Twisted Tales of Mayhem

by Sapphire Knight

  "Because dickhead on two wheels said it would be a good idea," Deacon goaded, grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge. He may have called his best friend a dickhead, but that didn't mean he wouldn't get him a beer, or roll down the window to hand it to him. And that was how it had been between them.

  A fight with respect.

  In the lot of the club, Sal yanked the bike up to the limo and chugged back the beer. Handing the empty bottle to his friend, he looked solemn.

  Deacon knew everything wasn't right with Sal. Years of loss had taken its toll as he acted lost and kept a safe distance from everyone. He used to be the life of the party.

  While some of Sal’s new calm attributed to a natural maturity, there was a silence that worried Deacon. Perhaps they weren't as far apart as everyone assumed. Sal would always be the first person Deacon took a beating or a bullet for. Some things never changed; they only shifted with the erosion of time.

  "Be good," Deacon warned, clasping his fingers over Sal's as he took the bottle. "Don't make me come beat your ass."

  "Nevah!"

  And with that Sal disappeared in a race against the very clock which seemed to haunt him so. With his dead wife's plans in action, it was Sal who took the brunt of the pain. Not only did the fallout of her death chase him with every step, but the pieces of the puzzle she constructed with the precision of a master manipulator still controlled his every action.

  Uncertain if he could live with himself if something happened to Sal, Deacon hopped out of the limo. "We'll meet you there." He tapped on the hood of the limo and winked at Dom.

  Driving across town, Sal flew through the backroads to the house they had constructed, and shortly after that, he visited her grave. He knelt, praying for guidance as the chaos overwhelmed him. Without a sound, Deacon watched on from a distance.

  The grand fallen angel stood before Sal as he glanced up at the flowers and gifts people had placed for his beloved Kaci Mae Hope Raniero. Chimes fluttered as the sun sank into the horizon and he knew, this was no place for him in the night. Darkness followed him everywhere, and lingering within its grasp at the cemetery would only lead to a trail of bad decisions.

  For which, he had made plenty.

  Sliding his phone out of his jacket, he wanted to call his long-lost lover just to hear her voice. But what good would that do?

  He fought to keep Iris out of harm's way for three years. Contacting her now only assured one thing, he would have to take full responsibility for her safety. He could do it. He had the training and skills, but it wasn't about that. The only reason he couldn't call was the unknown element—the spiritual ghost of necessity and focus. If something happened to her on his watch, it would be the end—the last drop of any remaining sanity he had.

  So, he did what he always did.

  Saying a prayer, he formed the sign of the cross and dusted off his knees and walked away.

  Because running was much easier than losing.

  * * *

  "Holy shit," Alex muttered at the enormous crowd of women outside the doors. "Is it like this every weekend?"

  Jack snickered. "No, it's like this every night but Monday. We're closed."

  "You own it?"

  "Nah, I have a couple of silent partners." His blue eyes landed on Dom. "They haven't seen it since the restoration from the fire."

  Joe asked, "You…own this?"

  "No, actually Jack, Deacon, Sal, and I own this," Dom replied, sipping his whiskey.

  "I don't have to ask why—that reason is clear as fucking day," Joe replied, stretching to see the crowd. "Cold hard cash."

  Dom snickered. "Which is exactly why we are headed there tonight—money. We're considering opening a few other select locations and wanted to know if any of you are interested in investing."

  Randy and his son, Joe, offered contemplative looks as Alex stared out the window.

  "I'm in," Dale said, swigging back the rest of his beer. "Anything you boys want."

  "I'll invest with my holdings firm," Abel said, thoughtfully. "It's not good for the image."

  "You better win this year," Dale teasingly chided the baseball player. "Cause last year was damn impressive."

  "Thank you." Abel nodded. "I try."

  "I'll do the same," Alex remarked with a smile. "But first, I'm getting married."

  Assessing the groom and pro-quarterback, Dale retorted, "You better have a good season, too."

  "Is there a reason Bleu wanted to get married on Sunday, December 23?" Jack queried as they pulled up to the packed club.

  With a flush to his cheeks, Alex proudly grinned. "She wanted to be in Hawaii on Christmas for our honeymoon."

  Dom questioned, "Who is keeping the kiddo?"

  "I am," Dale said, gleefully. "Mae and Honey are going to have a blast over the next two weeks. Mae isn't used to a playmate. It'll be good for her. And me."

  "Shall we go cause a stir?" Dom boomed as the driver opened the door. Sal stopped the bike right behind them. "You ready for this insanity?"

  "Well, look who made it," Jack said as he gripped his prodigy's hand. "You okay?"

  "As good as I can be,” Sal replied.

  "Just let it go, Kid," Jack insisted before Sal sped off through the parking lot.

  Arriving behind the building, Sal spotted Deacon, getting off his ride. "What the hell? I don't need a babysitter or a chaperone."

  "Bullshit!" Deacon charged, striding towards Sal. "You need a fucking friend!"

  Sal snickered. "If I needed your friendship, you did a fine job of blowing that to smithereens. From the moment I told you I couldn't spend the rest of my life dwelling on the past and pining over Iris Kettles, you resented me.”

  "I'm going to walk away now."

  "Why?" Sal muttered, lighting a smoke. "Too much truth to handle?"

  Closing his eyes, Deacon calmly preached, "Because if I stay here, I'm putting your ass on the ground." He started to move past, but Sal grabbed his shoulder and Deacon swiftly laid his hand on top of it. "I said, we are not doing this. This is not about us. None of it ever was. Not tonight. Not Iris going away. Not the words we have sparred with. This is not about us, Raniero."

  Prepared for a fistfight, Sal dropped his arm with a huff. "Then what is…"

  "Remember the bayou."

  Sal sighed, "Really, bitch? You gonna go bringing that shit up now?"

  Firing up his cigarette, Deacon perched it between his lips as he lifted both middle fingers and swaggered away. "Not tonight, Nero. Not tonight."

  * * *

  The men departed the limo and stepped into the fray as screaming women on either side of the red carpet catcalled over the profound display of man meat.

  The well-known athletes, Abel and Alex, both ducked under their hoodies as the gargantuan red oaf, Dale, escorted them inside. Their celebrity bachelor status made them two of the most desired men in the tabloids. Their entry to the club was handled with care by the seasoned security team and went off without a hitch until Sal walked around the corner and dropped his sunglasses.

  With a devious charm, he smiled and waved, playing up to the crowd. His lesser known status didn't leave him exempt from their adorations. Unless in certain fetish circles, at which point, he was a standout in the community. And as luck would have it, a group of women, fully donned in head to toe leather gear, howled out his name. "Sal!!!"

  Standing near the door, they bounced up and down as he strode over and asked their front woman, "How many of you are there?"

  "Four!"

  "Come on," he said, pulling back the red rope and allowing their entry on his arm.

  "Oh, gosh!" the hungry pack leader gushed and wrapped her arms around his torso.

  He removed himself from her grasp and took her hand as they ran for the entrance. The heavy industrial, pulse-pounding rhythm vibrated the floor as the darkness shrouded around them.

  "What's your name?"

  "I'm Megan!"

  "Well, Megan, it's your lucky night! You'r
e gonna be my date tonight!"

  Her shrill cry echoed throughout the small entryway as she bopped up and down on her toes and excitedly clapped.

  "I'm Sal."

  "I know who you are," she giggled, grinning. "I've been taking classes at Juliet the last two years!"

  "… Really?"

  "Yeah!"

  With a curl of his lips and a spark in his eyes, he flirted, "Maybe you'll be more than my date."

  * * *

  "Where the fuck is Nero?" Deacon said as they reached the table. The swarming club brimmed full of made up dolls, ready for the taking, but Deacon was only searching for one particular doll—and his name was Sal. "I swear he needs a damn leash."

  "You boys having fun tonight?" the skimpily dressed waitress shouted as a group of six dancers took to the stage, and the noise escalated to an uproarious level. "I'm your waitress Glenda!"

  The eight chuckled as only Abel had the balls to speak what everyone else was thinking. "… Are you a good bitch or a bad bitch?"

  "I'm the best damn bitch in the house," she baited with a smile. "So, what can I bring you?"

  "Take care of my boys, and your tip will be double the bill," Dom challenged, locking his fingers together as he considered his order. He adored coming into his investment with no one any the wiser as to who he actually was. By closing time, if Glenda behaved, she wouldn't be a waitress anymore, but a manager in training. And if he were feeling particularly generous, she'd get the privilege of sucking him off. "Let's…"

  "… What the fuck did he do?" Randy interrupted, spotting Sal striding up with the four ladies.

  "Oh no…" Deacon said, standing up and shaking his head. "No, no, no…"

  Dom laughed as Glenda lowered to hear his order. "Let's do four bottles of Cristal and bring a bottle of Jim Beam for trouble over there."

  "Sure thing. Is Dom okay?" The wild party in the aisle drew her attention as she giggled. "Do you want to order from the kitchen?"

  "Dom is fine," Dom snarked, watching Sal dancing with the four ladies. "Thank you."

  The large rectangular table sat up on a platform with a perfect view of the stage, but the back wall booth-style seating offered little movement. Deacon ended up dead center with Abel and Alex on either side of him. "He doesn't get to have all the fun!"

  Shucking his jacket, he stood up on the seat and stepped across the table before jumping into the party of five. "Deacon!" Sal bellowed, lost in the moment of festivity. "Meet Megan! She's taking classes at Juliet."

  "I know you! I gave you a ticket for speeding late one night!"

  "You did!" Megan grinned as they laughed. "Small world huh?"

  "Very!" Deacon smirked and pivoted in next to Sal as Alex and Abel hightailed it over and joined into the growing mosh pit. "I'm going to fucking kill you when this is over."

  "…Why?" Sal yelled, dancing between Deacon and Megan and sliding around to put her in the middle. "Because you are having too much fun? Stop being so stuffy, Sheriff!"

  Propping his hands on Deacon's shoulders, Sal proceeded to do an all-out booty-shaking with the pair. While Deacon hadn't seen this side of Sal in years, his behavior seemed a bit disconcerting, confident the bottom would drop out of the fun at any moment.

  With Megan trapped between them, they ground against her body—arms flailing up and hips bucking in a round of dry humping—as Glenda passed by with their order. Sal snatched his bottle of whiskey off the tray as Deacon quietly concluded there was no hope. Cracking open the top fast, Sal swallowed a generous amount and filled his mouth as he handed it over to Deacon.

  Spinning Megan around to face him, Sal pressed his lips to hers, filling her mouth with the amber liquid. As she gulped it down, he swiped his tongue across hers, and she went full on goo-goo in his arms. With an unexpected move, Deacon did the same but picked her up to straddle him as the pair fought over the charms of the kinky suburban housewife.

  "You're incorrigible, Cruz."

  "That's you, Pretty Boy."

  “Promise me you aren't going to get up on stage and start swinging your dick in front of everyone."

  "That was so four years ago," Sal excused as Megan giggled. “You ready?”

  "Yeah," Deacon agreed, tapping Abel and Alex on the shoulder as Sal pointed to Dom and backstage. Dom nodded and tossed the keys, accepting the whims of his young men, as Deacon snatched his jacket. If they were taking turns on some drooling girl, then at least they weren't killing one another.

  Twisting his ball cap on backward, Alex asked, "Where are we going?"

  "Downstairs," Sal said as he gripped Megan's hand. "You’re coming with me."

  "Yes, Sir."

  The backroom was typically reserved for private bridal showers, but Sal had called his club ahead of time and reserved the spot. He also called a couple of girls from his favorite burlesque show in New Orleans. The naughty strippers from Gina's swiveled and gyrated on the silver equipment.

  "Oh, my fucking God," Alex mumbled, taking sight of the five girls serving up the sensual, provocative acts. "What did you do?"

  "I brought the show to you," Sal boasted as Deacon smiled on. "Enjoy!"

  Alex and Abel wasted no time in taking their seats at front and center. The gorgeous girls were a complete surprise.

  "You love taking care of people," Deacon muttered with a blink to Sal. "Eventually, you need to take care of yourself."

  "That would mean putting myself first," Sal replied, clasping his hands behind his head. "And I've never been very good at that."

  Continuing to view the splendid performance, the athletes ordered drinks with their personal waitress and embarked on a night full of mischief. With a meek voice, Megan whispered, "I could help you. I served seven years in-house and another two under the guidance of Sir Jack at Juliet. I think I'm qualified to assist you."

  Deacon and Sal both glanced with stunned expressions in her direction. "You are Jack's new pupil?"

  With her hands tucked behind her back, Megan offered a cute smile and gracefully lowered to her knees. "I am. And I'd be more than happy to serve you both."

  A quizzical look rose on Sal's face. "Who was your in-house with?"

  "Master Boudreaux."

  Immediately, Sal recognized the name as he even had dinner at their lovely house with Dom many years ago. Deacon studied the conversation between the two as the language of the fetish world was relatively new to him. He didn't have the extensive history either of them did. Despite all the work he had put in during the last three years, he worried about never measuring up to their gold standard. "… House slave?”

  "Yes, Master Raniero."

  "High protocol?"

  "A tad," Megan remarked from her knees. "Not nearly enough for Dom's Dollhouse, or for that matter, you. But I do believe I could show you a good time."

  Deacon stroked his chin as he glanced between the two. "You know, asking her out to dinner is far easier…"

  "Not as much fun," Sal said as Megan blushed. "This is how we scope one another out. Now, if you will hush, I'd like to finish."

  "Are you collared to Jack?"

  "Open," she said, gazing dreamily at the men. "Sir Jack is strictly a handler for me."

  Deacon nudged Sal. "What does that mean?"

  "He only trains her."

  "… Like a horse or a dog handler?"

  "Pretty much," Sal snarled, winking at the girl. "Limits?"

  "Only one," Megan replied, lowering her lashes. "And I'm saving it."

  Deacon raised a brow as Sal muttered, "Anal."

  "You should be interviewing Deacon, not me," Sal prodded with a grin. "The process would do him well."

  Moving closer to Sal, Deacon grabbed his arm and whispered, "Remember what I said about beating your ass?"

  "Mhmm."

  "Twice," Deacon jested as he turned his gaze to Megan and extended his hand. "Let me spank you."

  "I'd be honored," Megan muttered, blushing. "But Master Raniero outranks you."

  Sal l
aughed and lifted his hand as she rose up on her toes. "Follow." Thumping Deacon in the chest, he made a beeline for the door and said, "You too."

  "Just don't expect me to kneel."

  Stopping mid-step, Sal rapidly turned to Deacon and pointed out, "You already did that once, Bayou Boy."

  "Don't fucking remind me."

  * * *

  In the small employee break room, Sal quickly locked the door and rearranged the furniture as Megan waited patiently by the door. "May I do anything?"

  "Take off your clothes."

  Helping Sal fold the tables up, Deacon blinked. "You could at least buy her a drink."

  Sal snickered. "What are you on about? If she's good, I'll buy her a fucking car. Leave one table down and hop up on it."

  Once again, Deacon looked bewildered. He attempted to pay little attention to the naked, attractive girl eagerly waiting for their discipline, but that proved pointless. "… Why?"

  Doffing his jacket, Sal shoved the leather into Deacon's hand as he proceeded to hump against the table. And if that wasn't bizarre enough, he jumped on the table top and bounced around. "Because safety. She gets hurt, that's on me. And when you're rigging a scene out of nothing, you better damn ensure your sub isn't injured because of it."

  Jumping down, Sal searched for tools. He popped a couple of spatulas against his thigh, took a couple of beers, and then tossed a bottle of water from the fridge to the girl, who lowered to her knees. "Drink."

  "Yes, Sir."

  Taking the bottle from Sal's hand, Deacon quizzed, "Do I even want to know?"

  In unison, Sal and Megan both said, "No."

  He checked the freezer for ice cubes and dug through the bottom cabinets only to find a bundle of rope as Megan worked on consuming the bottle of liquid. "It'll work."

  "… You a fighter?"

  "Not generally. The only time I ever exhibited any signs of reckless behavior was with Boudreaux's violet wand fascination."

  "Impressive," Sal complimented, stripping off his Henley. "You play."

  "I have a high pain threshold."

  "… Safeword?"