“Don’t worry, baby,” Pete said. He put his hand on the back of her head. “I’m not worried about it. I’m more interested in what you’re about to do to me.”
Darlene smiled. That comment made her feel like more than the amount of money she just put into the ocean. The thought of the green paper becoming useless fled from her mind—her attention was back to Pete’s body. Reaching her hands forward she smoothed her hands along the backside of his Armani pants. Staring at where his dick rested behind the pants and underwear, Darlene sat there on her knees licking her lips. She wanted Pete to look at her. She wanted Pete to see how much she craved him in her mouth.
“I love you, Darlene,” Pete moaned.
“I love you too, baby,” Darlene said. She looked into his eyes and imagined the life of danger they would indulge in, licked her lips, and then gave him her mouth.
THE END
Bonus Story 18/40
Stuck Biker
I need a drink. Or five. That’s all I can think as I shuffle into the small, run down bar and throw myself onto a stool.
The place smells like beer and piss. The floor is sticky and the plaster on the wall seems to be coming apart.
All the bars are like that in this town. Unsightly havens for local drunks. The only reason I chose this one, The Watering Hole, is because it’s what they call a neutral.
That means neither of the town’s MCs has laid claim to it. Which is what makes it perfect for me. As the girlfriend of a member of The Raiders club, I can’t be seen at any Gator hangouts. And my boyfriend, Jake, and his Raider buddies are having one of their rowdy meetings tonight. I don’t want anything to do with that at the moment either. So, The Watering Hole is my only option.
“What’ll it be sweetheart?” a slightly elderly bartender with balding hair and a ready grin asks from across the bar.
“Whiskey. Straight,” I answer. He nods in reply and goes to make the drink.
That’s another thing I like about this place. The bartenders here are usually not too chatty. They still call me sweetheart, of course. In Texas, a petite, pale, blonde haired blue eyed girl like me will always be sweetheart. No matter how many tattoos or body piercings I get.
But, the bartenders here usually leave it at that. They can tell when you want to drink in silence. And tonight I definitely want to drink and fume in peace.
I’ve had another fight with Jake. Or rather, Jake had a fight with me. He started it.
I’d just come inside from getting the mail. The mailman happened to be there. That’s to be expected as we’re his last stop for the day. He asked me a question about something. I can’t even remember what it was now. It might have even been about the weather. I stopped to answer him.
I guess Jake saw us talking. He’d already had a couple of beers and he went after me.
“You sure had a lot to say to that guy, Ali,” he told me. I would have laughed if the look on his face weren’t so serious.
“Come on Jake, I was out there for maybe two minutes,” I said.
“A lot can happen in two minutes,” Jake said. “Especially with you.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means I know what a little whore you can be,” he told me. I felt my face growing red with anger at the accusation.
“When have I ever-” I started to ask. He put his hand up as though he was going to slap me. My mouth closed instantly.
“Just don’t let me see it happen again,” Jake said. “You know what I’ll do if it does.”
The anger turned to a hint of fear. Jake had said things like that before. He’d told me that he’d kill me if I ever cheated on him. He had said that even before the beatings started six months ago.
To tell the truth, when I was seventeen, I thought it was romantic. Now, it just makes me feel angry and scared and trapped.
I sip my whiskey knowing that I shouldn’t really be drinking it straight. Alcohol tends to go to my head. But, at this point, I couldn’t care less. I know Jake’s out getting shitfaced with his buddies. Just like I know when I get home, he’ll either be on the couch passed out and drunk, or waiting to start a fight with me. This one’ll end in a few punches thrown at my head. That’s what happens almost every Thursday night, it’s sort of become a tradition.
Oh, he apologizes for it afterward. He tells me he’s sorry and he loves me and he takes care of any cuts or bruises I have. I pretend to forgive him. I pretend he’s sincere. That’s also become a tradition.
I think, bitterly, that I should be grateful for the day after. Cleaning the bruises he’s given me is about the only affection he shows to me anymore.
Once upon a time, Jake and I were rough and wild in the way we made love. Any bruises I got were thoroughly enjoyable ones, and the slapping was mutual.
It’s been six months since he touched me like that. Now, when he calls me a whore, it’s not dirty talk. He actually means it. Or, he wants me to think that he does. The truth is, lately, he hasn’t shown any interest in me at all.
As I down the last sip of my whiskey, I notice a young man across the bar who does appear very interested in me. He’s staring at me with a kind of hungry expression and when I catch his eye, he smiles.
I don’t smile back but look away determinedly. It’s not that the guy wasn’t good looking. From the cursory glance I gave him, I can see that he is. And, it’s not that I don’t want to be noticed. After getting no affection from Jake for six months, I can’t deny that I’m dying to be given even the tiniest bit of romantic attention from a man.
But, I remember very clearly what Jake told me. What he reiterated just today. ‘If you cheat on me, I’ll kill you.’ It doesn’t matter that this rule doesn’t seem to apply to him.
I know his buddies bring whores to their meetings. And, I know Jake fucks them. I pretend not to know, but I do.
All the same, I know Jake makes good on his threats. He’s a million things but he’s definitely not a liar. So, I try my best to ignore the good looking guy across the bar as I order another whiskey.
The young man becomes impossible to ignore when he stands up and walks towards me. My eyes are immediately drawn to him.
He is tall. I would guess a couple inches over six feet. The tight, black shirt he wears reveals an extremely muscular frame. His chin length black hair is allowed to hang down elegantly around his face. His arms sport several tattoos that crawl all the way up and disappear under the sleeves of his shirt. I can’t help but stare at them, wandering their path, longing to tear that shirt off him just to see how far up these tattoos really go.
When he sits down next to me, I look into those dark eyes and, for a second, I forget who I am. I forget that I’m in a crappy little bar in a crappy little town. I just stare at him. He smiles and I feel a thrill rush through my chest. It’s something I haven’t felt in a very long time.
“Can I buy you another one of those?” he asks. His voice is deeper than I imagined it would be. It’s almost hypnotic.
I blink twice to try and clear my head. I can’t give into this guy. Not with Jake at home. Not when it might cost me my life.
“Thanks, but I’ve already bought another one,” I tell him, nodding towards the barman who’s making his way over with my whiskey.
“But, you haven’t paid for it yet, have you?” he asks.
“I’m running a tab,” I tell him flatly.
“That kind of night, huh?” he asks.
“You could say that.”
The bartender sets my drink down in front of me.
“Hey Milo,” the stranger next to me says. The bartender looks up. “I’ll take another gin and tonic. And you can put her drink on my tab too.”
Before I can object, Milo nods and rushes off to the other end of the bar.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him. I’m trying to feel annoyed and I know I should, really. But then I look at his eyes and that smile again and I find that I can’t.
“I know I didn’t
have to,” he says, “I wanted to. You shouldn’t drink alone, after all.”
“What if I want to drink alone?” I ask. I’ve got to stand my ground. But, my resolve is waning with every word he speaks.
“You don’t,” he says confidently.
“And how do you know that?” I ask.
“Because I’ve been watching you,” he says. “You keep looking in your glass like you want to talk to it. Like you’re hoping it’ll talk back to you.”
“So I look like I’m crazy?” I ask. It wouldn’t be a stretch given how I feel.
“No,” he says with a slight chuckle that causes my heart to thump faster in my chest. “You look like you could use a sympathetic ear. And it just so happens that I make a very good sympathetic ear. So, what do you say?”
I want to say yes. It would be nice to have someone to talk to about Jake, about his stupid club, about my go nowhere job, about everything. Then Jake’s threat pops up in the back of my mind. At the very least, he’ll hit me if he finds out I’ve been talking to another man. Then again, if he’s in one of his moods, he’ll hit me regardless.
Not to mention, I know he’s out at his own bar drinking it up with his whores. If he can do it, why shouldn’t I do it too?
With that in mind, I look this young man up and down with a small smile on my face.
“Why the hell not?” I say finally. He smiles as he sits down next to me. “But just so we’re clear,” I say firmly before he gets too comfortable, “I’m not going to have sex with you. It’s just a drink.”
Even though I’m willing to defy Jake somewhat, I’m still not that crazy. Talking is one thing, after all. Sex is a whole other level.
“Fair enough,” he says with that same chuckle that sends shivers down my spine.
“I’m Ben,” he says
“Ali,” I say.
“So, I take it ’no sex’ means there’s someone else?” he asks.
“Not necessarily,” I tell him with an eye roll. No matter how good looking he is, he’s still clearly a man.
“There are girls who just don’t feel right about jumping into bed with complete strangers,” I continue. “Some of us are weird that way.”
“Some girls,” he says confidently, “but in your case there is a guy, isn’t there?”
“Let me guess,” I say, “you can tell that by the way I looked into my drink.”
“This time, it was just a feeling,” he says. I have to admit his smile is disarming. So disarming that I end up telling him the truth. Not just that there is a guy, but the problems Jake and I have been having lately. About how angry he’s been. About how trapped and frustrated, I feel in this town.
I don’t tell him about the beatings I’ve taken and, of course, I don’t tell him about the sex - or lack thereof. I barely know Ben, after all. And no matter how drunk I am, I’m still not crazy.
“So, now that I’ve told you all about my little soap opera,” I say after I’ve talked for a good while and have honestly lost track of time, “why are you here drinking by yourself?”
“Not drinking by myself anymore,” he says taking another sip of his gin and tonic as though to emphasize the point.
“You know what I mean,” I tell him.
He chuckles again and even through my alcoholic haze it still sounds like the most amazing sound in the world.
“I come here almost every week,” he says. “It’s just a chance to get away from the usual crowd.”
“What’s the usual crowd?” I ask.
“I usually hang out at The Swamp,” he says. My heart sinks in my chest. The haze seems to clear from my head as though I’ve just drunk an entire gallon of water. The Swamp is the Gator hang out.
“Are you…are you a member of that club?” I ask. “The Gators?”
“Yeah,” he says proudly. “I’ve been with them for about two or three years.”
Never mind Jake, me talking with a Gator could send his whole club into an uproar. They’ve gone to war over less.
Hastily, I pull out my phone and pretend to check the time. It’s midnight.
“Is something wrong?” he asks sounding concerned.
“I didn’t realize how late it was,” I answer. “I should get back. Thanks for the drink.”
I stand up from the stool nearly stumbling. He reaches out and catches my arm to right me. I feel the heat from his skin even through the fabric of my shirt. That heat rushes all the way to my face rendering me momentarily speechless.
“If you wait a few minutes, I could call a cab to take you home,” he says.
I’m amazed and impressed that he doesn’t ask to take me back to his place. Doesn’t even ask for my number. It’s as though he’s really concerned about me.
“No thanks,” I say reluctantly. “I walked here. I only live a couple blocks away.”
“Do you want me to walk with you?” he asks.
My mind paints a picture of the rage Jake would fly into if he saw me walk up to our house with another man. I’m pretty sure I visibly wince as I say.
“No, thank you.”
Ben looks at me even more concerned now. I feel the need to explain myself. To lighten the tension.
“We live in the safest area of the safest town in America,” I tell him in as light a voice as I can muster. “I think I’ll be alright.”
He still looks hesitant but, after a moment nods.
“Ok,” he says. “But, remember. I’m here every Thursday if you ever need to talk.”
He gives me a small, sad smile and I suddenly want nothing more than to stay here with him all night. Jake and The Raiders be damned.
I blink twice again and try to clear my head.
“Thanks again,” I say. Quickly, I rush to the door of the bar and out into the night.
The walk home, as I predicted, is uneventful. My heart seizes when I see Jake’s bike parked in the driveway. He’s home.
I unlock the door and open it, my pulse pounding in my ears. I heave a sigh of relief when I see Jake asleep on the couch. He’s snoring. That means he’s going to be incredibly hung over in the morning. I’ll be at work by the time he wakes up.
I walk as quietly as I can into the bedroom. Once I’ve changed and slipped into bed, an image of Ben comes to mind. For the first time in a long time, I smile as I fall asleep.
*****
Meeting Ben at The Watering Hole on Thursday nights has become something of a tradition. I’ve come every Thursday at the same time.
Every week, I pretend that it’s just because Jake is at his meetings on Thursdays and I don’t want to be surrounded by a bunch of bikers. Ben pretends to believe me when I tell him that’s the reason I come.
We both know it’s not true. I come to The Watering Hole to see Ben. Just like I know he comes to see me. Maybe he used to come on Thursdays to drink by himself, but now he comes for me. And we both know it.
We don’t do anything at these little unofficial meetings but drink and talk. There’s a sort of unspoken agreement between us not to get too intimate. We’re careful not to touch, not to sit too close and to keep all conversation restricted to the bar area.
Though I try to tell myself that drinking with Ben is the same as it would be if I were drinking with any other friend, I know it isn’t. If I had female friends, for example, I doubt I would stare longingly into their eyes or try to sneak peeks at their nicely sculpted ass when they weren’t looking.
Beyond that, I doubt I would be so guarded with my female friends. I might even tell them about Jake hitting me. Something I haven’t mentioned to Ben.
I’m sure he’s guessed. And when I walk in tonight, my eye bruised and blackened, I know he will.
My suspicions are confirmed when I walk towards him and he stands up from his usual stool at the bar. His smile turns to a concerned frown when he sees the eye.
“Ali,” he says both surprised and disgusted, “are you ok? What happened?”
He reaches out to help me onto my stool. The way h
e’s acting, it’s as though I’ve come in limping with blood gushing all over.
“I’m fine,” I say sitting down and waving him off. “I just had a little run in with the stairs at home.”
“What sort of run in?” he asks. I can tell he’s suspicious.
“I just slipped,” I say. “I already put some ice on it. It should go down after a couple of days.”
He looks skeptically at me as he sips his gin and tonic.
“Do you have a lot of accidents like that?” he asks.
“I’m a bit of a klutz,” I answer. “It used to be a standing joke in high school. If there was a pole standing still, I would find a way to walk into it.”
I turn away from him and take a sip of the whiskey that the bartender has just put in front of me. Silently, I pray that Ben doesn’t ask anything else about my black eye.
I don’t like lying to him. But, I would like the pity and advice he would no doubt dole out if he knew the truth even less.
There’s a fraught silence between us for several moments. I can still feel him staring at me.
Finally, I hear him turn back to his drink and take another large gulp.
“So,” he says, “has it been another one of those days?”
My heart breathes a sigh of relief that the subject of my injury has been dropped. I turn back to face Ben.
“Lately, I feel like every day is one of those days,” I tell him. I also tell him about one particularly cranky old woman I had to talk to on the phone at the call center today.
“I thought that she’d be happy I could get a technician to go out to her house today,” I tell him. “But, she was just upset that she had to go two whole hours without TV.”
“You should’ve told her to open a book,” Ben says with a smile.
“I don’t think she would have liked that,” I say, taking another sip of whiskey. “Honestly doing technical support for old people is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“It’s not just tech support,” Ben says, “it happens where I work too. It’s like there’s no middle ground with senior citizens. Either they’re the sweetest people in the world or they’re your worst nightmare.”
The Crime of Protection Page 57
