by Celia Loren
“Because it’s fucking bullshit!” I burst out, “You know that!” Stan doesn’t respond. I raise my head and examine his expression. He’s carefully studying his nails, squinting against the sun as it reflects off his bald head. “Stan...” I say slowly
“Look, she’s a reputable witness,” Stan says carefully, “And it’s not like it was the first strike against you. Those corruption charges...” he trails off.
“A reputable witness?” I say, gaping at him. “She’s a white-trash cocktail waitress, for fuck’s sake.”
Stan just shrugs.
“And corruption? Come on, Stan,” I bluster on, “I wasn’t doing anything that any other cop wasn’t. The salary they pay us is fucking bullshit, no one can get by without skimming a little. Don’t act like you’re so fucking innocent in all this!”
Stan stands up, visibly frustrated. “Fine! Yeah, alright, you’re not the first cop to take a little for himself,” he says, “But you took it too far, man! You were practically waving it in Internal Affairs’ face! And I’ve never fucking stalked someone!”
It’s like someone has put a white-hot poker against my skin. I leap to my feet.
“Stalked?” I all but scream, “Stalked? Are you kidding me? Olive and I were dating, you fucking asshole. Then, when she decides she’s tired of me, doesn’t like me anymore, all of a sudden I’m fucking stalking her? Whose side are you on?”
Stan throws up his hands. He’s the most conflict-averse cop I’ve ever met. Probably why the two of us were put together as partners. He can go around being a pussy and all the hard work falls on me. I’ve never run from a fight in my life.
“Look, the stuff in her complaint...It didn’t look good, is all I’m saying,” he says, wincing a little.
“That fucking bitch,” I growl, shaking my head.
“You probably would have been off the force with the corruption stuff alone,” Stan says, “Even without her complaint.”
“No way, man,” I shoot back, “I wasn’t doing anything that every other cop in Concord isn’t doing at this fucking second. You see the look on that IA chick’s face in there? The one sitting second from the right? As soon as they read that complaint, she just got this fucking smirk on her face...” The very thought of it makes me clench my fists.
“Take it easy, Richard,” Stan only uses my full name when he’s trying to calm me down. Like he’s my fucking mother, or something.
“You know what? Fuck you, Stan. I’m going to make this right!” I say, storming away from him.
“Richard! Richard!” I hear Stan yelling after me, “Just wait a second!”
I ignore his pleas and keep walking. Let’s see how well he does without me as his partner. Didn’t I keep his name out of everything? Some fucking thanks I get.
I whip my keys out of my pocket and pull off my suffocating suit jacket. Look nice for the hearing, my representative said. A lot of good that did. Internal Affairs are just a bunch of fucking bureaucrats. They have no idea what it’s actually like in the field.
I peel out of the parking lot and head straight for Olive’s place. She’s probably just waking up after her late shift at the bar last night.
My dad might have generally been a piece of shit, but he was right about two things: never back down in a fight, and don’t trust pussy. I’ll never forget the day that I finally beat his abusive ass. Never back down, never back down, he’d been telling me as I struggled to take his beatings like a man. I started training in secret, using the shitty weight room at school. The look of surprise on his face when I hit him back, again and again, is seared into my mind—a delicious memory to call upon when I need to remember how powerful I truly am.
I pull onto Olive’s street. My usual spot under the elm across from her apartment is open. I park in the shade under its orange leaves. The weather is already turning cold this early in the fall. I roll down my window and cut the engine. I lean my arm on the door, letting my hand dangle on the cool exterior of the car.
My dashboard clock reads 11:33 a.m. Thanks to the complaint Olive filed against me, the Internal Affairs board fired me from the police force in record time. The hearing didn’t even cut into their precious lunch break.
I study the windows of Olive’s apartment, on the second floor of the clapboard house. The family that lives beneath her is already gone for the day. Usually I can already see Olive moving around the kitchen at this time in the morning. Nothing yet. Maybe her shift at the bar ran late. Sometimes that will happen when a big group comes in and the bartender wants to keep the place open for them to score some extra tips. I went down and asked the owner about the policy myself, just to make sure Olive wasn’t lying to me.
An image of her round face, with its full lips and wide-set eyes rises in my mind. Usually I’m not into brunettes, but there was something special about her. Knew it the second she took my drink order. And I was right. When it was good, man, it had never been better. Not with anyone, even the pros.
My cock starts to stiffen in my suit pants as I remember the first time she went down on me. That soft smile as she sank to her knees, the feel of her hands as she took my dick out, fastening her lips around me and sucking. Oh god...
I can’t help it. I check my mirrors to make sure no one’s around. The street is empty and quiet. I unzip my pants, taking my hardening dick out of my pants. Olive always has this effect on me. I close my eyes as I begin to work my cock. In my mind, I wrap my hands around the back of Olive’s head, burying them in her soft brown hair. She takes me deep inside her mouth again and again. And as I hit the back of her mouth one last time, I pull out and come all over her pretty face.
“That’s for the complaint, bitch,” I mutter, sinking back against the seat with a satisfied smile.
Chapter Four
Las Vegas, NV
Olive
I eye West as he mixes a protein shake at the kitchen counter. He worked out earlier this afternoon, and is still shirtless and sweaty. I swear, he’s doing this to fuck with me. I force myself to refocus on Stick, who’s talking to me across the kitchen table. It’s so weird to be back in my childhood home with the two of them.
“It’s gonna be a great party,” Stick says enthusiastically, “Start off with a barbecue around six, then keep the party going all night. And you’ll meet Stacy!”
“Who’s Stacy?” I ask distractedly.
West guffaws from the counter, surprising me. Stick frowns at his friend. His huge, muscular friend...Focus, Olive!
“She’s a girl...” Stick says defensively. Now this gets my attention.
“She’s a girl?” I squeal, “Oh my god. Do you finally have a girlfriend?!”
“Please don’t make this a whole big thing, OK? It’s not a big deal,” Stick says, rolling his eyes at my excitement.
“It’s a pretty big deal, dude,” West confirms from the counter, turning around to face us.
“Like you’re one to talk? When was your last relationship?” Stick counters, eyeing West. West just smiles down at his protein shake. Interesting.
“So, tell me all about her,” I demand.
“I don’t know. She’s. You know...a girl,” he mutters.
“Oh my god, are you blushing?” I exclaim, “Holy shit, you’re actually blushing!”
“No, no!” Stick insists, “The fuck I am!”
“Yes you are! Oh man, you really like her!” I clap my hands. West raises his eyebrows, grinning at our sibling interaction. “Wow, now I really can’t wait to meet her,” I gush, “I have so much to tell her.”
“What does that mean?” Stick asks, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Oh, you know, I’m just sure there’s so much stuff about your childhood you haven’t told her yet,” I grin, “Stuff I’ll be able to fill her in on. Like the time you cut mom’s hair in her sleep, for instance—”
“Wait, I don’t remember that,” West says, thinking back. I cross to the fridge and examine the meager contents within. Nothing but beer and a f
ew packs of bacon. I’m going to have to do some grocery shopping.
“I was ten,” Stick says, defending himself, “She was worrying about money and I was just trying to help her out, OK? People will pay a lot for human hair, you know. How is Mom, anyway?”
“Well, her hair’s finally grown back,” I say with a smile. “But her new boyfriend...ugh.” I manage to locate a solitary yogurt at the back of the fridge and grab a spoon. Stick’s kept the utensils in the same drawer as when we were kids. For some reason, this tiny detail makes me smile.
“What’s wrong with the boyfriend?” Stick asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I mean, he clearly really likes her,” I allow, “He’s not a bad guy or anything. Maybe it’s just in comparison to the guys she usually dates, he seems a little...boring.”
“She could probably use boring,” Stick says. “Is that why you left? Mom’s boring boyfriend?”
“That, and the winters,” I say evenly, “I’ve seen enough snow to last me a lifetime.” I keep my eyes focused on my yogurt as I answer, aware that this isn’t the answer I gave West last night when he asked me the same question.
I hate lying to my brother. But the last thing that Stick needs to know is that I got involved with the wrong kind of guy. I’m sure his protective instincts would go into overdrive and he’d find some tower to lock me in for the rest of my life, Rapunzel-style.
I took care of the Richard Lees situation by myself, following the proper channels and filing a formal complaint with his captain. And when I still saw him outside of my house, I picked up and moved across the country. I was looking for a change anyway, and he was really starting to creep me out. Hopefully, Dick can get on with his life now, and I can get on with mine.
“Well, I’m going to take the truck and stop by Stacy’s house,” Stick says, “We’ll head to the party from there. West, you can give Olive a ride, right?”
“Yeah, no problem,” West replies, with only the slightest hesitation.
“Well, I’m going to finish unpacking,” I say, hurrying away so that I don’t have to explain the color that’s just risen to my cheeks. I set down my unfinished yogurt and head down the hallway to my room.
Nothing’s changed in here. The walls are still painted the lavender I thought was really cool when I was twelve and begged my parents to let me choose my own wall color. Now it just seems super bright, though at least it matches with the unfortunate floral duvet cover I got to match. With a sigh, I start putting away the rest of my clothes.
I’m lucky that I can just come home and live here, really. My brother decided not to sell the house in this bad market after my dad left it to him in his will. Stick and West had been living in the Widowmakers’ clubhouse, but it seemed like a waste for them not to use this place. So my brother moved back into the master bedroom, and West took over my brother’s old room.
In no time, all my clothes are put away. I store my luggage and head for the bathroom. I could really use a shower. I think I can still smell the airplane on me. I grab a towel from the linen closet in the hall and strip off my clothes in my bedroom, then walk down the hallway with the towel wrapped around me and my toiletries in hand. I close the bathroom door behind me and make a little face at the state of the bathroom. I saw it last night when I came home, but it looks even worse in the daylight. Boys.
I turn on the shower and put my toiletries away as I wait for the water to heat up. As the water begins to steam, I step inside. I’m glad to feel that the water pressure in this house hasn’t weakened at all. When I turn my back to the shower head, it feels like I’m getting a little massage. I slowly circle my head, letting the tension of my last few weeks in Concord fall away. It was tough to schedule my departure without Lees getting wind of it, but I think I pulled it off.
My thoughts wander as I shampoo and scrub myself. I hope this party tonight will be fun. I’ve never been to a biker party before so I don’t really know what it’ll be like. And I really hope I like Stick’s new girlfriend. It seems like he’s pretty serious about her, and not being crazy about my mom’s boyfriends was never fun. I also don’t have any old friends still living in town, so it would be really great if Stacy and I could actually become close. Or maybe there will be other wives or old ladies there that I can be friends with. Maybe that girl Colleen from the bar last night. She seemed OK, even if she did mistake me for a hook-up of Stick’s.
Clean at last, I step out of the shower and rub myself down with the towel, then wrap it around my head as I apply some body lotion; the dry Nevada air is killer. I finally unwrap the towel on my head and shake out my hair. I’m just running a brush through it when a sudden burst of cold air hits me.
I turn in shock to the now open bathroom door and see West standing there with his mouth hanging open. I freeze at the sight of him with a white towel wrapped low around the muscular v of his hips. He looks just as surprised to see me as I am to see him.
“Sorry...I forgot,” he stammers, and turns to leave. I stand frozen for a moment more and then cross to close the door, shivering a bit in the comparatively cold air. A little giggle bursts through my lips as I shut the door. He looked so awkward when he saw me! I’ve never seen that expression on West’s face. He always seems so sure of himself.
I wrap my towel around myself again and cross back to my room, shutting the door behind me. After a minute, I hear West shut the bathroom door and the shower spring to life. I shake my head, happily baffled by our interaction. Best not to read into it, I tell myself, and get on with the rest of my day.
I decide that taking a nap is a good idea—so I can stay up late for the party—but now that I’ve woken up I feel a little groggy. What does one even wear to a biker party, I wonder?
I pull on a pair of distressed skinny jeans, a white tank top, and a pair of wedge heels. As I pull on the shirt, I think that the benefit of not having huge boobs is being able to wear a built-in bra. My hair dried naturally as I slept, and now it falls in slight waves down my back. I dab on a little makeup at the vanity mirror on my desk, and then top off my outfit with a cropped, black leather jacket that I got on sale. When in Rome, right?
I grab my purse and head into the living room to wait for West. But he’s already sitting at the kitchen counter.
“I don’t remember you being so punctual,” I say with a smile. He looks up at me, casting an appraising eye over my appearance.
“The Marines will do that to a man,” he says, standing up. He’s wearing his cut and an army green Henley with his omnipresent black jeans and boots. I pause, wondering if we’re going to talk about last night. If he wants to talk, he gives no indication of it.
“How tall are you now?” I ask instead. “Six three?” I move closer to him, trying to measure the distance between our heights now, but it’s tough to tell in heels.
“Six five, actually,” he says with a smirk. “Oh, your brother left this for you. Said to make sure you wore it.” He hands me a motorcycle helmet.
“Of course he did,” I say dryly.
I follow West out of the front door to the driveway, where his bike is parked next to my brother’s. I watch him strap on a much smaller helmet as I struggle to push mine on. “How come your helmet’s so much smaller?”
He grins. “Your brother got you the most protective kind. You won’t see a lot of bikers wearing those.”
I sigh. That sounds like my brother. Well, I guess his heart is in the right place.
West gets on the bike and the engine roars to life as he applies throttle on the right grip. My brother showed me a little bit about his first bike when he bought it, and I’d love to learn more, maybe even ride my own one day. With a backwards jerk of his head, West signals for me to climb on. I raise one leg and straddle the seat, sliding towards West’s wide back. I wrap my arms around him and he pulls down the driveway with a lurch, catching me by surprise. I grip him more tightly, and his hard muscles don’t give a millimeter as I hold on.
I remember seeing the Wi
dowmakers’ clubhouse briefly when Stick was a prospect, but I’ve never spent a lot of time there. Right now I’m just glad to have a chance to press against West, though the size of my helmet and the way it juts out in front makes it impossible for me to rest my cheek against him. I slide my hand slightly down his stomach, feeling his abs beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. I try to make my action seem casual, but I don’t think I’m fooling him.
We’re heading alongside the main part of town, rather than through it. We pass into a less desirable section. Some of the buildings look totally abandoned. West Clayton certainly took a hit during the housing crisis. The neighborhood changes to a mix of widely spaced residential and industrial buildings, and we slow down as we pull up to a two-story white brick building with a large garage on the ground floor. Tall chain link fences surround the property, though I can see the edge of a yard out back.
We turn through the open gates and toward the garage. It’s clearly operational—probably, it’s one of the club’s businesses. West stops his bike at the end of a long line of Harleys in front of the building and cuts the engine.
“I remember this place a little,” I say as I step off the bike and pull my helmet off. “But I don’t think I’ve ever been inside.”
“I’ll give you a tour,” West says. It’s the friendliest thing he’s said to me since last night. He leaves his helmet strapped around the handlebar of his bike, so I leave mine on the seat. I guess they’re not worried about anyone stealing from a bunch of bikers.
I follow West to a metal door in the front of the building. He holds it open for me and I pass through, my eyes struggling to adjust to the much darker interior. The door shuts behind me and West strides into the space. A couple bikers that have been sitting around on a pair of old couches rise to greet him, and he waves his hand toward me.
“This is Olive, Stick’s little sister,” he says, with a definite emphasis on the last word. “Olive, this is Tree and King.”
