by Hondo Jinx
They’d been going at it for a while.
The hulking sergeant-at-arms rushed forward, attacking again with supernatural speed, and again, Brawley caught him with a lightning-fast one-two.
The jab shattered Ramrod’s nose. The cross snapped his jaw.
But Brawley didn’t let this damage fool him into stepping on the gas pedal.
A second later, the big bastard was whole again and swinging for the fences.
Brawley dipped under a looping haymaker, countered with a left hook to Ramrod’s DEATHLESS tattoo, and slipped away.
Ramrod stood in the sand, glaring at Brawley while his ribs knitted back together. He spat blood. “Stop dancing and fight, pussy.”
Brawley waited in silence. He wasn’t going to talk shit. He’d let his actions speak for him.
Nor was he going to give in and go toe to toe.
Everybody wanted a slugfest. Ramrod. The crowd. Hell, even Brawley’s own body, surging with Carnal energy, wanted to go square up and throw down.
But that would be dumb, like a matador tossing his sword and trying to headbutt a bull to death.
No, Brawley would stick to the plan, applying all the lessons he’d learned from studying the boxing match, and take this big, loudmouthed bastard apart piece by piece.
Ramrod shuffled forward, attempting a more measured attack.
Brawley set to rocking, then slipped away when the attack came, and the pattern continued.
Ramrod attacked. Brawley countered, careful not to overcommit, and pivoted to safety, fighting with the quick in-and-out style of a collie dog.
His body was an orchestra of speed and power, every muscle screaming for joy as he ducked and countered, clipping Ramrod with shot after shot.
His mind was equally euphoric, processing the moment, slowing it, applying the lessons of the fight he’d watched and absorbing new gleanings from this conflict, even as it unfolded.
Ramrod plodded after Brawley, cursing. He was big and dangerous but slow like a rattlesnake in winter.
Finally, he passed a tipping point. Recovering from Brawley’s counterpunches had drained his psi force.
Brawley knew this.
Ramrod knew it, too. And what’s more, Ramrod knew that Brawley knew. For the first time in their drawn-out fight, the specter of fear flickered within the big biker’s eyes.
Ramrod had forced the fight, and now, his worst nightmare was unfolding here on the beach. A smaller man, a wiry outsider without a single tattoo, a guy who could’ve blown Ramrod’s head off with a telekinetic blast, was whipping his ass in front of the Scars.
Ramrod lumbered forward in yet another desperate attempt to make things right.
Brawley didn’t even bother jabbing. He caught the charging biker with a check hook to the jaw and backpedaled out of range.
Ramrod shook his head and bellowed with frustration. Again, he paused. He was breathing hard now, and the split the hook had opened in his lower lip stayed opened this time. Blood streamed down his face, leaking from the wound like sand from a dwindling hourglass.
The Scars hollered, cheering Ramrod and challenging Brawley to mix it up.
But they saw what was happening, too. Brawley could see it in their eyes and hear it in their cries.
The fiercest among them, their champion and gatekeeper, was being dismantled by an outsider. Decimated. Unmanned. And they were all the less for it.
Brawley’s dominant primordial beast raged within him. He was not cruel by nature, but this son of a bitch had crossed the line by threatening Callie, and now, by God, he was going to pay the fucking price.
For the first time in their long fight, Brawley marched toward his opponent.
The crowd cheered, eyes blazing.
But Ramrod laughed and waved Brawley off. “Enough, dude. You proved your worth. You can fight.”
The Scars were stunned. A few smiled, and sporadic cheers popped off, along with a smatter of clapping. Someone rushed forward to clap Brawley on the back. Another started to raise his arm in the air.
Brawley shook his arm free and pointed at Ramrod. “We’re not done.”
The crowd fell silent.
Ramrod waved him off. “Fight’s over. You’re welcome here.”
Brawley shook his head. “You threatened my woman.”
Ramrod rolled his eyes, which were swelling fast. It was a strange and pitiful gesture in such a big, supposedly tough guy, and it stoked the violence within Brawley.
“Hell, I didn’t mean nothing by that,” Ramrod said. “She was pointing a gun at my face.”
Brawley pointed toward Callie, who stood between Nina and Sage, her amber eyes shining. “Apologize.”
“Sorry,” Ramrod mumbled, shaking his head before the word had even left the corner of his mouth.
Brawley stepped forward, drilling his eyes into Ramrod’s. “Not good enough. Get down on your knees and beg forgiveness.”
“Huh? What are you, fucking twisted?”
“You have no idea,” Brawley said. “Now get down on your knees and apologize, or I’m going to finish this.”
The hulking biker snorted derisively. His eyes went from Brawley to Callie, and Brawley knew the man was weighing his options.
Ramrod was hurting. That was obvious in the way he hunched with one hand pressed to his ribs. It had probably been decades since he’d had to endure pain for more than the few seconds it had taken his juice to heal it.
But now he was all out of juice and all out of time.
“Make your choice,” Brawley said.
And Ramrod might have gone to his knees—Brawley could feel the big man leaning in that direction, all the fight gone from him—but someone snorted, and laughter rippled through the crowd.
This mockery was too much for Ramrod. You can beat an asshole into temporary humility, but he will remain an asshole.
Fresh anger blazed to life in Ramrod’s eyes. “Fuck you!” he shouted at Brawley. Then he pointed at Callie. “And fuck her, too!”
Brawley said nothing. He was done talking. He walked straight forward.
Ramrod raised his fists. “Come on, you fuckin—”
Brawley’s fist smashed through the biker’s guard. The big, bearded head jerked, shedding blood.
Brawley unloaded on him. To this point, he had been sticking and moving like a slick boxer not only to play it safe but also to frustrate his hulking opponent.
But now his anger flipped a psionic switch, and a brutal fountain of Carnal force erupted, flooding him with superhuman speed and strength and hardening his bones to steel as he launched a hellish barrage of power punches, left-right-left-right-left-right, swiveling his shoulders and shifting his weight with every shot, throwing this bigmouthed asshole a beating that he and his biker buddies would never, ever forget.
Every punch smashed bones and tore flesh. In under two seconds, Brawley’s fists shattered both bearded cheeks, snapped off teeth, and reduced Ramrod’s nose to a smear of blood and loose cartilage.
Ramrod wobbled, ready to go.
Brawley popped back half a step, rocked to his left, and launched a blistering double left hook. The first shot pounded Ramrod’s liver, folding him in half. The second hook slammed into the bloody beard and tore the jaw loose from the big head, which fell forward and face-planted in the sand.
“That’s enough, son,” Braxton said, rushing forward.
Brawley nodded and stepped back from the unconscious mess. He turned slowly, panning his gaze around the crowd. “I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted to sit here and have a few beers.”
The crowd watched in silence as Brawley walked over and stood among his women, one arm over Remi and Callie, the other over Nina and Sage.
“We thank you for your hospitality,” Brawley said. “We will be good friends to the Scars. Allies. But if any of you says anything about my women, you will regret it. I promise.”
For a second, everyone was silent.
Then Weasel shouted, “Spoken like a tr
ue Scar!”
And the gang of Carnals erupted with cheering.
The moment was over.
They carted Ramrod off toward medical attention, and the party returned to life.
Somebody handed Brawley a beer, and he sat down with his women, who pressed close, hugging and kissing him as bikers drifted past to shake his hand or pat his back, their eyes filled with something that hadn’t been there before.
They had welcomed him warmly. But now they respected him.
“Show off,” Remi grumbled jokingly.
“Our husband fought very intelligently,” Sage said. “I found it curiously arousing.”
“Yeah,” Nina added with a wise-ass smile, “but are you sure you got your point across?”
Callie leaned in to touch his arm. “Did you mean what you said?”
“Darlin, I always mean what I say.”
Callie beamed, face bright as a fresh-picked tomato. “So I’m your woman now?”
Oh, Brawley thought, getting what she’d meant.
Nina and Remi laughed.
Sage saved him. “Good news, husband, Frankie just turned into the campground. She is returning the RV. We may now leave to obtain the item your parents left you.”
And sure enough, Brawley saw headlights approaching through the dark woods.
16
“No shit,” Brawley said, grinning from ear to ear as he surveyed the RV’s exterior, taking in the new windshield and refurbished chassis. “How did you fix everything so quickly?”
Frankie flashed her A+ smile, dimples and all. She was even lovelier after having showered away the grease and sweat. Her pretty face glowed without makeup. She had pulled her glossy black hair into a ponytail, which jutted out the back of her blue and white LIFE IS GOOD trucker hat.
Her tight, white shirt showed off her incredible curves and emphasized the glow of her smooth, bronze skin, especially within the plunging V-neck, which strained against her large breasts.
“I work hard and fast,” Frankie said. “Wait till I pop the hood.”
Frankie trailed her fingers over the repaired grille in a soft caress. “So happy to have her all patched up. She feels so much better now.”
The hood clicked, coming unlatched.
“If I had more time,” Frankie said, “I’d attach a little lift to the hood. Among many other things.”
She turned to lift the hood.
Patched and faded Daisy Dukes stretched tightly across her big, juicy ass. Her tight, white t-shirt crept up her midriff as she moved, exposing a golden belly button ring in front and the deep groove of her spine in the back. She lifted onto tiptoes making her tanned calves ripple, and whispered something to the engine.
To Brawley, it sounded like sweet nothings.
The engine came to life.
Which made sense, Brawley reckoned, and not just because she was a Gearhead. If she whispered to him like that, his engine would rev, too.
He wanted this woman. Wanted to feel and taste her. Wanted to squeeze her firm flesh and shove his mouth into her soft, wet places.
More than anything, he wanted to fill her with his manhood, his seed, wanted to breed her.
Which was nuts, of course. He didn’t even know Frankie. But that didn’t change a damn thing. After less than a day as a flesh mage, he already understood that his Carnal urges didn’t give a shit what he thought.
To hell with thinking, his Carnal force bellowed. Live!
And his blood was boiling. All that “lover not a fighter” stuff was bullshit. Nothing in the world puts you in the mood to fuck like kicking somebody’s ass.
“Did you soup it up like my Suburban?” Remi asked.
“Even better,” Frankie said, climbing onto the bumper to lean down into the engine. Her big, round ass was right in front of Brawley’s face.
His dick was hard as a Louisville slugger.
Frankie petted the engine, cooing softly, then looked back over one shoulder, her visible eye shining with excitement. “Easy on the accelerator for a while. I tripled her horsepower.”
“Tripled?” Brawley said, incredulous.
Frankie nodded. “If I had parts and time, I could’ve boosted her even higher, but she’ll give you what you need.” Holding onto the hood, she leaned back and pointed to a stubby antenna jutting from just above the repaired windshield. “No worries about speed traps. That scrambler will jam radar and lidar, guaranteed.”
“Awesome,” Brawley said. He hadn’t even asked for a jammer.
Remi slipped up beside Brawley and gave Frankie’s calf muscle a squeeze. “Tell him about the gas mileage.”
Frankie hopped down, beaming. “She’ll run smoother now. Happier. Less friction, everything balanced. She should get a few hundred miles to the gallon.”
“No shit?” Brawley said. He didn’t have to be a math whiz to calculate how much money that would save him over the long haul: a fuck-ton.
“No shit,” Frankie said, clearly enjoying his surprise.
He loved her excitement. She had worked hard on the RV and was jazzed to unveil her gifts. This excitement fitted her somehow, seeming a part of her overall fullness, a natural complement to her gleaming eyes, glossy hair, and the healthy glow of her bright smile and smooth, bronze curves.
Frankie opened the driver’s side door and pointed to its union with the chassis.
Everything was so clean Brawley didn’t notice anything for a second. Then he saw the extra hinges.
Frankie explained that she had added them to support the door, which was heavier now, thanks to the steel plate she’d inserted. “I would’ve used Kevlar instead, but I only had a little, and I used that to wrap the gas tank. If we had more time, I’d bulletproof her nose to tail and order run-flat tires, but a girl can only do so much with twelve hours.”
Frankie shrugged. It was a thing to behold.
“If we ever come this way again, would you take a look at my moped?” Nina asked.
“Sure,” Frankie said. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. I’d just like to see what you could do.”
Frankie showed Nina her dimples. “I’d love that.”
Brawley noticed Sage scanning the RV, her eyes bright with interest. “You installed a surveillance system.”
Frankie nodded. “It’s basic but might prove useful.” She led them around the Winnebago, pointing out several cameras she’d mounted. “They’re wired into a cycling dashboard display. You can also enable motion detection with or without an audible alarm. Too bad you’re not Gearheads. You could just access the cameras with your minds.”
“Hold on,” Nina said. “You can do that?”
“Sure,” Frankie said.
Nina jogged around the back of the RV. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Frankie concentrated for a second, narrowing one eye. “Three.”
“No shit!” Nina’s voice called from the other side of the RV. When she came jogging back around, she was grinning from ear to ear.
“Wait a second, Frankie,” Remi said. “Did you install hidden cameras to spy on us, you filthy slut?”
Frankie threw back her head with rich laughter, and Brawley wanted to lick the bronze flesh of her exposed neck. “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” Frankie said. “Come inside now. I’ll show you everything.”
She opened the door and climbed into the RV, filling Brawley’s view with denim-wrapped paradise.
Remi gave him a hip bump. “Told you she was incredible.”
“You got that right, darlin.”
Brawley held the door for his women, who climbed aboard.
Only Callie hesitated. The little cat girl looked like somebody had stepped on her tail.
Was she jealous of Frankie?
Yes, Brawley’s gut responded. Callie had picked up on his attraction, and now the cat girl’s ears were pinned back.
Well, he wasn’t going to trouble himself over that. He liked Callie and would take care of her,
but if she wanted to ride along, she had to ditch the teenage drama.
He gestured toward the door. “Let’s go, darlin. You don’t want to miss the show.”
Callie faked a smile. “Okay.”
He followed her onboard, admiring the shapely ass that seemed so out of place on her otherwise scrawny frame.
Inside, Frankie stood between the front seats. Someone had given her a beer. She raised it to her full lips and took a drink.
She showed them how the display worked, explaining the surveillance and alarm systems and pointing out a light that would blink if radar or lidar triggered the jammer.
“I upgraded all electrical and electronic components. Everything should run smoother and faster, and any problem will give you an alert on the readout. I also overhauled your AC and heat pump, your generator, and the off-the-grid package. The inverter, the batteries, everything. You go off the road, you’ll be good to go with power for a long, long time.”
Brawley just stared in amazement at this beautiful, hardworking, crazy-talented beauty. It was a lot to take in. She’d done way, way more than he’d asked her to.
“Oh,” Frankie said, “I almost forgot. Your TV rocks now. And check out your speakers.”
Suddenly, Journey filled the Winnebago, Steve Perry singing about that small-town girl living in her lonely world.
“You did a lot more than we asked,” Brawley said. “What do I owe you?”
Frankie shook her head. “Nothing. Just pay Cotter the agreed-upon amount. The rest was me doing you a favor. I used scrap and stuff I’d picked up here and there. If you paid me, I’d have to give it to Cotter.”
“Thanks, darlin,” he said. “I owe you one.”
Frankie’s bright smile returned.
Brawley wanted to kiss those full lips and cute dimples.
“My pleasure,” Frankie said. “Thanks for letting me work on her. She’s a big, beautiful girl with all the potential in the world. I really wish we had more time. I could do so much with her.”
Brawley felt the same way. And not just about the Winnebago. “You like brisket, darlin?”
17
Tammy shrugged. “Theoretically, I could reach out to Brawley again. But he’s out of range.”