Virgin

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "There is one thing I should probably tell you," I started hesitantly, back to her, hoping that would help me get the balls to say it.

  "Should is a bullshit word. Should is what this guy told me about taking a chance on his pierced dick, saying it would rock my world when, in actuality, it, in fact, felt like my pussy turned into a tackle box. But go ahead."

  "I just got out of prison." There. It was out. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by Andre the Giant, but it was out.

  "Did you kill someone? With a cleaver? Melt them in a vat of acid? Oh, no, maybe shot the prick who was beating on you and threw him into a river with cement shoes? Maybe..." I turned as she spoke, lips curving up as her excitement - and the ludicrousness of her imaginary crimes - grew. "Sorry," she said, waving her fork toward the flatscreen hanging down from the wall. "I am a sucker for Forensic Files, Cold Case Files, pretty much all the files. And A Killer in My Family, A Killer Next Door... well... all the killers too."

  "Maybe that is why you find it creepy in here at night," I suggested, wiping a few splatters of cheese off the counter.

  "Maybe. But anyway... statistically speaking, there are enough laws on the books in this country now that the average citizen commits three felonies a day without realizing it. And you could get locked up on bullshit charges for inhumanely long stretches for any one of those when you catch a judge on a day when he has heartburn and his wife refused to fuck him for the tenth year in a row, and then get sent away because the prison-industrial complex makes bank off of the heads in the beds and because society is brainwashed into thinking prisons work when all the data collected since the eighties proves exactly the opposite... and, yeah, this is my way of saying fuck the system. You're still hired. But don't steal from me because I will meat cleaver the shit out of you and melt you in a vat of acid."

  There was no stopping the giant grin that stretched across my face. Because she was insane. Because I was hired. Because I never imagined I could find someone who didn't look at me like I was dog crap on their shoe because of what had happened to me a decade ago.

  "I accept the terms," I told her as she got onto her Doc Martin clad feet and came over to go under the counter to reveal a small fridge loaded up with various drinks - including two hard ciders she pulled out, handing one to me.

  "Yes, I sometimes drink on the job," she told me, twisting off her top. "I would be a hypocrite to tell you not to. But don't get sloppy. Or I might have to kill you and-"

  "Throw me in a river with cement shoes," I finished for her, twisting off the top of mine for a drink.

  "Precisely," she agreed, finishing her food before starting in on her orders again.

  Not having anything to do, I hung back for my first lesson, leaving later that afternoon covered in about two dozen different substances, my feet aching a bit, my hair sticking to the back of my neck with sweat.

  But warm.

  Happy.

  Excited.

  Things I was becoming perhaps a bit too accustomed to. Which was dangerous. Because I might not be able to give them up. And then the past ten years of concocting plans, of cradling my rage to my chest like a baby, might have been for nothing.

  But those were thoughts for another day.

  "I see you got the job," Thad said as I stepped inside, not even bothering to pretend like he wasn't having an elaborate selfie-taking session, just hamming it up for his camera as he spoke to me, his shutter going off every few seconds.

  "I gotta meet her," he decided when I had told him the whole story before going to wash all of the aforementioned substances off of myself. "We should celebrate," he told me as I went through the strict routine he - or more accurately, his friend Benny - had taught me to get that perfect wavy curl look. "What?" he asked when a flash of something crossed my face. I was terrible at keeping secrets. Thad knew this. And he would absolutely use it against me to get what he wanted.

  "Nothing. We should celebrate," I tried to cover, plastering on a smile.

  "Bitch, that smile is as fake as the tits on that lady in my dance class today. Up to here, they were," he told me, cupping his hands into circles up near his clavicles. "Honey could put her chin down and rest it on the girls."

  "Don't be mean," I told him, tossing my towel at his head.

  "Not mean. Just honest. Ain't no woman got natural titties for a necklace save for top-heavy gals in inverted positions in yoga class. Could fucking suffocate themselves, I swear. But you don't have to worry about that," he told me, flicking the side of my tank top-clad boob, making me send a scathing look his way even though I had long since gotten over my adolescent insecurity about my small chest. What I lacked in boobs, I made up for in ass. It was fair. "Anyway. Back to my point. Did you have something specific in mind for celebrating?"

  I could feel the I've got a secret! look as it crossed my face.

  "Spill," he demanded, snatching the light pink lipstick I was reaching for, slapping the bright red in my palm instead.

  "Why?"

  "It's your signature look, that's why. Now, go on and tell me. You know I'm gonna get it out of you eventually."

  "I sort of got invited to a celebratory thing tonight," I told him as I smeared on the lipstick, watching as it slowly went matte, letting me know it would stay on even if I had a heavy make-out session. Which, of course, I had no intentions of having. Not even if I did go to celebrate the way I was invited to.

  "By whom?" he asked, making me aware I had completely forgotten to tell him all about the ride, the invite, the counter-pressing thing.

  "Virgin," I supplied, watching his reaction out of the corner of my eye.

  "And we're the fuck still standing here because?" he demanded, hip-checking me out of the way to grab for a little mattifying powder, swishing it over his T-zone with a brush.

  "Um, I don't know if I was allowed to bring anyone."

  "Honey, baby... there is no way I am letting you go into that den of Prime USDA Manmeat without me," he told me, waving a hand dismissively as he spritzed on his cologne.

  "They're bikers, Thad. I'm pretty sure they're all straight."

  "Mhmm," he agreed, half-ignoring me. "So was that boy Adam last night. But he sure sucked my cock like he thought the fountain of youth was in the motherfucker," he told me as he walked through the bathroom then down into my room, grabbing an outfit, tossing it at me.

  "Thad..."

  "Alright, listen," he said, leaning back against my bedroom doorway. "I want you to take a ride or fifty on that fine piece of masculinity. You earned it. You deserve to blaspheme the name of God while you get your lady business worked over for the first time in a decade. But that being said, you are my baby sister. He is a dangerous biker with a bunch of dangerous biker friends, so there is no way I am letting you take your fine ass into there without your big, scary brother to keep an eye on you. Now squeeze that round ass into those jeans, tie on that shirt, spritz on some perfume, and meet me at the door."

  With that, he left me alone to do, well, just that. The top was white and flowy, but tied in the center of my stomach, showing off a bit more than a sliver of belly. I spritzed on the perfume, grabbed a pair of flats, and pretended like I was trying to talk myself out of it.

  But, well, I wasn't.

  I didn't want to.

  If I was alone, I never would have worked up my courage to go.

  But with Thaddeus there as backup? I wanted to go. I wanted to satisfy my curiosity. Maybe - just maybe - get to know Virgin just a little bit better. Even if the more rational side of me knew it was stupid. A non-starter. Doomed to fail.

  It could go down in flames.

  Brilliant, orgasm-filled flames.

  It was funny how, when I was inside long enough, the urges went away. When there was no possibility for relief - no men to take it away, no privacy to take care of it yourself - your body kind of just shut it all down. But now that I was back out, it was back with a vengeance. And despite having used - when no one was home - the v
ibrator Thad had included in my basic necessities package until the thing damn near burned out on me, nothing seemed to ease the clawing, aching need, nothing would take away the oppressive weight on my lower belly, begging for an end to the torment.

  I didn't just need an orgasm.

  I needed touch after so long without.

  I needed hands gliding over places that hadn't been grazed in far too long - shoulders, spine, lower back, hips, thighs.

  I needed the feel of lips down the side of my neck, my belly, lower.

  I needed the weight of a man on top of me, the feel of his hard lines on my softer ones, the scent of his skin on me, his words in my ear.

  I needed a man who could give me an orgasm.

  And if you were going to let yourself have a fling, wasn't it the smartest bet to go with someone who had what seemed like an immense amount of experience? Someone who was clearly a noncommittal sort so things never got confusing or grew roots.

  I had enough roots that I would need to rip out if I went through with my plans for revenge.

  "Fred, I'm not getting any younger over here," Thad called, snapping me out of my wandering thoughts. Grabbing my purse, I made my way out into the living room, finding Thad standing half out the door already.

  "Oh my God," I snorted when we moved outside and - I could not be more serious (nor mortified) - when Thaddeus threw open a parasol. A gauzy, baby blue freaking parasol. Despite the fact that it was dark outside. "What are you shielding yourself from? The moon?" I asked as he twirled it on his shoulder.

  "Look like a poster child for a passive gay man, right?" he asked, suddenly grabbing the base of the handle with both hands - one staying put, the other yanking outward. And I'd be damned if a long, lethal-looking knife didn't come out in his fist. "Looks can be deceiving," he added, popping it back in. "Here," he added, reaching in his pocket to produce a small pocket knife. "Stick this in your pocket. Or in your bra. You should have room," he added with a smirk.

  "Watch what you say to a woman holding a sharp object," I warned, turning it at him. "You could be missing a part of you that you really hold near and dear."

  "Listen to you, Shawshank. Threatening to make a Eunuch outta me. Weren't you the girl who almost fainted when Colson broke his leg?"

  "His bone was sticking out of his skin!" I shot back as we started walking. Even just the memory made a shiver course through me. I could never unsee that.

  "Oh, damn. Don't even gotta go inside to get a taste of the mancandy," Thad declared as we walked up to the gates of The Henchmen compound where a duo of men in what almost looked like military gear with semi-automatic guns strapped around their backs stood.

  Not bikers something inside me said. But why would not-bikers be doing security at a biker compound?

  "Look at you all baby faced and shit," Thad said to the guard on the left who, admittedly, did look like he could pass for a high schooler despite the muscle tone that suggested much older. "And you. I bet those lashes are real."

  "Are you expected?" Lashes asked, sizing both of us up, eyes landing on the parasol for long enough that I wondered if he knew there was a knife inside it. Like there was some underground knowledge about frilly things that were masking dangerous weapons. Hell, maybe there was.

  A snap - clear and unexpected - made all our eyes move to behind the guards where a man who obviously was a biker was standing. The one who had been with Virgin at the bar that night. Cam, I think his name was.

  "He doesn't speak," I whispered to Thad, but one of the guards looked back, eyeing me a little harder even as Cam waved us in, making the guards move apart and unlock the gates.

  "That's okay, honey. I speak enough for the both of us," Thad told Cam, taking down his parasol, sticking it under his arm as he walked with Cam toward the door, leaving me to trail behind.

  The closer we got, the louder the music and voices were. A party was obviously going on.

  Party.

  I hadn't been to a party since I was seventeen-years-old.

  I had a feeling grown-up parties were a lot different from teenaged ones.

  Especially grown-up biker ones.

  The door pulled open and we moved into a wide space with a full bar to the right, a pool table to the left, and a sitting area toward the back and a doorway that I suspected led to the kitchen since someone in a Henchmen cut was moving out of it with a heaping pile of finger foods on his plate.

  For a biker party, it wasn't exactly what I had been expecting. Which meant, I guess, there were more women around - fully clothed women - than I had anticipated. One was jabbing a pool cue into the chest of one of the bikers, her cheeks red with what I could only assume was anger. Another hopped herself backward onto the bar then jumped off on the other side, reaching up on the back bar to pour a round of straight tequila. Another still was sitting on the lap of a huge, bearded man.

  There were more men than women - most in Henchmen cuts, obviously. Men who belonged here in this space. Men who walked around with the comfort and confidence of familiarity. A couple others, though, clearly didn't belong. Judging by the butt-kissing they were doing, I imagined they were trying to fit in, belong, be a part of the organization.

  "Oh, be still my heart," Thad said, putting a hand to his chest as his eyes worked over all the men present. Not an ugly one in the bunch. I shouldn't have been surprised. There was never any shortage of gorgeous, dangerous men in Navesink Bank. But this was a whole other level.

  "So, you're pretty," a voice said from my side, making my body jolt, finding a tall, somewhat thin blonde guy with bright brown eyes and a great beard. Not a Henchmen due to his lack of a cut. But not as unsure of himself as the other outsiders seemed to be.

  "Oh, um... thank you," I said, shaking my head a little.

  A sigh at my side told me I was failing at the socializing thing. "This is Freddie. I'm Thad. And you are?" Thaddeus asked, giving me a This is not hard look.

  "I'm West," he told me, reaching out a hand with bright red and black tattoos over his fingers, the back, and snaking up his arm. Covered. He was covered in them. The V in his tee showed more on his chest, up his neck. And one would imagine, all down his back and stomach as well.

  "This is where you shake the hand instead of inspecting it, Fred," Thad told me, elbowing me in the side.

  "Sorry," I said, putting my hand in his, having to fight back a blush when he didn't shake it like I had been expecting, but slowly rose it up to his mouth, kissing the tops of my knuckles.

  "Yo, fuck off," a voice cracked liked a whip in the space. A newly familiar voice. One that I had maybe thought about while alone in an apartment with a battery operated device just hours before.

  My head whipped over, watching as Virgin cut through the crowd, seeming to suck up all the air as he got closer.

  "Was that too vague for you?" he asked pointedly to West who was still holding my hand, but was now swinging it between us like children at a playground.

  "Not at all," he said, tone, body language, everything about him wholly unconcerned with the threat in the biker's voice as he started pulling me. "Let me just take my new girl with me. She's pretty, right?" he asked, seeming completely unaware - or simply not caring - about the look of death Virgin was shooting him.

  "Yeah, she's pretty. She also isn't yours," Virgin clipped with a pointed brow raise.

  Maybe West looked contrite.

  Maybe he looked worried.

  I wouldn't know.

  Because my silly brain could only focus on the fact that he had called me pretty.

  "Well, that's just not fair," West declared, giving my hand a squeeze before dropping it. "He gets to have that concrete jaw and the pretty girl? And me, I have to grow a beard and go home alone? Nice meeting you, pretty girl," he added, giving me a wink before turning away, easily going over to a group of three women, integrating himself in their conversation with the ease that made me wonder if he had sisters. Or was just that sure of himself.

  "Yeah,
that's about the look all the women have been giving him tonight," Virgin said with a nod as he looked at me. "Like he's a cute new puppy dog. But that puppy dog could rip a grown man's throat out," he added.

  "Oh, well, now you're just making him even more appealing," Thad decided. "Who doesn't like a bad boy?"

  "Hey Thad," Virgin greeted him as though they were old friends. "If you guys are here, I'm assuming you got the job."

  "I did," I told him, not even trying to hide the smile. "Thanks to you in a way." At Thad's eyebrow raise, I shrugged. "He told me she might be hiring and gave me a ride."

  "Oh he did, now, did he?" Thad asked in a tone that let me know I was going to hear it later. "Well, good. I am going to go get myself a drink. You two... have fun," he said with an utterly ridiculous eyebrow wiggle.

  "Brought backup, huh?"

  "He wouldn't have let me come into a biker compound alone. He has a knife in his umbrella."

  Virgin's lips quirked up, teasing at those white teeth before his hand rubbed across his face, wiping the smile away. "Sounds like a good brother."

  "The best," I agreed.

  "Can I get you a drink? Food?"

  "Food," I agreed, realizing I hadn't had a chance to eat much all day save for the samples of dishes Abby insisted on just so I got to know the menu by taste as well as ingredient and prep.

  Virgin led me through the door I had - correctly - guessed was the kitchen. It was a medium-sized space full of masculine energy, nothing frilly on the windows, no cutesy hand towels hanging off the stove front. Everything was stark and economical. Which made sense, I guess.

  Food was spread out across the counters.

  Very familiar food.

  "Did you order all this from Abby's?" I asked, suddenly feeling bad for her. It had to have taken forever to get it all done. There was enough here to feed an army. Mac n' cheese. Chicken wings. Mozzarella sticks. Sliders. Loaded potato skins. It was endless.

  "She's used to us by now. If it's not pizza, it's Abby's. This is Freddie," Virgin said to a duo of women - one a pretty blonde, the other a delicate-faced brunette. "That's Penny and Bethany. They belong to Duke and Lazarus."