I still wasn’t clear with myself, about what it was I really wanted. I knew that right now, though, it was in this club. It was with Hammer and Beanie.
Hammer’s dark brows glistened as they knotted. He emitted a low growl as he gripped harder in Carlie’s messy blonde cascades. Down on all fours, her back arced and her butt cheeks rippled as Hammer’s heavy thighs slammed against the tops of her widespread legs. Her eyes rolled a Hammer slapped her ass and his grip tightened.
Between my own wet thighs, Beanie swelled and throbbed. I gasped as he parted and filled me. I clawed in my hair and my breath fled as his velvety ridges stretched the walls of my flower. Deep inside me, sensation welled and brimmed.
I traced the intricate ink and the burr of shaved tribal swirls on his almost naked scalp. My thighs clenched and trembled as he pulled me wider. He lifted my thighs as he penetrated deeper and I shook from deep within.
The thrumming heat of my wetness clung around his fat girth as his rhythm hardened and he forced himself farther.
Carlie’s wet lips parted and her eyebrows raised as she shook. Hammer plunged harder into her. I traced her lips with my finger as rolling, boiling waves of tension and release bubbled and burst through me.
Beanie belted into me. He yanked my hair and he slapped my ass as his full red lips sank onto my aching nipple.
I clawed and arched and gushed when his pump cannoned hot lava blasts into me.
We had a bond. A network of bonds, really. There was a connection between Hammer and me, Carlie and me and definitely Beanie and me. There were also links both ways between the men and Carlie.
The trust between Beanie and Hammer something extraordinary to me. It wasn’t just the biker camaraderie and code. Those two really cared about each other, and it seemed to light their other relationships.
I felt very privileged to be part of this group within the club.
Beads of sweat sprayed from Beanie’s brow as his head shook. Hammer shouted, and the two men reached up to slap a high five.
© Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.
All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary. If you think that you know some of them, or that you may be one of them, then you should consider writing fiction yourself.
Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing
THE DEVIL’S HAND
Knights of the Lost Highway MC
Alice May Ball
For Gat, my rock.
Without you, it wouldn’t mean a thing
Larry was a massive cock on legs. I saw it the first time our eyelines crossed. Fine legs, attached to a smoking bod, it has to be said. But even the steel balls of his hard, rolling ass are nothing but a delivery system, a means of propulsion for that rock of a cock.
Larry is driven by one thing only. To pump that monster into every beautiful woman he sees. It doesn’t make for much of a challenge when businesswomen, cheerleaders, teachers, cocktail waitresses – every kind of beautiful women — start tugging at their clothes and primping the moment he struts into a room.
Ordinary girls and women have the same reaction too, of course, but only Larry doesn’t ever notice. Never except for me, for some reason. I still don’t have a clue why me.
He isn’t dumb, not in any way. Thinking simply doesn’t occupy much of his time or energy. He makes his living, such as it is, providing muscle for bike gangs. That and what he takes from poker tables.
He could be a poker pro and make real money. Serious money. If he’d ever stop still long enough to hone his skills. If he would concentrate on one thing for more than ten minutes at a time. And if that one thing wasn’t a plump, hungry pussy.
He can focus on a pussy all day long. Long enough to get the girl’s attention — usually less than a minute — long enough to get her panties thoroughly wet — literally the twinkling of an eye — and long enough to get them off her. That’s a few more seconds.
He can look at a woman’s pussy through her eyes, he can taste it breathing into her ear. He can get a scent of it from the hollow by her collarbone. He can feel her arousal as the tip of his tongue grazes the side of her neck.
And he has the devil’s hand.
After that, his attention span will mostly depend on the girl’s stamina, her imagination and inventiveness, and by how outrageously filthy she is.
With me he was different.
Daddy’s reaction when I handed him the ten thousand dollars was a disappointment, most of all because it was exactly what I expected.
“Belle,” his eyes shone, “I’m back in the game. I can turn it around.” He didn’t even look up at me, he was transfixed by the little stack of bills.
Daddy was still a good looking man, even with the ‘distinguished’ gray at the leading edges of his retreating hair. His wide open, optimistic smile could get him into the senate. The thought of where it might get him in jail made me cold inside.
“Daddy,” I told him, “You can roll it back over the tables if you want, but Spinal will still be after you for what you owe him.”
“But Belle, I can turn this into…” I held up a hand.
“Daddy, the money Spinal lent you, what did you turn that into? And the money you borrowed from the Kazinzcis, what did you make with that?”
He was about to respond. I held my hand up still.
“You made a hole, Daddy. You dug yourself into a pit so you had to go borrow some more.”
The thought of where I’d been that past week, of what I’d had to face and what I had done inflamed me. “I thought about taking the money straight to Spinal myself, so you wouldn’t have to be in room with ten thousand temptations. But you know what? I decided, it’s your choice, Daddy.”
I looked him right in the eye. I thought of myself as immature for an eighteen year-old, and I always considered my father as a sage. But when it came to money, he was a gurgling infant. After the week I just had, I was middle aged, weary and worn.
“Daddy, don’t you even want to know, don’t you wonder how your teenage daughter came up with ten thousand dollars in less than a week?”
His big eyes sloped. At that point, I didn’t know whether it meant anything or not. Or, even if it did, whether all it meant was a variation on his old theme of, ‘Please, Belle, I don’t deserve you and I know it. Please don’t make me look at the consequences of my actions.’
“I worked hard,” I told him, “and I did some things that I never wanted to do. And I did it all to give you the chance to pull yourself out of the hole. If you want to stay down in the hole and play some more, that choice is yours.” He couldn’t help his smile from brightening.
“But I’m done with it, Daddy, I am out of here.” The pitch of my voice shocked me as it deepened, “I’m not going to watch you do that to yourself. I don’t want to go with strangers to identify parts of you.”
The scents of stale perfume and beer with the perpetual background burble of slot machines was not how I had imagined a casino, not from the ways that Daddy talked about them, so what I found behind the big doors of the the Copper River Lounge was a surprise.
I don’t know exactly what I had expected. Tall, wide rooms and people in evening dress, elegantly poised around huge roulette wheels, maybe. What it was, it was like a cross between a hotel lobby the size of a football field and a low-lit mall with no glass walls and where the neon was all inside.
Most of all I think I expected an atmosphere of excitement. Danger even. Most of the people that I saw in were in work clothes or sweat pants and tee-shirts, stood in clumps around tables or sat in lines and hunkered over slot machines.
From what I heard betweenDaddy and his buddies about casinos, I expected s
ome kind of a low-light glamor. The kind of thing that you’d see in a James Bond movie. If not that then at least something like the glimmer and golden glow of a gangster movie.
The lights were too bright, too ordinary. A buzz rose in the pit of my stomach, but it could have been the rising empty zing in my stomach, a mixture of anticipation and fear at what I had come to do.
The warren of tables meandered like an indoor market. Small, semi-circular blue tables of blackjack and long roulette tables with LED readouts on poles were surrounded by lines of slots and video poker screens. Players hunched blank-faced over the flashing screens and prodded the big buttons like it was a minimum-wage job.
Players around the roulette table were more animated. A tall man in a business suit, maybe in his thirties, checked me out as I walked by, making me feel conspicuous and even more out of place. I felt his eyes on me, appraising her. I realized that he was liking what he saw.
A pair of eyes on the far side of the bar, way off to one side watched me over a pair of shades and under a mop of black hair. The man in a black leather coat watched me walk across the floor like I was an unknown species. Like he found me out.
His brown eyes melted my insides as his head shook so slightly I could almost believe I hadn’t seen it. I lifted my chin and tried to act like nothing had happened. The way he looked at me, like he saw all the way inside me almost stopped me in my tracks.
Then he threw back his drink, bourbon or a brandy it looked like. He looked at me a moment, then he rose, turned and headed for the back where, I guessed, the private games rooms were.
My heart pounded as I tried to focus. I had come here, come into a casino when all my life I swore it was one thing that I would never do. Here I was, out of options and about to attempt the most desperate thing I had ever considered in my life. Something I had to do.
The fifteen bucks in my purse didn’t seem like it would ever be enough to achieve what I needed. The rising swirl of panic boiled and chilled inside me. It was too important. I couldn’t fail, but how could I possibly succeed?
Daddy said, over and over as far back as I could remember, ‘Protect your bankroll. Got to protect your bankroll. That way it doesn’t matter how slow you roll, as long as you’re rolling it your way.’ It was like a motto. When the money rolls to your side of the table, detain it.’
If he’d listened to any of his own advice, I wouldn’t be alone in a room that clattered with money and smelled of desperation. I wouldn’t be here with clammy palms and a banging in my chest. With a bankroll so small it was almost invisible.
I picked my way through to the farthest part of the room where the noisy craps table was. Men, all of them were men, jostled around the sunken table. A tall, rangy man glistened in a sheen of sweat at the far end of the table. He rolled the dice around in his loose right hand.
Some heads turned and some male eyes roamed over my tight, thin shirt and my short denim skirt. “Hey, baby,” a cute, short-haired jock called across the well of the table, “Come bet with me.” I just returned his look. I gave him no smile, no expression. He tried again, “C’mon. We can both get lucky.”
From the edge of the sunken table, I carried on looking at him while I lifted my fingers to say ‘enough,’ still not smiling. He was cute, though. Then I looked away.
My attention was for the shooter. Tall and lean with a shy look in his dark eyes, he wore a loose blue work shirt open over a tight black tee-shirt. There was a body moving under there, muscle rolling. On his slim, cocked hips, his jeans had a thick black leather belt with a big metal Harley Davidson logo for a buckle.
Bright eyed with a smart look on his pretty face, all I wanted to know was, would he do it, would he make the next roll? Then the next. Then the next.
Before he threw, he held the dice in a deliberate clamp between his fingers and thumb. His movements were slow and careful. The thrill in the pit of my stomach buzzed at a higher pitch. I had come at a good time.
This shooter wasn’t grey and ordinary. He wasn’t someone who would just roll with no idea what he was doing. When the dice hit the inside wall at my end of the table then bounced back, the result wasn’t going to be a mystery to him.
It could be a total shock, or it might be exactly what he’d have thrown for, but he wasn’t going to shrug and say, “Yuk! Who knew?”
Either this kid knew what he was doing and I could make a few bets with him and win, or he was fooling himself. Then I could collect by betting against him.
As long as I could keep a clear head in the noise and remember all the odds, this was good timing for me. ‘There’s just one thing to know at the craps table,’ Daddy had said, more than once in my hearing, ‘and that’s when to leave.’ Another thing he said often, but never often enough that he’d hear it himself.
The shooter prepared to throw and the men all clustered tight around the table. A sturdy male body pressed tight from behind against me. His hard hips pushed into my soft ass cheeks. The heat of testosterone rose. My teeth pulled at the inside of my cheek and I was feeling energized.
At the far end of the table the gangly, slightly geeky thrower was getting ready to roll. Shouts of numbers, “Ten the hard way!” “Two twos. Come on!” went up.
His mop of light brown hair bobbed and he kept his face low. His dark brown eyes were steady. I knew to watch at least one roll before I made a bet, but my urge to bet with him was strong.
The croupier’s stick waved over the huddle like an orchestra conductor’s baton. The ‘ON’ button was on the table, and it was on the ten. If the shooter hit a ten before he rolled a seven, ‘Pass’ bets would win. More calls and shouts crossed the table.
“Kid ain’t going to make it.”
“Sure he is. Snake eyes! This roll, I guarantee it.”
“Go on, shooter. Roll ’em. Get it out there.”
His throw was low, slow and controlled. Before the red and blue dice left his hand Belle wished she had bet on him. When the dice sprung off my end of the table, they dropped lazily back without a bounce. Textbook. A three and a one. Shouts exploded all around the table. It was hard to see who had lost and who won. Men leaned over the edge of the pit to slide little stacks of chips in every direction.
He picked the dice up for the next throw and his eyes flicked swiftly up at me as he blew across the top sides. A low, muffled thud shook me deep in my core. The urge to bet now was tense and strong. How long would his luck hold before the inevitable seven slew him? Three rolls? Five? It could just as easily have been this one, thought as the dice fell with two threes.
I had to take the shot while it was there. If I was going to stand any chance of getting what I needed, I wouldn’t do it by watching with my tiny amount of money stashed in my purse. I caught the croupier’s fast eye and asked him for fifteen dollars in chips. My whole stake for the night.
My heart was in my mouth as I put two five-dollar chips on ‘Pass,’ for my first ever bet. As I laid the two chips down, the shooter’s sparkling hazel eyes locked on mine and my breath caught. My ‘Pass’ bet would win and pay even money if he didn’t hit a seven before he made his point by rolling a ten.
Players all around shoved and moved chips in fast sweeps around the table. Before I took my hand off my chips on ‘Pass,’ I looked back up to the croupier. He made a minute nod to say that he registered the bet. I felt like I was getting my feet on the ground here.
The shooter’s brown eyes peered at me over his hand as he blew on the dice again for the roll. The little shiver of thrill trickled down to my crotch.
“Ten to make the point,” the croupier called, and waved his stick. My bet was fixed. Carefully and slowly he threw. The shouts began as soon his pointed fingers spread to release the dice and they curved gracefully towards the wall at the back of the table. I bobbed my head to peer through the waving arms and see where the dice had fallen.
Three Hitmen: A Triple Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 2) Page 25
