Shattered

by LS Silverii

  “Mmm… Umm, St. John…or Lou…I’m not sure what to call you.”

  “Let’s stick to my cover name—for now.”

  “I’m nervous.” Her voice was weak, but the emotional rush gave her an energy she’d not known in years.

  “Me, too. Are you sure you’re okay? I’m totally fine with hanging out and spending time with you,” he said as he pulled back to look at her. “We don’t have to do anything.” His eyes narrowed but the kindness in his smile shone in the dim light.

  Abigail gripped his wrist, pulled him close, and pressed her mouth to his. She heard him let out a slight chuckle. She pulled back to look suspiciously at him. “What’s funny?”

  He glanced away then zeroed back on her. “Nothing. I just thought it was a nice icebreaker.”

  “My kiss?”

  “No. The way your other hand placed the pistol on the nightstand.”

  Abigail nibbled on her bottom lip. She’d been trapped into playing the victim for so long but now felt empowered by St. John, and no longer by carrying the weapon.

  “Maybe you should check me for other weapons,” she suggested playfully, raising her hands in a sign of surrender.

  St. John fumbled with the four buttons on her jeans. The form-fitting denims opened to expose the tattoo Fury had inked on her as punishment for trying to kill herself. Her tummy jumped at his touch, but his hands softly roamed her waist and hips before moving up her torso. Her skin twitched at the tickle of his tender touch.

  “So far, so good, lady,” he breathed as his palms rode over the smallish curves of her breasts.

  “You sure? You better check some more.” Abigail’s confidence soared. She was determined to allow herself the connection of emotion mixed with physical pleasure.

  St. John knelt before her—his dark eyes still connected to hers. The glow of the motel’s light outside shed enough light to see his mischievous grin as he pretended to frisk each thigh for concealed weapons. Abigail squirmed as his strong hands ran briskly against each leg. She sensed the warmth of her pussy and wondered if he felt it too. She grabbed handfuls of his hair to steady herself. He groaned at the aggressive connection.

  “I think we’re going to have to confiscate these.” His voice sounded boyishly shy as he tugged at her pants.

  “Yes sir, officer, but I want them back.” She teased him, but had no idea what she was really saying. It didn’t matter—ecstasy didn’t require words.

  Lowering himself to his knees, St. John used the back of his right hand to slowly spread her legs apart. His fingers traced the letters of her tattoo. She felt embarrassed at first, but his tongue outlined the design before he kissed her directly on her belly button. For once, the tattoo didn’t disgust her.

  His mouth continued to nip and bite at her hips and pelvis until he arrived at the slight patch of light-colored hair above her vagina. Weak-kneed, Abigail wanted to shove his mouth into her slippery folds, but resisted, enjoying his patient approach.

  The Savages would fuck her without notice or warning, so her pussy had learned to become wet immediately to protect it from their harsh treatment. St. John’s caring approach had her wet and on the razor’s edge of an orgasm without ever actually being touched.

  One long finger slipped between the lips of her vagina. It moved slowly from back near her ass to the front, and lingered until it mashed against her clit. It was way too much to bear. Abigail moaned. Her fingers dug into St. John’s strong shoulders as she bucked to and fro on wobbly knees.

  She jerked slightly when the room’s air conditioning unit kicked on, but giggled and soon relaxed again.

  Her lips parted in an odd ensemble of sound. She bucked as her womb and vagina clenched. A rush of electricity shot through her body, and a warm wash of liquid coated St. John’s fingers. She heard him laugh as though he’d accomplished something astonishing. He actually had—she’d cum without force or fear, and it was amazing.

  “You okay?” he asked as if he was unaware of what he’d done to her.

  “I think it’s a case of police brutality. Maybe I better lie down.” With warmth in her soul, her words reflected the safety her heart felt.

  Abigail eased back onto the sheets of the queen-size bed. Her eyelids batted lazily with the slow pulse of pleasure. Her words slurred. She was, for this moment, a woman, comfortable and aroused. Her hands summoned him to come into her.

  Her heartbeat quickened as St. John’s expression changed. He reached for her pistol.

  “No,” she moaned, but instead he turned an ear to the door. “What is it?” she asked.

  A finger pressed to his lips, and she nodded. He silently crept to the window, holding the pistol close to his side as he maneuvered a glance through the slit of the curtains.

  “Maybe my imagination,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Probably. Who’d know we’re here?” She yanked a blanket up to her neck.

  “If the Savages followed us, they would. So would the task force if they were still covering or trying to arrest me.”

  “Arrest you?”

  “Something’s rotten within my agency’s enforcement group, I got a sinking feeling they’re out to get me. I’m officially classified as a rogue agent.” He teetered between the door’s peephole and the bed, weapon still at the ready.

  “No wonder you’re paranoid, but this looks like a busy area where cars pass all the time. Come here and finish your police investigation of me.” Abigail’s tone reflected her arousal and a desire to surrender to him.

  “I guess you’re right.” He placed the gun back on the stand.

  Abigail rolled onto her side and ripped his jeans open to expose his semi-erect cock. She began to stroke him and he responded quickly. She spit into her palm to mix a slippery concoction with his pre-cum wetness. The slickness of her strong grip along his shaft caused his knees to buckle as he stiffened rock hard in her hand. His back caved against the paneled wall and his hips looked to come unhinged as she beat his dick at a fierce pace.

  “Good officer,” she said, enjoying the freedom of mutually consensual sex. “You ready to surrender to me, baby?”

  His head rocked side-to-side while his eyes fluttered back. “Yes, ma’am,” he mouthed.

  Without releasing her firm hold on his manhood, Abigail led him onto the bed and between her quivering thighs. His once rigid physique now appeared relaxed as she spread her legs wide to receive him. She cried out in a loud moan as the head of his generous dick touched her saturated walls. She exploded with warmth before he fully entered into her.

  His reaction to being with her aroused her. Her shoulders began to jerk, hinting at another orgasm, but she tried to resist.

  He gathered her hair in a fist and pulled her head backward. “Cum for me. Let me feel you cum on my dick. I want to feel your pussy milk me dry.”

  His words were too much. She couldn’t hold back. She whimpered lightly as her vaginal walls became engorged with blood, creating a soft, warm feeling she knew he’d noticed.

  “Let me hear you, Abigail. Don’t hold back, baby, cum for me. Scream your pleasure for me.”

  Her tongue licked at her sweat-covered lips and at him. She pressed her mouth against his, and then released moans deeper and more intense than she’d ever known existed.

  “Good girl, don’t stop,” he panted as moisture dripped from his long, tangled hair.

  His grip tightened in her hair while his hips slammed against hers. The meeting of flesh became rhythmic. She drove her hips into his. Hard and furious, she fucked him as if her life depended on it. It worked; she felt his already hefty cock pulse inside as it seemed to extend even longer. His impressive girth stretched her pussy beyond what she thought possible. She dug her nails into his shoulders at the intense burning pleasure.

  “Oh, Abigail, ohh Abiga—oh my gosh, Abi…” His words trailed off as his head bucked like a damn wild stallion.

  “Baby!” she screamed.

  “Oh yeah, baby.” His breath stil
l hitching in his chest, he looked as if he’d passed into another realm of consciousness. Bliss.

  “No, baby, look.” Wide-eyed, she gasped, pointing toward the plate glass window. Multiple figures were positioning themselves just beyond the door.

  “Son of a bitch,” he spat.

  St. John shoved Abigail off the mattress. She folded between the bed and wall. He reached for his jeans but couldn’t find them in the dark. His Sig Sauer P288 duty weapon rested atop those pants. She watched his frantic attempts to find it.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  The door crashed open to the rattle of automatic gunfire. Her eyes widened but never blinked. Light blue irises trembled in their sockets. Her lips quavered, holding back a scream, but tears had already arrived.

  Wood-grain paneling and asbestos insulation rained down upon them as bullets tore the wall wide open. Abigail felt St. John trying to shove her beneath the bed, but the frame was solid and set on the floor. There was no place to go.

  Tucked tight, she howled as the burning hot brass seared the flesh of her arched back. She saw the empty casing roll onto the carpet and realized it was from the pistol St. John had shot—her Glock 9mm. No clue how many bullets the magazine held, or how many shots had been fired. She only knew there were many, based on the fiery bounces of fired brass that struck her bare skin.

  Finally, silence.

  She rolled to her side and looked up to see St. John holding the pistol. The top slide was pushed back. It looked like he was out of ammunition.

  His face animated, he whispered, “Stay down. I think they’re reloading. I’m going to charge them, so stay down no matter what.” Even faced with sacrificing his own life, St. John’s voice remained low and calm. No fear showed in his face, only a determination to save her.

  “Thank you,” she said, then reconsidered her words. She tugged his wrist. “I meant to say I love you.”

  St. John offered a fleeting smile that faded into a stone-cold look of determination to get them out of this fix. He parted his lips to speak, but jerked his gaze upward at the sound of numerous footsteps approaching.

  She refused to cry anymore. He’d shown her love for once in her life and that beat the hell out of never having known it at all. St. John held her hand. This would be the end.

  There were more attackers coming. She heard their footsteps outside the door.

  Chapter 9

  “You shot cops, are you fucking out of your mind?” Abigail screamed. Her hands flailed.

  St. John tried to shield her from the carnage. He jerked the sheet off the bed, wrapped her in it, and moved her toward the motel’s dinky bathroom. She fought, making it difficult for him to handle her. He wrapped an arm around her bony shoulders. She pulled away, curling over to vomit. St. John rubbed her back, glancing toward the four bullet-riddled bodies that cluttered the doorway.

  “You’re welcome, but beats the shit out of the alternative, doesn’t it?” Sarcasm dripped from Sue’s voice.

  He towered in the threshold—sawed-off shotgun in his right hand. St. John pressed his fist against his gut to quell a nervous sickness. He owed the Savage Souls his life but he also knew they’d stake that claim at some point soon.

  “Who are these assholes?” St. John asked, tugging his jeans back on. He found his 9mm under the desk chair.

  “Don’t know, but I bet they ain’t the real fuzz.” Sue kicked at one of the corpses. The body wore a black t-shirt with POLICE printed across the front and back in white letters.

  “Check his back pocket for a commission card. Anybody can buy a t-shirt,” St. John ordered.

  Sue cut him a look. “How you know so much about that?”

  St. John pushed past him and jabbed his fingers into the man’s pockets. “I watch a lot of TV,” he retorted. He found a California driver’s license in a chained leather wallet. “I thought so. These fuckers ain’t cops.”

  “Check for tats,” Rotten, another brother, suggested.

  “We gotta get out of here.” A panic-seized Abigail tried to step over the bodies.

  “Don’t worry about the police. Chief Perez is all tied up.” Sue snickered, then ripped the fake police t-shirts to shreds as he examined shot-shredded skin for tattoos.

  “Hey, that’s Soggy Bottom,” Rotten hollered.

  St. John’s head jerked up. “Who?”

  “He’s a pledge in the Vegas chapter. Started off real good, but after about four months he backslid. Missing church and losing his cut. Just turned into a shit bag of alibis,” Rotten explained. His face was red with a large vein pulsing like crazy.

  St. John rolled another body onto its back. “This idiot’s wearing Los Jinetes ink. When did they start rolling together?”

  Finally dressed, Abigail squeezed her way between Sue and the doorframe. St. John watched him stare at her, and then run his right thumb across the front of his throat as a signal she’d fallen on the wrong side of what the brothers allowed as acceptable. St. John’s chest vibrated at the vile spirit of violence and total intimidation with which the blood brothers operated. St. John hadn’t had a beef with Sue, but his threat to her might’ve just changed that.

  Sue whipped out his switchblade and sliced the shirts off of all the corpses. He tossed them in the middle of the bed then struck a match and threw it onto the clothes pile.

  “Why’d you do that?” St. John asked. “That’ll bring the fire boys screaming.”

  “I’m guessing your DNA is all over this room. Any more questions?” Sue glared at him and then at Abigail. “If not, I’d suggest you both get the fuck out of here. Meet us at Ellie’s Outpost.”

  There wasn’t much conversation along the way. St. John backed off the gas to allow Sue and Rotten to pull up ahead. St. John touched Abigail’s hand during the drive to help settle her nerves, but even he had to admit, that shit had been scary.

  “Grab that carton in the glove box,” he told her.

  “What’s is it?” she asked, lifting a small-but-heavy cardboard box.

  He grabbed her Glock 9mm and dropped the magazine. “It’s your reload. Keep this with you at all times. Don’t hesitate to use it, but of course you never did.”

  “No shit. Just ask Rage.” Her laughter was cold at the mention of having killed a man, but St. John figured after the hell he’d caused her, Rage deserved it.

  He handed her the pistol; she lingered in the exchange. He could feel her soul’s expression had changed. He smiled. Now she wanted to survive this.

  “You know what they’re going to do to me once you head for California, don’t you?” she asked. Just as quick as it had lightened, his heart sunk. She was right. He strangled the steering wheel and fixed his eyes straight ahead on the road until he pulled into a darkened lot.

  Patio lights popped on, and the door opened. “We closed,” Ellie yelled.

  Sue and Rotten were already situated on a wooden bench as St. John and Abigail walked up.

  “Oh, it’s you boys, and if it ain’t little Annie Oakley?” Ellie drew back on a swig of beer then smacked her lips. “Want the lights off or on?”

  St. John jerked a glare at Ellie to try and shut her up before she spilled the beans about the night Abigail pulled the pistol on him.

  “You can kill the lights, and try keeping it down this time,” Sue said.

  Ellie cackled like a Halloween witch. “I can’t promise your boy won’t scream. The last one howled like a damaged dog, but, hey, if you want to use my pad as a stash house, then feed me the flesh.”

  She held the door open as Rotten walked into her place, his head down. He’d objected to having to fuck the old bat, but he also knew club rules meant no disobedience. Cock was the bribe Ellie charged for using her place to launder money and her keeping an eye out for the club.

  Fuck that idiot. I hope the whore has the clap, St. John thought.

  He caught Sue’s stare after the front door closed. For a moment the three of them chuckled at the thought of Rotten trying to keep hi
s dick hard long enough to bang the old broad. Alone now with Sue and Abigail, St. John’s thoughts turned to the reality of what had just happened in the motel.

  “How’d you know we were in there? You following me?” St. John demanded.

  Sue stabbed a heavy finger toward Abigail. “Her.”

  She leaned away from him with a fearful expression. “Why me, what’d I do?”

  “You’re a pig—club property. Ain’t right if you’d go missing. Justice wanted me to make sure she didn’t slip out the back while you were balling her.”

  “That’s bullshit, Sue. Don’t fuck with me. The blood brothers are still pissed at me for fucking up Vengeance. Bad thing is, y’all need my ass to get those guns back. So keep fucking with me, and you can get them on your own.” St. John felt a rush of both panic and pride as he loud capped the Savage Nation’s vice president.

  “Don’t push it, Opie. Remember, this pig will be back here while you’re out there. Fuck us over, and your little motel queen will be begging for Vengeance’s attention after we all take turns at her.” Sue’s fingertips scratched over his dry, crusty lips.

  St. John hated that nickname and saw the irony of Bobby Boudreaux, who’d been dubbed Sue by his father, being the one to call him Opie—it was fucking childish.

  St. John slammed the beer bottle onto the wooden picnic table. It didn’t break. “Touch her even once, and I’ll be back here like hell fire.”

  “Just do your job.” Sue guzzled the rest of the beer left on the table for them by Ellie.

  “Just keep your hands off of her,” St. John said.

  He watched Sue’s eyes scan fast and wild around the area. His look morphed into something decadent—St. John knew shit was about to break.

  “Really? Hey pig, get over here and suck my cock,” Sue barked at Abigail. His voice deep and scarred from booze and shouting orders as a USMC drill sergeant, showed no mercy.

  St. John leapt between the two, hands clenched and ready to fight. “The fuck you will.”

  “Sit down, Opie,” Sue goaded.

  He shoved his chest out. “Make me.”

  St. John heard the distinctive click of a double-barrel shotgun behind and to his right. It was Rotten.