Two Hitmen: A Double Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 1) (79 page)

Intricate tattoo art on his strong neck slips down the muscles inside his black work shirt. On the back of his cut-off leather motorcycle jacket is a large emblem with a dagger and lots of red. I don’t catch what it says around the outside of it. The bike jacket has big zippers and buckles and even with no sleeves it looks like it weighs about as much as I do. He lopes over to the bar, loose-limbed in denim baggies, orders a bourbon and talks to the barkeeper. Leaning at the bar, his ass is a miracle.

He was cool in high school, three years above me, and he graduated from pretty cool to face-melting hot. That ass. The word was that he was pretty high up in the local motorcycle club, too. Thrillingly dangerous. The way that I looked in high school, I had the best shoes, the best clothes, the coolest makeup, I had all the money. But I was under a couple of layers of puppy fat. I look a whole lot better now.

My kick-ass leather waistcoat has tassels on the big sliver buckles, and it’s open over a white cotton shirt with a tall collar. The shirt is open most of the way, exposing my black lace bra as it struggles to contain my hefty, heaving beauties. Sinuous Thai silver chains lay across the tops of my breasts, so you don’t miss when they rise and fall.
 

Sheer dark gunmetal nylon sheaths my long legs, with a tiny tight black leather mini skirt, a couple of tassels each side for added interest. Black lacy tops of the hold-ups peek out just below the hem of the little skirt. The huge Mexican silver buckle on the wide black belt is low and loose on the sheen of leather stretched over the curve of my stomach. Short black Spanish hand-made cowboy boots with embroidery and raised heels help to focus and maintain attention on my calves and thighs.

Along the bar I send my own tried and tested
not looking at you
look. For a long time. When his attention is engaged, that look is supposed to be followed up by the disdainful tilt of the chin to say,
You thought it was YOU I wasn’t looking at? Hah!
Only his attention doesn’t register me at all. Not even in a
not looking at you, either
kind of a way. Not even in a
didn’t you once take off all your clothes in high school?
kind of a way. I’m not used to that. He’s talking to the barman, Grinder. Grinder looks like he was made out of two or more truckers. When I roll my practically empty glass around and look into it, Grinder notices. But Mr Biker doesn’t. What is he, gay?

I strutted slowly to the jukebox. I put on George Thorogood and the Destroyers
Get a Haircut and Get a Real Job.
The room was full of nobody caring, even though every other man’s eyes slid down the length of my throat, over the sliver chains and inside my shirt, around my black bra and then up my thighs. Every other man except Mr Hacker. The jukebox had
John the Revelator
, but only the Curtis Stigers version. If it had Son House I would have played that. I was going to cue up
Bad Company
, the original by Bad Company, but I saw the live version of
Mr Big
by Free, so I lined it up with Hendrix
If Six Were Nine
. Ignore that, motherfuckers.
 

I crossed back to the bar, figuring I’d have to buy my own damn drink, but a clean shot glass was waiting for me with a bourbon. I looked up in Hacker’s direction, but it was Grinder who returned my smile. Good guy, Grinder. Ah well.

As I carefully didn’t watch their conversation, I saw both of them make gestures toward the back of the bar. The corridor led to the payphone, the men’s room and the back rooms. I decided to head him off at the pass.

I stood waiting in the corridor, rolling the remains of my bourbon around the glass. He loped along from the barroom like he was in slow motion. When he got to where I was standing, I was blocking his way. He looked in my eye as he waited for me to move aside. No expression, no greeting, no, “Hi, nice to see you,” nothing. Like he didn’t even recognize me. So, I decided I’d have to do the talking, “Hacker, right? We were at high school together.”

“We were at the same high school. Wasn’t anything ‘together’ about it. Now, would you stand aside.” When I didn’t move he put his hands on my upper arms to move me to the passageway wall, but as he moved me I know that he caught my perfume. I don’t just mean the scent from a bottle I wore that smells like patchouli and cum. As his fingers contacted with my skin, a shock ran through me. His bottom lip tightened and that was how I knew that he registered it, too.
 

He moved me, his hands gripping my arms, moved me to the side. Our lips were close enough that we could taste each other’s breath. His was like the Old Crow Reserve bourbon that he’d been drinking, but it still carried a whiff of the mannish boy.
 

As our mouths came close together, he paused. Only for a moment, but long enough that he couldn’t pretend it didn’t happen. His voice was thick as he said, “You were always trouble, Gypsy. Looks like you still are.”

I put out my bottom lip. He could still have reached it with his teeth. I know that the thought crossed his mind. I said, “Enough trouble to scare you away, Hacker? I am dissapoint.”

His thumb dragged on his bottom lip, “It isn’t the amount of trouble, it’s the kind. You’re just spoiled rich-girl trouble. Look-what-I-can-do, spit-in-your-eye trouble that your daddy’s money always comes along and mops up afterwards. I wasn’t interested in high school, and I’m not interested now.”

“No?” I lifted an eyebrow and tilted my hips at him, “Seems like there’s an armadillo in the front of your pants who is very interested. He is with you, right?” I watched his jaw muscles work as I told him, “He’s followed me round the room pointing at me like the Mona Lisa’s eyes. Well, like one of the Mona Lisa’s eyes. Did you not notice?” I could feel his heat right in front of my crotch. My own heat was rising, too.
 

He was about to pull away. I said, “So what, have you got some ol’ lady keeping you on the straight? Or maybe you got an eightball patch?” His eyes narrowed at that.

“Alright,” he said, “have it your way. I’m here for a reason, and that’s what I’m headed for right now. If you can figure out which hog to stand by outside, then after I’m done here maybe, just maybe I’ll take you for a ride. You probably think you’d like that, little girl.”

I chewed the inside of my lip. As he left he said over his shoulder, “At your own risk if you don’t have a brain bucket.” I knew that he meant a helmet, and he knew that I wasn’t carrying one.

Outside in the dusk, a row of about fifteen bikes, most of them Harley Davidsons, leaned by the entrance like horses outside the saloon in an old western. It was a safe bet that Hacker’s wasn’t going to be in a line with all the rest of them. Far across the lot, away from the lights I saw a matt black bike. Low seat, high bars, no dressing at all. I thought,
that’s him.

I thought it would be fun to really surprise him. Jump in the saddle and wait for him, ready on the hog. But I knew that if he saw someone on his bike, he’d probably shoot them before he even wondered who it might be, so I stood waiting by the side of the bike like a little groupie.

About fifteen minutes standing around and I was starting to wonder if this was all worth it, when two drunken bikers lumbered towards me. One was tall and wide, with mean black shades, a mass of frizzy hair and a big, bushy mousey beard. The other was short and fat with a bandana and a face covered in ugly ink. Looked like prison ink from the quality of the art.

The tall one said, “Hey, sweetbutt, I got something here needs a cleaning. Get your tongue ready for work.” The other one laughed and moved to step behind me. I said,

I said to the first one, “Ooh, I bet you got a cock that tastes of, let me see I’m guessing,” I narrowed my eyes and made my lips purse like a wine snob on a TV show, “don’t tell me, warm runny cheese and mmm, I’m guessing… beer farts?” and I licked my lips. He moved towards me and I had to step back to keep the other one in sight. The first one said,

“You’ll be able to give me tasting notes, because my cock is about to be part of your balanced and calorie controlled diet for today, with a hosing of cum for afters.” They both laughed and the short one said, “I got a special seating arrangement for you to try while you savor the big sausage,”

I said, “You know whose hog this is, right?” as I turned to keep the short, fat guy with the bandana in view. The first one said,

“Yeah, but also I know that you ain’t sitting on it, so I don’t think you got any protection there.”

I was still turning, but I couldn’t keep facing both of them. I said, “You sure you want to make that bet, soldier?” but right then the tall one grabbed me from behind. He was as strong as he was big, and there wasn’t much I could do to get out of his grip. I thought I’d better bide my time. As he held me the other one came up close in front. Put out a finger to pull my shirt forwards. Peered down into my rising hot cleavage. I tried to keep my breathing steady as he leaned his head down to sniff. Then he slipped his hand inside my bra. Grabbed my breast. Started to squeeze. I heard to the first one say,

“That’s some handful of tit there, Boxer. Does it feel all sweet and doughy?” The vibration of his voice rumbled against my back. The one in front looked in my eye as he said, “they could do with a lashing of cream.” He slid a hand up my thigh and said, “I found the fish course,” as his fat fingers climbed to the top of my thigh and shoved at the side of my panties.

Using the grip of the big man behind to hold me steady, I snapped my knee up hard into the short biker’s chin. Heard a loud crack as his teeth slammed together and I rammed my other leg up hard, driving my shin into his balls. He groaned and snarled as he doubled over.

Balancing to swing a foot back and drive a stiletto into the man holding me, I felt myself lifted high and then flung onto the ground. My arm hit the shail and I rolled. I heard the big guy say, “This one’s on fire. We’re going to have some real fun with you, sweetbutt.” He leaned over me and his hand grabbed my hair at the back of my head. He started to pull me up by my hair. He dragged my face towards his groin. With his other hand he began unbuttoning his fly. Then I saw his legs buckle as he sank hard onto his knees.

Hacker stood behind him, nursing his fist. He said, “You boys have had enough fun for now. We going to make an issue of this, or are you going to slip away quietly?” The big one kneeling lifted his head, thinking about it. He looked over at his pal Boxer. Boxer shook his head once. As Hacker watched as the big biker climbed to his feet, and I saw a narrow look of hatred in Boxer’s eyes at Hacker.

The big one dusted himself off as he got up and said, “Okay, Hacks. No biggie, no beef, alright?”

Hacker said, “Right.” And he watched the two bikers shambled away. Hacker came over to me. He said, “Imagine, you all alone minding your business and a fight starts up.” He shook his head, “You look alright,” and I told him, sure I was.

“The arm of my shirt’s torn though.”

He said, “Yeah. You got a little gravel rash on your arm, too.” I put my hand up to my shoulder. There was a small gash, a little blood and it was sore, but not nearly as sore as my pride. Hacker helped me up and touched my shoulder. Moved it back and forth gently with his hand. He said,

“Not dislocated, nothing broken.”

I looked up into his face and said, “‘Hacks’?” and he gave me a wry smile. That was the most expression I’d seen from him yet. He lifted my chin and looked into my face. I thought he was going to kiss me and I fought the instinct to close my eyes like a schoolgirl. That wasn’t like me, maybe I was still shaken up.

He said, “If you still want that ride,” he said, “you need to know that there will be a price.” I told him I understood that. He looked at me and said, “Same spoiled brat. You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into.” I put out my lower lip and I told him that I knew exactly what I was in for. But he was right, I had no idea.

The pain in my arm throbbed a little, but it wasn’t enough to blunt the thrill of riding on the back of Hacker’s lowrider, his unbelievable ass wedged between my thighs. I clung on as the motor shook itself awake and thumped a relentless beat that I felt though the saddle and right into my crotch. After the first mile or two of slicing through the cool evening and air, my clit was buzzing and my panties were damp. All the while, my hands slid along Hacker’s rippling ribs and his tight abs. I wanted to dive my hands into his pants right there on the bike. Haul out that armadillo.

I tried to think of a way that I might be able to lean around him, slide my head into his lap. Get it in my mouth and suck on him while we rode. Just the thought of it was almost enough to get me off. I figured I’d better get a hold of myself before we got wherever it was that he was taking me, or I could just slide off the bike. I could end up as a quivering heap on the floor and that would not look good.

We left the highway on a side road, headed uphill in the dusk for a mile or two until we came to a turning with a heavy metal gate across it. Hacker stopped the bike, got off to open the gate, rode us in, then got off again to close the gate behind us. We went on up for a couple of hundred yards more, and we came to what looked like a big old gas station with garage buildings and a couple of pumps out front. The gas station and garage buildings were was set out on a flat plateau, with scrub and trees behind, and good views of the hills and valleys all around.
 

The lights of the whole of the town twinkled in the nearest valley, looking like a map spread out below us. In the evening light, the whole place would have looked romantic, like a western ranch, if the fence had been made of wood poles instead of steel and chain link. And apart from the bikes. About a dozen Harleys, mostly black leaned in a line in front.
 

As we passed the rusting pumps I saw that where they would have had signs on the top for an oil company, they had the Savage MC colors instead. Hacker parked up at the end of the line of bikes and led me inside.

In the downstairs room, the scent of weed came from four bikers who lounged with beers and a huge blunt. The biker with the spliff and a long beard looked lazily up at Hacker through blue smoke and lifted a hand in greeting. Hacker said, “Mo. Hey, bro.” He sniffed the air, “That’s the Oregon bud.”