Authors: SD Hildreth
AVERY
I had no idea why Axton
really
came by and picked me up, and I didn’t care. Sloan was right; being on the bike was like riding a huge vibrator. I was in some strange state of ecstatic heaven, and we were flying down the road toward who knows where. Nothing I had done to date could compare to riding on the motorcycle. The fact I was on it with Axton made it immeasurably better.
“You alright” he asked over his shoulder as we slowed down for a stop sign.
I rested my chin on his shoulder and breathed into his ear, “Yeah, I’m perfect.”
“So where’s your favorite place to relax” he asked.
I wondered why he would ask such a thing. Maybe he wanted to talk or get to know me a little more. I really didn’t want him to stop riding the motorcycle. Not ever. I was feeling a strange sense of freedom as we rolled down the road; it was as if absolutely nothing else mattered. There were no worries of graduation, no inconsiderate parents, and no feelings of inadequacy about my boyish body. As the road rushed upon us, there was nothing between me and the entire earth except the wind which hadn’t hit my face yet. Since I was a child, I’ve dreamed of flying like a bird, and now I knew what it was like; because I was doing it. I wanted to throw my hands in the air and scream, but I didn’t dare.
“The park where you come into town,” I responded.
He nodded his head slightly and twisted the throttle. I pressed my thighs into his, holding on tighter as he accelerated. I would absolutely love being a biker bitch. I closed my eyes and smiled.
What a rush.
As he slowed down and turned into the park, I exhaled. I felt as if I’d been holding my breath for the entire ride, but I knew I hadn’t. Excited for what had happened, and disappointed we were stopping, I began to feel excited about sitting with Axton in my favorite place. Without a doubt, at minimum, he’d have to give me a ride home; so this wasn’t over yet. He pulled into a parking spot beside a picnic table, turned the bike to face outward, and stopped. He switched off the engine and told me to get off. I carefully lifted my leg over the rear fender, being careful not to drag my foot over it. I didn’t want to give him any reason not to want to do this again. As I stood beside motorcycle, I saw it and Axton in an entirely different light. Rightfully so or not, I felt as if I had become a part of it all.
The experience.
Being a biker.
Ten minutes, and I was transformed.
He kicked down the stand and got off the bike. He looked at me, and smiled his little smirk of a smile, “You enjoy it?”
It was difficult to explain. I fucking loved it. I never wanted to ride in a car again. I assumed he knew and would completely understand, but I didn’t want to babble like my normal self. I inhaled a shallow breath, exhaled half of it, and responded as best I could, considering my level of excitement.
“Saying I enjoyed it doesn’t do the experience any justice,” I said as I admired the motorcycle.
“Good, it’d be disappointing if you hated it.”
I shifted my eyes toward Axton and smiled, “So what’s up?”
His bicep flexed as he reached for his rubber band and stretched it tight, “We need to talk.”
I took the few steps to the picnic table and sat down. Standing and staring at Axton was nice, but standing in front of me, he was a little intimidating. Sitting down was better. I wondered what he wanted to talk about, or what I might have done to cause him to be disappointed with me. Certainly if he was disappointed, he wouldn’t have picked me up and taken me for a ride. As he walked around the bike and to the table, I watched his sexy stride as if hypnotized. He stopped a few feet in front of the table and looked down at me as he removed his sunglasses.
“I’m gonna cut right to it. We need to have a serious talk. I need something from you. I’ll explain what I need, and then you can give me your thoughts. Sound good?” he asked.
I nodded my head eagerly.
As a little girl, whenever my parents said we needed to
have a talk,
I knew it was something serious. Whether or not it was serious to me, they always believed it to be. Those types of talks, as a kid, always seemed to make me feel uneasy. Immediately prior to the talk, and during, I felt as if my stomach was full of butterflies. I spent the entire time as I waited for the talk wondering what the subject was going to be, or what mistake I had made in trying to live my life. Feeling uneasy and nervous until the talk was over, my mind would become an overflowing mess of ideas on what the topic might be. As he stood over me, I felt as if I was a little girl again.
He crossed his arms and studied me.
“Do you speak Spanish?” he asked blankly.
That’s weird.
I nodded my head, “Yeah.”
“Fluently?’ he asked.
Okay, that’s still weird.
I looked up at him and narrowed my eyes, “Very.”
“Alright. I’m going to tell you something. You may or may not be comfortable with what I say or what I ask of you, but no matter what, you can’t discuss this conversation with anyone.
Ever.
If you do…” he hesitated and reached toward my face.
His hand gripped my jaw lightly. As he lifted my chin and turned my face to meet his, he continued, “Well, you just can’t. Is that understood?”
Oh God, you just made me wet.
I nodded my head and swallowed the lump which had risen in my throat, “Yes, I understand.”
Having his hand on my face was exciting in itself. Hearing him tell me secrets made me immediately uncomfortable. The good kind of
I’m excited
uncomfortable. I crossed my legs, looked up, and smiled. For a short moment, he stared into my eyes.
I mean it Axton, please believe me.
He released my chin and began to pace back and forth, “Here’s what I’ve got. The club is selling a shipment of
legal
firearms to a group of Mexicans who can’t speak English very fucking good. Otis and I are doing the deal. I need you to be the interpreter. I may not need you to say anything at all, or I may. I have no way of knowing. But I’d rather have you there and not need you than be there, need you, and have nothing. And, nobody in the club speaks God damned Spanish. So, what do you say?”
Holy shit. Seriously?
A gun deal with a biker gang and a bunch of Mexicans who can’t speak English.
Fuck yeah I want to do it.
I stood from my seat, “Are they legal US citizens?”
“How the fuck would I know? They’re fucking Mexicans, Avery. I
doubt
it,” he shrugged.
I raised my hands to my cheeks and thought. I didn’t want to embarrass him or make him feel as if I was some smart-assed college girl. Quietly and calmly, I explained my understanding of the law, “Well, you put emphasis on the fact the firearms were legal. Selling
legal
firearms doesn’t make the
transaction
legal. If they’re not US citizens, it’s a Federal crime.”
He wrinkled his brow and looked at me as if I were insane, “According to
who
?”
I closed my eyes and thought. I had done a paper on gun laws my junior year when we were studying law. I had always been fascinated by firearms, and having recently received my concealed carry permit, my fascination with firearms was rekindled. I inhaled a deep breath, opened my eyes, and explained.
“Well, according to the Federal Government.
The Gun Control Act makes it unlawful for certain categories of persons to ship, transport, receive, or possess firearms. Transfers of firearms to any such prohibited persons are also unlawful. Eighteen USC nine twenty-two ‘G’ is the law
.”
He stopped pacing, “Fucking Feds. You sure?”
“Positive. I did a paper on it last year. But the law’s kind of thin in some respects. There’s case law to support a person’s knowledge and intent. If you sell the firearms
knowing
the recipient or recipients are illegal aliens, you’re fucked. If you sell them, and the recipient
is
an illegal alien, and you didn’t
know
it before hand, you’re fine. It’s stupid, but it’s the law,” I shrugged.
“So, as long as I don’t
know
, we’re alright?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s grey. But yeah,” I nodded.
Holy shit, this is exciting. Illegal gun deals with Mexicans. If they’re the guys who wear the plaid shirts buttoned at the top, khaki pants, and have tattoos on their necks, that’d be even more exciting.
He turned his palms up and shrugged his shoulders again, “Well, fuck. I didn’t know that. It’s good to know. I appreciate it. I guess I didn’t realize a Criminal Justice degree required you study law.”
Pleased I could offer something, I simply stood and smiled.
He pulled his knife from his pocket, flicked out the blade, and began picking at his fingernails, “Well, I don’t
know
shit about these fuckers. And I guess I don’t want to. Hell, they may all be US citizens, but I won’t ask. So, what do you think? You in or you out?”
As he looked down at his hand and drug the blade of his knife under each fingernail, I studied him. Standing there with one knee slightly bent, wearing jeans, a white wife beater, boots, and his biker vest, he was hot as absolute fuck. The thought of him doing illicit gun deals only added to it, making him even more attractive to me. He was a true bad boy in all respects. Fuck yeah,
I was in.
I considered trying to make a deal with him; possibly negotiating a summer full of motorcycle rides, letting me suck his cock, or having him bend me over the park bench and giving me some biker cock in trade for my translation services. After a moment, I came back to reality. With Axton, doing this for him with no expectation or type of agreed upon payment would go much further.
With him, it was about
earning
respect.
I decided maybe I’d split the difference and play with the words I’d used earlier, at my apartment. After all, I did win the stand-off in the doorway after I said it.
I pushed my hands into the back pockets of my shorts, and twisted my hips, “You tell me what you want, Axton. I’ll do it. I told you that. It’s pretty simple. You want this? You need me to do it?”
He folded his knife, clipped it into his jeans pocket, and stared at me. Without looking down, he reached for the rubber band, and snapped it twice really hard.
Fuck yes. I knew it. Stand there and think about fucking me, you gorgeous bad boy biker.
As he rubbed his thumb into his wrist, he responded, “Well, I wouldn’t have fucking asked ya if I didn’t.”
“
I’m in.
Fuck yes, I am. Anything you need, Axton. And don’t think I’m saying that in a naïve schoolgirl kind of way. But if you need it, I’ll do it. I don’t know why, but I will. And what you said before about keeping this between us? Yeah, we don’t need to go over that again; I have your best interest at heart. So yeah, I’ll do it, and I’ll keep it quiet. When is this going to happen?”
He smiled his shitty little smile, “Saturday. Nine o’clock at night, in the barrio in Wichita.”
“Sounds good,” I grinned as I twisted my hips back and forth.
He turned away from me, and began to walk away. After a few steps, he turned and looked over his shoulder, “You eat yet?”
“Nope,” I lied.
“You like Pho?’ he asked as he got on the bike.
I had eaten Pho in Wichita with Sloan several times. According to her, it was the only cure for a hangover. There was nowhere to eat it in Winfield, however.
“I Pho-king love it,” I chuckled, “but there’s nowhere in this town to get it.”
“You got a curfew?” he laughed as he flipped the switch on the handlebar with his thumb.
“Nope.”
He pressed the button and started the bike. As the engine began to roar, he hollered over his shoulder, “Get on. Let’s go eat.”
I twisted my hips again, curled up the corner of my mouth in a half-assed smile, and pulled my hands from my pockets.
Whatever you say, Axton. Whatever you say.
AXTON
We pulled the Ryder rental truck into to the poorly lit parking lot. A single street light illuminated the far corner of the parking lot which was approximately 200 feet square. The three other lights in the corners appeared to have been shot out at some point in time. The concrete bases for the parking lot lights remained, but the poles and the wiring were either removed or stolen at some point in time. Considering the neighborhood, my guess was they’d been stolen.
“Looks like the place, huh Slice?” Otis breathed as he slowed the van to a five mile an hour roll.
“Yeah, at least there’s only one truck. I wonder where they’re going to put these motherfuckers?” I asked as I attempted to focus on the truck positioned under the lamp post.
Thankfully, they had parked under the light. Regardless of who they were, it made me feel more comfortable they had good
intentions
. Otis had a .45 caliber Colt 1911 in a holster under his left armpit, and I carried a Glock .45 caliber. Luckily, the weather had cooled almost twenty-five degrees from the previous week, and the jackets we wore to conceal the guns didn’t look out of place. I didn’t expect they would anticipate us doing a gun deal for sixty grand without being armed, but out of what little respect I had for these guys, concealing the firearms was a small show of faith.
Avery sat quietly between Otis and me, and stared straight ahead. As we rolled alongside the truck, it was obvious two men in what appeared to be their late twenties or early thirties were seated inside. Both were clearly Mexicans.
“Remember, stand on my left, so I can hear you alright. I can’t hear that well out of my right ear. Let me try and do this deal, and if they don’t speak as good as we need them to, I’ll just tell you what to tell them, and you tell me what they say in response. Understood?” I asked.
She hadn’t said three words on the entire forty minute trip from Winfield to the north side of Wichita. Now, truly in the middle of bean town, we were in a parking lot a mile from any other real civilization. Without a doubt, they had chosen this location due to the lack of vehicular traffic and the lack of law enforcement patrol. Cops really didn’t come to this part of town unless they were called.
“Understood,” she responded.
“You alright?” I asked.
She clutched her purse with her right hand, and responded, “I’m good.”
“Showtime,” Otis said as he put the van into park.
As Otis opened the door and stepped out, I did the same. The two men stepped out of the truck, and the driver smiled, revealing a gold tooth. Both men appeared to be unarmed, dressed in wife beaters and what seemed to be freshly pressed khaki pants. The driver had a number thirteen tattooed on his left temple. The passenger had a large MS-13 tattooed on his neck, across his Adam’s apple. Incapable of being able to deny any gang affiliation, they were both were covered in what seemed to be either prison tats or something one of their members did in the garage.
“Jew must be Otis and Slice. They call me Chapas and theeese is Gato. Who’s the girl?” the driver asked in a thick accent.
Well, fuck. Seems you speak English just fine.
“She’s my interpreter. El Palõn said you didn’t speak English very well,” I nodded.
“He don’t speak English for sheet. I work in this sheet-hole seety. I don’t have no choices,” he grinned as he tossed his head toward the passenger.
The passenger stood stone faced and stared.
Avery stepped to my left side and stood quietly. I inhaled a shallow breath through my nose, surveyed the lot for any movement, and opened my arms in a gesture toward the driver.
“Well, we’ve got your inventory in the van. Ten crates of ten. They’re packaged for movement without any damage. It’s sixty grand even, best price you’ll find on the street. Let’s do this deal before anyone decides to come up here and see what we’re doing. So, we good?” I asked.
The driver nodded his head once and whispered to the other man. The passenger turned and walked to the truck, opened the door, and removed a small Mexican blanket rolled into a rectangular bundle. I watched intently as he unfolded the blanket and pointed at bills which appeared to be wrapped in cellophane.
I nodded my head.
He folded the blanket over the money and handed it to Otis.
“So, jew fuckers cold, or just wearing your coats to hide your pistolas?” the driver chuckled.
“You want me to answer that?” I laughed.
“No, eets all good,” he nodded.
“Pull jore truck around to my truck and we’ll unload these fuckers,” he said as he nodded toward the van.
“Otis, back that fucker up to his tailgate, make it tight. We’ll slide those fuckers in there and get the fuck out of here,” I said under my breath.
“Got it, Slice,” Otis responded.
I gripped Avery’s upper arm and guided her to the side. Otis started the van and slowly maneuvered it within a few feet of the rear of the truck. After the driver lowered the tailgate of the truck, I guided Otis back until the back of the van and the truck were almost touching. I unlocked the sliding door of the van and slid it upward.
The driver slapped his hand against the bed of the truck. The passenger jumped inside like he’d been trained. I laughed to myself as I made a mental note that he must have been the Mexican equivalent to a Prospect.
“You want to open one of these?” I asked as I motioned to the crates.
“No eets all good. El Pelón says jore homie Corndog is good people. If El Pelón is good, I’m good. Jore not going to fuck us eenyway,” he grinned.
“We’re in the gun business. I sold these fuckers cheap to build a relationship with your boss. Hopefully, we’ll do more business,” I said as I hoisted myself into the rear of the truck.
I pointed beside the Mexican’s truck, “Just stand at the front of the truck and smile, Avery. We’ll be done in a minute.”
She smiled and nodded her head without speaking. I was surprised at her demeanor. She didn’t appear to be nervous, nor was she overly talkative. The thought of having an outsider in the middle of this deal made me initially feel uncomfortable. The fact she was a woman made me even more uneasy as the day approached. But now that we were almost done with it, I was pleasantly surprised at her ability to remain quiet, not be annoying, and stay out of the way.
“Otis get back here and help me,” I grunted as I slid a crate toward the rear of the van.
As Otis peered inside, I explained, “I’ll slide ‘em to the back of the van, you slide ‘em to him. He can have his partner pull ‘em into the bed of the truck.”
“Got it, Slice,” Otis nodded as he jumped into the van.
We unloaded nine of the crates. Surprisingly, they all fit in the back of the truck. As I reached for the last wooden box and began to pull it to the rear of the van, I heard a vehicle. It was tough to tell from inside the van, but the exhaust was loud, and it was accelerating rapidly. For a moment I considered it may be on the adjacent road that led to the parking lot, but I didn’t need to speak Spanish to know the jabber from the two Mexicans in the back of the truck wasn’t one of joy.
“Fuck!” Otis said as he reached the back of the van.
Standing at the front of the dark van with my face covered in sweat, I couldn’t see shit. I hustled to the rear of the van to get a glimpse of what was going on, and my vision became perfectly clear. A completely different Mexican was pointing what appeared to be a Street Sweeper shotgun into the back of the van.
He began screaming shit at us in Spanish.
“Don’t move, Otis. This beaner’s got a fucking Street Sweeper. That cocksucker will cut us in two if he starts shootin’,” I said sternly as I raised my hands slowly.
This was a fucking set-up.
Without responding, Otis took two steps toward the rear of the van and raised his hands to his sides. The Mexican continued to scream.
Obviously you have no fucking idea who you’re fucking with, do you boy?