for emergency contact. She knew her way around the phone system, and as such, she knew exactly how vulnerable it was to have a phone hooked up to the regular phone system. She had managed to set up a private line, which she maintained was, “As secure as the president’s own emergency phone.”

  Naturally, I didn’t believe her, but if this was the number she wanted me to call, that was fine with me.

  The phone rang and rang again. I let out a long sigh, imagining that I would sit here on this rock face all day while Angela took her sweet time answering the phone. Then, my bitterness was promptly truncated.

  "Piper?" a voice came through on the other end of the line."

  How did you know it was me," I asked.

  "I told you this was a private line," she replied. "That's pretty selfish of you, Piper. I blow your mind with three orgasms in a row after you come over to my house uninvited. Then you’re off to get yourself into all kinds of trouble which you expect me to help you out with, and then you don't even take it seriously when I tell you that the gift that I gave you the private line. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been up working on this shit on your behalf?“

  "Gosh," I said, "I guess I should apologize.”

  "Well, seems like you have a lot of time to apologize since I don't hear any police cars around you."

  "What are you talking about? How did you know about the police cars?"

  "Well, it's not like I'm psychic or anything, but I have been spying on you pretty hard-core since you left. Nobody rocks my world like that and then gets a free pass. I've basically diverted all efforts towards stalking you until you figured out what the fuck you're gonna do about your boss."

  “Don’t call him that," I said, feeling more than a little bit unnerved by the fact that I used to call that man my boss. "If I had a chance, I'd kill that man."

  "Well, I can provide you with that opportunity. At this very moment, I’m working
on how to find him, though I'm sure you probably have a more than a few ideas in your head about what that might be. What I suppose you don't know, is how you can take him out, and get away with it."

  "Angela," I said, feeling a bit startled. "I had no idea how dark you were."

  "It's not so much an issue of darkness, as it is the efficiency of justice. I did a bit of digging, and I only have one question for you. Is your father still alive?"

  "No," I replied, joking about the word. "How did you know?"

  "Simple process of elimination, and putting my nose where it didn't belong. Are you comfortable enough getting close to your previous boss?"

  "Close enough to kill him?"

  "Yes," she said with simplicity in her voice. “You'll have to be close enough to kill him in order to do what you need to do."

  "And what is it that I need to do?" I asked, willing to hear her thoughts on the matter.

  "You need to elicit a confession. As for the details of how you're going to go about doing that, that's going to be up to you."

  I paused in our conversation for a moment to think about the consequences of this course of action. On a certain level, it resonated with me, because not only did I want justice for my father's death, but I was certain that if Tyler was alive, and still in the area, he would know that that was where I would go.

  He would know that I would know that I would be drawn to take revenge for my father. The pressures which were moving toward this manifestation of behavior were at the base of my psyche — I knew that much was certain. However, there is only so much time that I could spend fooling myself into thinking that I could just walk away from all of this and feel alright about my behavior. When it comes right down to it, I'm a fighter.

  "Are you in?" she asked.

  I nodded. "I'm in.”

  “Good, just hold off for a bit and I'll text you the location. Your holiday in the Tyrrhenian Sea is over. Besides, I thought you told me that your dad never liked that place much anyways.”

  “I can’t believe you remembered,” I laughed, “Yea. ‘If my soul is in Laguna Veneta, then Tyrrhenia must be hell’ was what he always used to say.”

  “Good man. I’ve always been partial to this area anyways. And don’t go fooling yourself, thinking that I’ve been too busy to pay attention to you all of these years. I haven’t exactly been stalking you as hardcore as I have been lately, but I think you’ll agree that there have been some extenuating circumstances which have validated that course of behavior.”

  I laughed again, not able to control myself. It felt wonderful to laugh, and I was pleased to be talking to a friend again. A warmth lit up my insides, and I prayed that it would stay there long enough to do what needed to be done.

  “I’ve enjoyed spending time with you ever since we first met,” she continued, sensing that this banter was putting me at ease. “Sure, I’ve been preoccupied with some experiments, and sure you’ve made some bad decisions…”

  “Hey!” I interjected, even though I knew she was right.

  “What!?” she said, in mock amazement. “How many times did you let that fucker stick his cock inside of you, only to have him murder your fucking father?”

  That one hit home hard.

  I was silent for a moment, allowing the question to sink in a bit deeper. My father used to tell me that the things which make us give pause, or the things that we are most easily offended by are the things we need to pay the most attention to. Only by paying attention to that which we would prefer to shun away, do we experience anything that could be called growth.

  “You OK?” Angela replied. “Did that one go too far?”

  “No,” I sniffed, “It’s alright. I know what I have to do now, thanks.”

  “Love you, hun,” she said, after a brief pause of her own. “Let’s go on a trip when this is all over. I’ll make you cum all over the sand on some private beach. Sound nice?”

  I laughed once more.

  “Yea, I’ll see you there,” I said, and then hung up the phone.

  Chapter 22 - Tyler

  I have to admit that I felt a twinge of doubt when I threw her out of the car.

  Things were happening really fast, and I had planned on dong something like that since the start if the chase got dicey. I knew that it was just a matter of time before the car behind us was firing on us with the same fervor as they had fired on the police.

  We were no longer dealing with minor thugs, there was a problem that was getting larger — evidence obvious because Maurice was allocating more resources to securing what was he felt he needed.

  I didn’t have time to think about what that might be. In any case, it would only be speculation at best. In the moment, I was barreling down the highway, inches from launching a car over the cliff into the coastal waters below. I fucking had to pray that she didn’t hit any rocks. I took a look at the coast during the dip and saw that there was no sand. The cliffs looked like prime jumping locations, and I figured a risky drop was worth a hundred missed bullets. I suppose when you’re choosing priorities for people, you don’t want to be too presumptive.

  To tell you the truth, I didn’t choose that for her exclusively. I had my own reasons as well. I knew where this was headed, and I had made a promise to myself. I was going to honor the time-worn prohibition on murder. I had killed enough in my life, and I didn’t want to start again.

  Not for anything.

  As I regained control of the vehicle, a flash of fear passed through my vision. I saw Piper’s body hitting the rocks below the cliff. I thought about the terrible consequences of my behavior.

  “Possible consequences,” I reminded myself.

  It was also possible that I had taken the only course of action which ensured that she would not be caught within this fight; a fight that I was intentionally going to throw.

  At least she’ll have a fighting chance, I thought, consoling myself.

  I had to move on, and reassert a zen-like control over the way in which I drove the car. If I had any hope of transforming this into an opportunity for Piper, I had to drag out the chase as long as possible. Ideally, I would get in some more police trouble, and possibly bring these combatants down using the local police authorities. I set my jaw, and glad down the road, taking in a thousand different variables each moment. In order to make this work, I would need to give my all to the chase; only then could I be sure that I gave this my best shot.

  The car was gaining on me, which was in a sense, desirable.

  At least they fell for it, I thought, taking joy in what little success I could find.

  My vehicle simply was not made for this type of experience. I had chosen well, it was a convertible sedan — a relatively new model. The tires were in fine condition, and there was enough fuel to make it as far as I needed to go. High-speed car chases don’t tend to run cross country.

  The car was smaller than most cars, which gave it a bit of advantage in maneuverability, as well as initial acceleration. What it did not have, compared to the people who were chasing me, was potential for top speed. These people had resources, and likely this car was specially designated for jobs that required awareness and highly technical road maneuvering. These folks were equipped to manage what I was throwing at them, but I had to keep trying.

  I chose the coastal route for two possibilities.

  First, was the possibility that there might be a safe place to ditch Piper. I had actually thought I might be able to ditch her in the nature preserve, as there would likely be ample places for her to hide there, but the chase had been too dense, and that was no longer an option.

  Second, the only other reason to choose both the nature preserve and the coast is that both places are predominantly sculpted in the face of a dominant force of nature.

  You can’t really ask an ocean to move, in order for you to build a road through it. You can build a bridge, or you can build a cove. Either construct takes massive resources, which means the most likely possibility is a thin stret
ch of highway, full of hairpin turns. The same routine logic can be applied to forests, except that the reasoning is because of the innumerable amount of trees and hills which make straight shot construction cost prohibitive.

  Because I did not have the advantage of a vehicle that was endowed with top speed, I needed to be able to diminish their ability to utilize that asset. Quick turns, and drifting hundred and eighty-degree fishtails characterized my driving approach. I had hoped that there would be less of an absence of police officers, but I had never explored this region of the coast. In fact, I had no memory of spending time in Italy at all.

  Every new turn was a sign that I needed to be completely aware of the next tenth of a second. My consciousness was literally at the razors edge. I had to intuitively guess how much to compensate for in my drifting in order to maintain maximum speed, while still effectively taking the turn. Another hope in the back of my mind was that I might be able to drive so wild, and so on edge, that I drove the car behind me to make a mistake.

  I was praying that they would make a mistake and that they might be the first car to launch off the side of the cliff, or run sideways into the mountain — bringing an avalanche of rocks down onto their hood. Anything might have been preferable to the persistent, and incredible matching of whatever luck was able to bring my way. No civilization in sight and these fuckers were still gaining on me.

  Professionals… I thought, then I smiled and licked my lips. About time.

  Taking another sudden turn that nearly threw me into a cobblestone sign advertising the brand of a local neighborhood, I veered back toward the civilized community. The types of houses that surrounded me were sleepy, suburban, coastal units. Places with small streets and big grass areas. The people in these parts obviously appreciated nature more than luxury, because the size of the homes was relatively small compared to the apparent size of the lots.

  As I sped forward, I noticed that there were more houses, the more inland I moved. I felt a push on the left side of my rear bumper and had to turn hard to the right to avoid being throw in a spiral. The two of us skidded in a lock for a moment and then broke free once again. Things were getting more dangerous, though I still had one more reason to gain confidence — In spite of everything, they had not yet shot me.