by Naomi West
I feel the urge to get up and walk away, a reflex I’d usually trust. I force it down. I need to sit here, with this woman I’ve been dreaming about every night for what feels like forever. “Because you’re beautiful,” I say.
She rolls her eyes, smiling. “That’s nice of you to say, but I’m sure you’ve been with a beautiful woman before—not that I’m agreeing with you here.”
“You should agree with me.”
“Fine, fine. But that can’t be the reason for this . . . for whatever this is.”
I think about it, truly think about it, trying to get to the root of it all. Maybe there is some simple concise reason I could offer up, but I can’t find it. All I can think is . . . “You’re Simone. I don’t know. Maybe it’s crazy. I really don’t fucking know. All I know for sure is that I’ve been thinking about you like a madman, and not just the sex. Not even mostly the sex.”
“I’ve been thinking about you, too,” she says, still not looking at me. “And it hasn’t been mostly the sex, either.”
I hold up a slice of pizza. “A toast, then. Here’s to not knowing what the fuck’s going on inside of us.”
She nudges her pizza slice against mine, and we eat.
After we’ve paid up she shyly interlocks her fingers with mine, looking up at me with the same red face, nervous and cute as hell.
“Let me take you somewhere,” I say, gripping her hand firmly, not wanting to let go. “It’s not too far away. You up for a walk?”
“Sure,” she says. “Sounds good.”
Hand in hand, we walk away from the restaurant and toward the Strip. The sun is slowly setting, making the sky orange-red. I have a strange feeling in my chest. It takes me a second to pinpoint it as happiness. Nervous happiness, happiness which I know will soon be taken away when I have to go back to the war. But happiness all the same.
After walking through the city for half an hour, Simone looks up at me. “I don’t want to sound like a little kid,” she says. “But are we there yet?”
“Almost,” I say. “Five more minutes.”
“You’re a tease.” She nudges me in the arm. “You’re an unforgivable, monstrous tease.”
“A tease,” I repeat. “That sounds like a word used to describe a woman.”
“And you’re a sexist!” She laughs, nudging me again. “Tease, tease, tease!”
“Here we are.” I stop outside the building: a tall, skinny structure with the door boarded up.
“Um.” She tilts her head at me. “I said I really did remember the booth, Rocco. I get it if you’re mad, but I don’t know if killing me and hiding me here is the best solution.”
“Ha, ha, ha. This building was sold and then the city found a sewage problem underneath it, so it’s just sitting here.”
“Sewage? We’re here to look at sewage?”
“Simone Ericson, stop asking questions and follow me.”
She snaps a mock salute. “Sir, yes, sir!”
I pull aside the board and lead her up the stairs. It’s dark except for the dim sunlight which shafts through the staircase windows. She hugs close to me as we climb the stairs. Soon we’re at the top, both of us breathing lightly. I open the roof door and take her onto the roof, propping the door open with a brick. The view here is spectacular. From up here, the entire city of Las Vegas looks like nothing more than the tips of glittering fingers, with the desert yawning off in the other direction.
“Wow,” Simone says, standing at the edge of the roof.
“Was the walk worth it?”
“The stars are coming out. I never noticed that before.” She points into the near-dark sky.
“I come here sometimes to think,” I tell her. “Being the president . . . I always feel so big. They’re always people coming to me with problems and questions. Standing up here I feel like just a man. Small and not so important, you know?”
“I know,” she says, turning to me. “I understand completely.” She hops up onto the edge of the roof, sitting down.
I dart forward, wrapping my arms around her. “What’re you doing? Be careful!”
She lays her forehead against my chest. “This,” she says. “Getting you over here.”
I hold her tighter, pulling her close to me. “You’re a fuckin’ devil.”
“This is why I didn’t want any wine,” she says. “I needed to know . . .”
“Know what?”
“If it felt as good sober.”
I lift her up, driving my groin into hers, the soft fabric of my suit pants showing clearly how badly I want her. My cock aches, my balls throbbing with desire. She grinds up and down against my cock, her dress riding up to her hips. “It does,” she moans. “It really, really does.”
“I’ve wanted you for months now,” I growl, setting her down on the floor and moving my hand up her bare leg, her thigh getting warmer the higher up I go, the promise that her pussy will be the warmest of all. “If I start, I won’t be able to stop. You’re too damn perfect.”
She grabs my cock through my pants. “I won’t be able to stop either.”
As I yank down her underwear, the stars come out.
Chapter Fifteen
Simone
I wake up on the roof hugging close to Rocco. We slept completely intertwined together, our arms twisted as though tied into a knot and our legs overlapping. I disentangle myself and stand up, clicking my neck from side to side. My body aches from sleeping on the stone floor with only the blanket Rocco found downstairs for comfort. But the view makes up for it. There’s nothing so surreal as seeing the Strip in daylight.
“Let me take you home,” Rocco says in my ear, his breath causing tingles to move up and down my body.
“Okay,” I say, turning and kissing him quickly on the cheek. “That sounds good.”
I can’t look at him, I realize. It’s not like the shyness that stopped me from looking at him yesterday. It’s something else. Shame, perhaps. Because I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again after tonight. It’s a cruel thought to be having right now, as I hug close to him in the creepy stairwell, but it’s a thought I can’t ignore. Just because we had sex again—incredible sex, pussy-aching sex—it doesn’t mean all of our problems miraculously disappear. He’s still the leader of a biker gang, I’m still who I am, and Cecilia’s grief is still a testament of what this life can lead to.
“You’re quiet,” Rocco says as the cab drives away from the Strip toward my apartment building.
“Just tired,” I say.
“Me too.” He leans his head back, looking up at the ceiling. “Fun night, though.”
“Oh, yes. It was a great night.” I can’t deny that.
We climb from the cab. As Rocco is paying the driver, I notice his bike across the street, visible now in the alleyway with the sun slanting down at it. Rocco approaches me. I fall into his chest as we hug, closing my eyes and savoring this moment. I wish I could look at things simply now. We had sex sober, which means I like him. Clearly, I like him. And yet I can’t shake the idea that this is wrong.
Rocco must sense something off about me, because when he breaks off the hug he looks at me like he doesn’t know who I am. I feel my heart breaking a little, and then chastise myself for being melodramatic. I need to face reality, I need to get this in perspective . . . But knowing something and acting on it are radically different. He opens his mouth—“When will I see you next?”—and then closes it without saying anything. Turning away, he makes for his bike.
“Rocco!” I call.
He stops, half-turns.
“It was nice seeing you,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “It was good seeing you, too.”
For a second, we both just stand there, remembering the rooftop sex, which was just as wild and frantic as the sex in the booth. We tore at each other, months of dreams unleashing on each other. My knees ache from where I knelt. Then Rocco crosses the street and climbs onto his bike.
I go into my apartment building, clim
bing the stairs with a heavy feeling in my chest. I’ve been thinking about him for months and this is how I behave? I want to dash downstairs and scream at him to stop, tell him I want him and only him, tell him I’m done with this confusion nonsense.
But I don’t do that. Instead I go into my apartment and drop onto the couch, glad for something comfy to lie on, and stare up at the ceiling. I wring my hands, squeezing them and then letting them go, trying to work this out. I try and list all the things I know about this man, but the list is short. I’ve only met with him a handful of times. I shouldn’t even care. I should be able to let it go just like that, and yet I can’t. And yet he haunts me. And yet even now, the memory of his cock is a hard rod of pleasure inside of me. I toy with my clit, thinking of how his calloused finger pressed into it last night. I want him again.
I fall asleep and wake at midday, annoyed with myself. I’ve been working freelance in the city on some accounts for MGM, using the contact I made when I interned. I shower quickly and then head into my office, a tiny room at the top of a building comprised mainly of rented office space.
As I drive, and ride the elevator, and walk through the too-bright office, I try not to think of Rocco. But my nipples ache. My head aches. Everything aches with the thought of him. He’s been at war. That phrase shouldn’t turn me on. I’m not that kind of girl. But it does turn me on. I’ve never met a man who’s lived dangerously before. I’ve met with sons of Mom and Dad’s friends who’ll talk for hours about their just-spectacular skydiving experience, who’ll bore me for hours on end with photographs and you-should’ve-been-theres, but never a man like Rocco, a man who makes me feel safe just by being close to him. If a bugler attacked, I’d rather have Rocco at my side over anybody else.
But that’s the contradiction, I reflect. I feel safe when I’m with Rocco because he’s dangerous, but I can’t be with him because I know he’s dangerous and anything could happen. I sit at my desk, massaging my temples, groaning. This whole thing is a giant mess. Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to go out with him last night to begin with.
I try and push Rocco aside as I focus on my work. When I finally start to sink into the flow of it, I’m glad. It means I don’t have to think. I work straight through until around nine in the evening, stopping only to order some food. The office building is empty as I make for the elevator, stretching out my arms.
I think I’ve got Rocco out of my mind until I climb into my driver’s seat, but then he resurfaces. His sweating body, his writhing hips, his hands gripping me . . . I start the engine and join the light traffic.
That’s when I notice him, a man wearing a mask in the car behind me. I grip the steering wheel harder. My heart pounds frantically. I swallow, but my mouth is dry. I tell myself he’s going to a party. But he’s wearing a plain black mask. Nothing festive about it at all. I wave at him to pass me. He pulls forward, his bumper almost hitting my rear. Gasping, I drive without thinking where I’m going.
The man keeps following me, driving close. I go west, not wanting to go home for some reason. I can’t think. All I want is for this man to get away from me. “Call Rocco,” I tell my phone.
“Calling Rocco . . .”
The phone rings as the Rainbow Forest appears on the fringes of the road ahead of me. How long have I been driving? The man’s a few cars back, but I haven’t lost him. Horrible, terrifying thoughts go through my head as the phone rings, rings, rings. It goes to voicemail. “Rocco, I’m being followed. I’m at the . . .”
I tell him the name of the street, not knowing what the hell I’m doing. I’ve never been in a situation like this before.
I round a corner and then say, “Dial 911.”
My phone’s dutiful robotic voice says, “Dialing 911.”
Then the man appears behind me. We’re the only two on the road.
“911, what’s your emergency—”
The man takes a gun from the glove box, aims it out of the window.
“Help! Help!” I scream.
The gun fires. My car jolts. And then I’m spinning over and over, metal crashing all around me.
Chapter Sixteen
Rocco
When I see it’s a missed call from Simone, I almost don’t listen to the voicemail. Twice now, she’s pushed me away. Twice now, she’s left me standing there like some prick after I thought we were good. Twice now, I’ve felt like a piece of dirt when only a few hours before we were closer than I’ve ever been to anybody. I think about the sex, panting and wild on the rooftop, how I wished it could last forever.
I sit at my desk and put my phone on loud speaker, dialing voicemail. Maybe I am some prick because I can’t leave the message there unanswered. “Rocco, I’m being followed. I’m at the Rainbow Forest. Rainbow Wilderness. Whatever it’s called! The address of the street, wait a sec . . .” She breathes heavily. I imagine her twisting her head to read the street name, probably hidden behind some leaves. She reads the name out. “Please, I’m scared . . . please!”
I’m on my feet and out the door in a second, charging across the parking lot and jumping onto my bike. I start the engine and speed toward the forest, silently cursing her for not just going home. I know what happened. It’s the same thing that happens to everybody who isn’t used to this sort of shit. She panicked. She panicked because she’s never had to deal with this sort of situation before, the kind of situation most club members deal with before their sixteenth birthday.
My palms hurt from gripping the handlebars so hard. I push 100, 120, weaving through the traffic and cutting red lights. I almost get hit three times but I don’t give a damn. Simone is somewhere being hounded by Crooked Demon. There’s no doubt in my mind that it’s a Crooked Demon. Who the fuck else would follow her like this?
I get to the street in ten minutes, finding it deserted except for an empty jeep and Simone’s car, which is on its side. I jump from my bike without even kicking the stand, running to the car as my bike collapses behind me. I climb the side of the car and look down, hoping to see Simone and yet not wanting to see her. Just like with Shotgun, I can’t think of Simone like this. Last night she was naked, kissing, writhing, moaning, and now . . .
She’s not in the car. I step back and examine the scene, pushing my emotions far down. I’m on a job, I tell myself. It’s a job like I’ve been on hundreds of times before. A few drops of blood, shattered glass, branches snapped on this side of the road—I read all the signs.
They’re in the forest. The bastard chased her into the forest. I check my holster, making sure my pistol’s secure, and then sprint past the snapped branches, praying that Simone isn’t dead.
I can’t lose her. I just can’t.
Chapter Seventeen
Simone
“Who are you?” I pant, knowing if I scream he’ll hit me again.
My mouth throbs from the last time he hit me. My body isn’t in too much pain except from my mouth and my arm. I try to make a fist but I can’t, not fully, just a pitiful half-fist. The masked man drags me by the shoulder through the forest, walking quickly with his gun hanging at his side. There’s something off about his breathing, about the way he takes big, deep breaths and then lets them out all shaky.
“Don’t speak to me,” he whispers. He sounds like somebody on drugs, over-excited.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Demons, Demons, Demons,” he mutters in the same spasmodic way. “Are we Demons, really, are we? Tell me, are we Demons? We’re pussyfooting. That’s the problem. Pussyfooting around our problems. Waiting for somebody else to solve ’em. No way, not me. Not me. I solve my own problems. I’m a problem-solver. Don’t speak to me. Slut, cunt-slut. You’re all the same. You’ll take it like a whore. I know you will. You always do in the end. Beg me to come. Beg, beg, and then afterwards lie and say it was ’cause you wanted it over. No way. You want my spunk. You all want my spunk.”
He digs his fingernails into my shoulder, hard. I wince, but don’t scream. I remember the way he t
urned on me the last time I screamed, savagely and without any hesitation, smacking me with his pistol.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
“I said don’t talk to me!” he snaps, but he doesn’t make to hit me again, just keeps dragging me deeper and deeper into the forest. I struggle to step over the fallen log as he drags me.
I stumble, fall to my knees. He turns on me, tilting his head like he’s deciding if this is a good enough place. My blood is cold, my heart feeling too light, like it could float away. I have to stop him, or delay him at least. This can’t be happening. Why did I drive toward the forest? I curse myself for my idiocy. I should’ve . . . No, should’ve won’t help me now.
