by Nicole Fox
And just as I thought these words, Brian supplied the actions to prove it:
He reached up and grabbed my breast, pinching my nipple so hard that pain shot all the way through my body. I tried wrenching free, but his grip on me was too strong.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he growled, his hand snaking down from my tit to in-between my legs. “Haven’t you missed me? I’m sure you’ve been lonely.”
I wanted to laugh. Me? Lonely? If his grip on my windpipe wasn’t so tight, I would have spat: “Actually, Brian, no. I’ve had better sex in the last two weeks than I ever had in all my years with you.”
But I couldn’t. He was choking me, and all the bravado in the world wasn’t going to make up for the fact that he was physically stronger. A groveling scumbag he may have been, but he was still a full-grown man.
When he whirled me around, bending my chest over the counter to try to fuck me from behind––that was when I found my chance.
The cutlery drawer! To my left! Just within reach.
Brian was too busy fucking around with my underwear to notice. I let him at it. It was all the fun he was going to have tonight.
“Get back, you stinking coward!” I roared, pushing away from the counter and whirling the knife on him with an electric surge of strength. Its tip trembled slightly, pointing at his heart, but it was firm and deadly enough.
Brian paled. Immediately, all the toughness went out of him, leaving him looking like a petulant two-year-old who’d been denied his favorite sweet.
“Come on, Erica dear. Whaddya gonna do with that? Stab me?” He sneered. And yet, his eyes never left its point.
“No,” I grunted. I thought of Dominic, and my dream, and I felt years and years of bottled-up humiliation bursting forth, giving me the strength of a thousand Brians. “I’ll cut your fucking balls off, and mail them to your secretary, since she likes them so much.”
His eyes widened, his mouth flickering between a smile and a grimace of terror, as if trying to decide if I were joking. Inwardly, I must admit, I was dazzled by my sudden expression of violence. Outwardly, however, my face was as hard and deadly as the blade of the kitchen knife I now wielded at his heart.
“Come on,” he said, backing away. “You wouldn’t do that.You’re my kind, gentle Erica-Bella––”
“No,” I growled. “I have never been as kind as you think. Or gentle. I’ve just been afraid. But now––” I jabbed the tip of the blade forward, drawing the tiniest pinprick of blood from his chest. “Now, I’m not afraid of a pathetic thing like you anymore. So get out of my house!”
I brandished the blade at him, dangerously so, so that he was forced to leap through the air to keep from being sliced.
“You’re crazy!” He cried. “You bitch! You’re fucking crazy!”
“Oh, yeah. I’m crazy. You’re the one who’s broken into my house and tried to rape me, and I’m crazy!”
Perhaps my maniacal laughter was not exactly helping my point, but I was beyond caring. I swished the blade about like a fencer does his sword, until, at long last, Brian was forced from the house.
“And don’t come back!” I cried, slamming the door behind him. Then I sank against it, laughing and laughing. Casually, I glanced at the hand holding the blade and was astonished to see a trickling of red: I had held the bottom so tightly that I had cut myself.
The funny thing was, it did not even hurt. In fact, the sight of the blood exhilarated me. It made me feel even more powerful. I was ecstatic. Charged. In control of myself and my body. This was perhaps the craziest I had ever felt, but also the most collected.
I wondered if this was how men like Dominic felt every day. I wondered if this was how I was supposed to feel on a regular basis.
I hoped so. I liked it.
Grinning like a jack-o-lantern, I went to the sink, dropped the knife in, and began washing and dressing my cut. It wasn’t bad, but it would need some bandaging. After I was finished, I went upstairs and selected my sexiest, sluttiest little black dress and slipped it on.
I was going out. If one hook up with a man like Dominic could make me feel this good, surely another would make me feel amazing. I dressed up, put on high heels, applied a strong-but-classy amount of makeup, seized my jacket and a little clutch purse, and was out the door.
# # #
My first instinct was to the go to the bar where Dominic and I had met. But then, I realized that, cocky as I was feeling, going to a place where I was very-nearly gunned down not two weeks before was probably not the best idea. Instead, I chose a bar across town. It was another biker bar, full of muscle and black leather, and I was sure that there, I would be able to find another guy like Dominic.
I walked in and was disappointed to see that not one of the many men waiting there were as good-looking as he. Still, they were muscular and tough, so I figured one of them would do.
I decided to follow the same tactic as last time: sit with my legs crossed in a sexy pose, and wait for the bravest of them to come to me. The difference was, of course, that tonight I felt confident.
I swear, not thirty seconds passed before someone was beside me.
He was younger than Dominic––probably about my age––and was taller and a little lankier. He had a tattoo of a wolf with dripping, splintered fangs across his collarbone and throat, and though I thought it gaudy, it definitely gave the impression of toughness.
“Hi,” I said, coming right out with it. “I’m Erica.”
“Carter,” he replied. He ordered me a drink without asking what I wanted. It turned out to be a rum and coke. In the old days, I would have appreciated this gesture no matter what, but now, I was annoyed that he presumed that’s what I wanted.
I slid it towards him and said, “I’m feeling whiskey right now. Looks like you’ll have an extra drink to finish.”
I expected a wink or a witty comeback. Perhaps some self-deprecating joke. But all he did was stare at me as if he had never encountered the likes of me before. He glanced at the rum and coke as if waiting for it to leap up and yell, “Surprise!” When it didn’t, he turned back to me.
“I like a strong woman,” he said, grinning.
“And I like a strong man.” My whiskey arrived, and I sipped it stoically. Dominic would have been proud.
“I see,” Carter simpered. “I think I can give you that.”
He threw his elbows on the table, and flexed his bare arms for me to see. The muscles were impressive, but I was not particularly impressed with his subtlety.
Instead, I thought of Dominic. He made no secret of his interest in my body, but that did not mean he still did not enjoy bandying a word or two with me beforehand. But this guy? I got the vibe that I could have answered in Chinese and it would not have made any difference to him.
Suddenly, everything about him––from his muscles to his cut-off leather vest to that gaudy tattoo––seemed vain and stupid. I finished my drink and said, quite plainly, “I thank you for your interest, but nothing is going to happen between us tonight. Have a nice day.”
He stared at me as if I’d slapped him. I thought for a moment he was going to attack me, but I just kept on glaring coldly at him until his scalded pride cooled.
Without a word, he snatched up the untouched rum and coke, alongside his drink and stormed away.
Less than a minute later another idiot appeared to take his place.
If the whole bar did not attempt to hit on me that night, it was pretty close to it. And yet, the more guys I saw, the more disgusted I became. None of them seemed tough––at least, not in the way Dominic was. They were physically impressive, sure, but I got the sense that a light puff from an derisive wind would insult their pride so much they’d fly into hysterics. A strong man’s sense of self is more durable than that.
Frustrated not only with them but with my own pickiness, I eventually went home alone. And although I fought it, Dominic was on my mind the entire way.
Chapter Sixteen
Dominic
“We’re missing something, damn it!” I roared for what must have been the eightieth time, slamming my fists down on the table and making the numerous maps, diagrams, and lists scattered there tremble.
Thunder did not say a word. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out another cigarette, handed it to me, then held a flame up to my lips. I puffed at it, my eyes not once leaving the information spread out before me.
“This is not typical Crooked Jaw behavior,” I repeated, sitting down and drawing a map of downtown over to me. “It’s too coordinated. Too…elegant. And look here!”
I pointed to a list of figures, stolen from a very scared bank accountant, that described the mysterious changes in the Crooked Jaw’s funds.
“This much money floating around? There’s got to be police involvement. Deal-making. It stinks.”
Thunder nodded. He knew I needed him most as a sounding board. When he finally did speak out, I knew it would be important.
“We must do something, Thunder,” I said at last, sagging into my seat. I ashed the cigarette to prepare another big drag. “I’m not sending my men in with so much uncertainty.”
“The old Dom would have,” Thunder commented. “He would have been in a month ago, guns blazing.”
It was not an insult. Merely an observation.
“I know,” I sighed. “But the old Dom would have gotten a lot of people killed. The Broken Spires haven’t had a major casualty in years. I’d like to keep it that way.”
I was glad this meeting was private. If my other subordinates heard me talking like this, they would have thought I’d gone soft. Thunder I could trust. He understood the president’s job: temper the violence. Redirect the flame. Don’t allow for wildfire.
“We could plug someone for information,” Thunder suggested quietly. “Use a little violence to prevent it on a massive scale.”
I blinked, then sighed again. This was a proposition I had thought of hours ago, but had wanted to avoid. Once competing biking clubs started kidnapping each other’s members, the horror tended to escalate quickly. The same, however, applied to situations where one goes charging in with their eyes closed.
“Yes,” I agreed. “I believe it to be inevitable. Who would you suggest?”
Thunder thought for a moment. “There’s Wolf’s Head. He’s always been an idiot, and way too public with his whereabouts. I bet if we hit the red light district, we’ll find him within three bars.”
I smiled. Yes. He was perfect. Too many bikers thought this life was about bravado and showing off, but no. That just made you an easy target. Like Wolf’s Head.
Our decision made, we prepared ourselves for the mission: thick leather jackets with two very key features. First, there were no recognizable Broken Spires badges, and second, they had hoods. We pulled them low over our faces, hunched our shoulders to disguise our walk, and left.
Thunder was right. Wolf’s Head did not turn out to be hard to find. He was at the second strip club we tried, out for everyone to see:
Splayed at the bar, his legs spread open, and his erection obvious through his leather pants as two cheap strippers writhed and twisted in front of him. The stupid, hungry look on his face made him easy to spot, but even that was not the kicker: it was the horrible, gaudy tattoo of a wolf he had all over his neck that highlighted him like a bull’s eye. He thought it made him look tough. I thought it made him look stupid.
Careful to hide our faces, we took a seat across the platform from him, and watched. This arrangement ensured that if he happened to glance in our direction, his gaze was sure to fall not on us, but on the stripper dancing between us.
She emerged. Her stripper name was Wanda. She was the color of a caramel latte, and her naked skin looked delicious enough to lick as she posed with feline grace for the show. Thunder grinned, his attention shifting immediately to her, but I at least maintained my discipline. I continued to watch Wolf’s Head.
By the end of Wanda’s show, however, I was forced to admit I was wasting my time. Wolf’s Head was probably the most predictable, boring, and stereotypical biker there could be. Drooling over Wanda, under-tipping his two lap dancers, and grunting and cat-calling like a misbehaving teenager, he gave the rest of us a bad name. I was even pretty sure that, by his twitching and eye-rolling, that he had creamed himself over Wanda’s finishing move, but fortunately nothing showed.
Thank God for black leather.
I, meanwhile, was having a different problem. I did not find Wanda or the other strippers too distracting. That, at least, could be solved with some self-discipline and experience. In my line of work, I have seen plenty of strippers. No, the problem was that my mind kept drifting off; not to the strippers, but to that damned goodie-two-shoes again. Instead of gazing at the real-life Wanda posturing before me, I imagined what Erica would look like, in thigh-high stockings, a thin, lacy garter, and her tits yanked up by a corset, dancing across the stage. What made the fantasy even odder is that I quickly halted her stripper-clad dance, thought, “She’s much too classy to do that,” and brought her down to sit beside me at the table, wearing a sexy-but-presentable red dress. Why the fuck would I do that? All I knew is that that was what my mind kept going to, whenever I allowed my attention to wander.
I shook my head, annoyed with myself. This preoccupation with that woman was really getting ridiculous. It was not fit for the president of the Broken Spires. So, instead of thinking about sex, I decided to resort to my more usual daydream: me, on a beach, drink in hand, and all this violence and nonsense behind me.
Outwardly, I trained my eyes upon Wolf’s Head. Inwardly, I imagined my eyes closed, a bright tropical sun beating through them as my copper-colored skin grew even darker.
“More sunscreen, dear?” The woman next to me asked, and I opened my eyes and saw that it was Erica–
“Goddamn!” I muttered, snapping back into reality. I was back at the strip club, and even though Wanda and her new partner Glitz were busy shaking it on stage, I had to struggle to get the image of Erica, bathed in golden sun, out of my head.
“I really need to retire,” I thought. “I’m getting too easily distracted.” Rippling with annoyance, I screwed up my will and focused it, like a laser, upon my target. I focused on him––his gaping face, his stupid tattoo––and all the while nursed my disgust for him into a pulsing, angry energy that gave me the determination to think of nothing else. The man could not have picked his nose without me knowing about it.
A number of other performers followed Wanda, until at last, the show ended, and the strippers (along with us) were rewarded with a break. Thunder and I stiffened in our chairs when after slapping the ass of a passing waitress, Wolf’s Head finally teetered to his feet and made for the door. We tossed our payment on the table, and, and stealthily as we could, followed him outside.
It was good that we acted so quickly. By the time we reached the exit, Wolf’s Head had nearly disappeared. We caught just a glimpse of him––a flash of a leather-clad shoulder and a wink of that tattoo––disappearing down a side street. Even as we followed, I was forced to acknowledge that I was impressed with his speed: in the bar, he had seemed almost too drunk to stand.
Thunder and I looked at each other, slipped our hands down to the holsters of our guns, and hurried after him. We did not, of course, plan on firing our guns, but when messing with the Crooked Jaws, it was always better to have some security.
Down the side street, past the entrances of several more clubs and bars, past several hookers, offering us their services as we blew by. And still, Wolf’s Head eluded us. Distantly, I wondered what had him running off in such a hurry, but so intense was our pursuit that I was too distracted to follow the thought.
For this bit of stupidity, I nearly paid with my life.
We were getting farther away from the red-light districts, and down into the docks––dark places where even criminals are wary. Giant storage bins lined the street, and on one side of us, black w
ater lapped menacingly against concrete walls. It was a weird horizon of tight corridors, and glaring, open plots of vulnerability. Thunder and I stuck to the shadows, as did, fortunately, Wolf’s Head.
At last, caught between two enormous shipping crates, our target paused. He pressed his hands against his knees to catch his breath before finally turning to face us. Knowing that he’d recognized our presence, Thunder and I stepped plainly into view.
“What do you assholes want?” He demanded, foregoing subtlety.
I smiled. “Strange place for a stroll, don’t you think, Carter? What is it that made you run all the way out here?”
He spat on the ground. “Fuck you,” he growled.
I unholstered my gun. A slight click from my left told me that Thunder had done the same.
“Now, there’s no need for that sort of language, is there, sport?” I said, slowly approaching. Wolf’s Head growled and stood at the ready, but did not draw a weapon.
