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Savage – Clements’s Last Run
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Copyright © 2016 by Marie St. Clair
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may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the author
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First Edition, 2016
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Table of Contents
Chapter One - Clemente
Chapter Two - Callie
Chapter Three - Clemente
Chapter Four - Callie
Chapter Five - Clemente
Chapter Six - Callie
Chapter Seven - Clemente
Chapter Eight - Callie
Chapter Nine - Clemente
Chapter Ten - Callie
Chapter Eleven - Clemente
Chapter Twelve - Callie
Chapter Thirteen - Clemente
Chapter Fourteen - Callie
Chapter Fifteen - Clemente
Chapter Sixteen - Callie
Chapter Seventeen - Clemente
Chapter Eighteen - Callie
Chapter Nineteen - Clemente
Chapter Twenty - Callie
Bonus Preview: Savage – Cheval and Me
Savage-
Clemente’s Last Run
By
Marie St. Clair
Chapter One – Clement
I never had to shoot my gun before. Pistol-whipped a rival who fell out of line? Sure, but firing it? No. I was an enforcer, not an assassin.
The sun was setting in Barcelona, a city I had never seen before that day. The deal went down in the marina, not far from the train station. It was supposed to be easy, I hand them the money, they give me the goods.
It hadn’t gone down like that. The Spaniards were bitter, telling me Henri, our leader, had been ripping them off for years. It was time to get what they were owed, the money in my pack, and my life. My club, Enfer’s Vengeance, would learn not to fuck with the Spaniards.
The Spaniards weren’t worthy of our respect. Their bikes were props to lean against. They didn’t ride. They were anarchists funneling the drug money into whatever bat shit plan would cause the most disruption for their city.
They were a joke, but a joke with a gun to my head.
I rammed my elbow upward into his face. The Spaniard cried out like a baby. His goons hesitated for the blink of an eye.
That was all the time I needed. I shot off my gun into his knee. The blast echoed across the beach and I ran.
From the sound of the footsteps behind me, I guessed two of them were chasing after me. One stayed behind to help their fallen leader. The streets leading to the train station were quiet, a couple of old ladies walking their dogs. That was it.
I pushed past them, rounding the corner, slightly lost. Barcelona’s a lazy little town. I knew the gang would give up the chase soon. Figure out a new revenge later, probably the next day. I would be safe back in Paris with my brothers by then.
Out of breath, I paused on the corner and looked up at the street sign. An arrow pointed to the Zoo. My logistical bearings fell back into place. I had seen the sign on the way down to the Marina.
I ran the other direction, and there it was, Barcelona Sants Train Station. One problem, I had a five kilo bag of heroin in the leather bike bag that I wore tossed over my shoulder like a backpack. My leather club jacket wasn’t going to be much help either.
Security was going to hassle me. Make no mistake about that.
So I did what any quick-thinking man on the run would do. I took off my jacket, and shoved it into my bike bag, making sure the hermetically sealed bag of heroin was completely covered. The security dogs might sniff at it, but the only scent they would smell would be my musky body odor.
I’ve had the jacket since I was sixteen, and it had never been cleaned. Dry-cleaning is for pussies. My club reveled in manly odors.
Part two of my plan, blend in. I approached a group of elderly day travelers standing at the end of the security line. The women pulled small shopping carts, like the ones you would see at a Farmer’s Market. Shopping bags were piled high in them.
Time to make my move.
“Hola,” I greeted the grey-haired ladies, “Puedo Ayudarle?”
I took their cart from them and readjusted their towering pile of shopping bags while discreetly tucking my bike bag underneath.
“Thank you, but I’m sorry, we’re British. Do you speak English?”
“Oui, Oui, I mean yes,” I blinded them with my smile, “I live in Paris, but I’m originally from America.”
“That’s so interesting…” She continued as I pushed the cart forward. The line was moving quickly. “... London our whole lives. We met at school, been friends ever since.” The oldest one batted her eyes at me. I gave her a wink.
Women, no matter how old they get, were always girls at heart. It’s the easiest angle to play. Make them feel like they’re eighteen again, and they’ll do anything you want.
“Pasaporte,” The border patrol officer asked the women. I took a step back, and looked the other way.
The women were flustered, searching their pockets and purses for their travel documents. They handed over their passports, and barraged the officer with questions. His English was shaky, and he ushered them through without so much of a glance at their carts.
Me? I wasn’t so lucky. I didn’t look like a man who had just had a gun to his head, but my pulse was still racing, and my movements were jerky. Very suspicious behavior.
He patted down my groin, a little too much for my liking. Anywhere else, he would have paid for that, his face would have been a pulpy mush under my fist. But I needed to get on the other side of the rope. I smiled tightly and was let through the security barrier.
The women had disappeared. The adrenalin pumping through my veins felt like a heart attack. No way was I going back to the club without the goods. It had almost cost me my life.
I twisted around taking in the immensity of the train station and spotted the women inside a duty-free store. These women knew how to shop. Deep breath, non-threatening smile, I strode across the concourse.
The women were interrogating the salesgirl, asking if the prices could be lowered. I reached down, retrieved my bag, and slunk out of the store before anyone noticed me. Free at last.
No, not to be. Fuck.
I saw the Spaniard goons at the front of the security line and they saw me. I ran.
People don’t run in Spain. It’s basically a siesta town. I mumbled, excuse me, and pointed to a train slowly pulling out of the station to the passerby’s I bumped into. I didn’t need their attention, better to be a harried tourist than a biker on the run with a bag of heroin.
My legs are pure metal and they do what I tell them to do. I leaped across the platform and on to the train, landing on my feet. A little girl stood in front of me and asked, “Es tu, Superman?”
“Oui, oui,” I patted her head and walked down the narrow walkway towards the snack bar.
I hadn’t eaten since I arrived in Barcelona that morning. I’m a big guy, with a monster-sized appetite. The snack bar wasn’t going to be enough f
or me. I needed to find the dining car, but until then, a baguette smeared with tomato would have to work.
I devoured the Spanish attempt at a sandwich in three bites and chased it down with sweet Valencia orange juice. My ravenous appetite caught the eye of the conductor. I forcefully nodded my head as if I belonged on the train and purposefully strutted down the hallway away from him.
I didn’t even know where the train was going.
The doors to the first class rooms were open and filled with travelers. This wasn’t good. I didn’t have a ticket, and I didn’t want my name registered in the Eurail system. I knew the Spanish goons had their eyes on all the local databases. No different than my club.
I had to assume the train would be crossing borders, judging by the people opening their suitcases and pulling out their pajamas. It better be the night train to Paris and not to London, I thought to myself. The last place I wanted to wake up in the morning was the UK.
I needed to get back to my crew.
Finally, a closed door. I opened it. A girl about my age sat on the berth. She was crying. I pulled out my gun.
Chapter Two – Callie
Everything was a mess. This wasn’t how my semester abroad was supposed to be. My friends, the girls I had known my whole life, the ones I had gone through my catechism with, were running wild in the streets of Barcelona.
It had all been so perfect until we came to this Godforsaken town. We were studying French at the Sorbonne, going on tours over the weekend, visiting all the churches. Exactly what we came to Paris to do.
It was all Belinda’s fault. She suggested the music festival in Barcelona. She’s the one who wanted to go out to the nightclub with the boys from Oxford who were staying down the hall from us at the small hotel in the Gothic district.
We had never so much as even had wine before this weekend. Now, they were running around Las Ramblas on ecstasy or Molly or whatever they called it, barely dressed and hanging all over the Brits who were as stoned as out of their minds as my girlfriends were.
I tried to stop them, talk sense to them, but they wouldn’t listen. I did what any good girl would do, I packed up my bags and got on the night train to Paris. I had no idea what I was going to do when I got back to the dorm. Calling their parents felt wrong, but they were so out of control.
So there I sat, in my first-class cabin on the train, crying. You would think it couldn’t get any worse. It could.
The door swung open, and before I could say a word, a gun was pointed in my face. I felt a scream rising in my throat. It suddenly stopped. My body along with my vocal chords froze.
“You scream or say a word, and I’ll shoot you.” He closed the door behind him and leaned against it as if reassessing his next move.
I put my hands up, and he laughed.
“I’m not a policeman,” He shook his head, and looked upwards as if I were an idiot, “You can put your hands down.”
“It’s human nature,” I spat out, surprising myself.
“What?” He scowled at me and asked.
“If someone points a gun at you. You put your hands up.”
“Put them back up if you want, but you need to shut up.” He put his ear to the door.
“Telling someone to shut up is rude.” I placed my hands in my lap and wondered why I was sassing this dangerous man. Perhaps because he wasn’t much older than me?
“You’re American?” He turned to me, his dark eyes cold, and asked.
The shiver of fear that I should I have felt as soon as he had barged into my room filled me. “Yes,” I managed to squeak out.
“Americans talk too much.” He held his finger up to his lips to shush me and turned his ear back to the door.
“You speak like an American.” I softly stated.
“I’m a dangerous man with a gun. That’s all you need to know.” He sprung away from the door and landed on the seat beside me. The gun inches from my chest, his finger on the trigger.
I started crying again.
“Do what I say and I won’t hurt you. The first thing you need to do is stop crying.”
“Okay,” I sniffled and looked him directly in the eye.
This man, this criminal, who was holding me hostage, was devastatingly handsome. I felt as if my jaw were dropping. His hair was dark, tousled and hung heavily around his soulful eyes, and his bone structure, it was as if he was more carved than formed. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t the first thing I noticed upon him entering the room.
A gun in your face can be distracting.
“The conductor is coming to check your passport and ticket. I’m going to hide under the seat, with the gun pointing up at you. One word and I kill both of you. Do you understand?”
“Yes… and then you’ll go? I won’t tell anyone—
“They all say that, but it doesn’t matter… Okay, you ready?”
“Yes.”
He nodded his head and then did the strangest thing. With his fingertips, he gently wiped my tears away. I felt myself relax against my better judgment.
“Push the bags around your feet so he can’t see under the seat.” He said as he lowered himself to the ground.
I did as he asked and then we sat silently for a very long time. I almost fell asleep.
“Madam,” A knock and a voice from outside the door jarred me awake.
“Yes,” I cleared my throat and replied.
“Ticket, passport.” He held out his hand as I reached down to my purse and dug around in search of my papers.
“Here they are,” I handed them to him.
He looked through the papers and eyed me suspiciously. I felt my stomach clench and my eyes fill with tears again. I was too young to die. I wished I had stayed with my out of control friends.
“Tears on a pretty girl like you… Smile, you’ll be in Paris soon.” He turned to leave.
If waves of relief hadn’t rained down upon me, I would have pointed out how paternalistic, how very rude it was to ask a girl or woman to smile. I had just taken a women’s studies class the semester before. I was very sensitive to these issues.
But all I could feel was relief that the conductor and I had made it out of the situation alive. I kicked my foot backwards, knocking one of the bags into the man under the seat, “You can come out now. You can leave if you like too.”
Chapter Three – Clement
“Where’s the train going?” I crawled out from under the seat and sat across from her on the floor. I pointed the gun at her too. I was sure I didn’t need to do it anymore, my dominance was established but better safe than sorry. I wouldn’t want to have to hurt her if she decided to play the hero.
“Paris. We should be there in twelve hours. There are several stops. You could get off the train at one of them.” The lilt in her voice was hopeful.
“Nah, I’m your bunkmate for the night.”
“What do you mean by my bunkmate?” She pulled herself into a ball as if I had threatened her. It took me a moment to figure it out.
“I’m not gonna rape you. What kind of man do you think I am?” I felt insulted.
“The kind of man that holds women hostage.”
“That’s not my day job… In my club, we don’t make women do anything they don’t want to do… don’t need to. I’ve got them hanging off my dick 24/7.”
“You’re gross, and what kind of club would have you as a member?”
I’ve held guns on people before, and they all pretty much pissed themselves with fear. Her saucy mouth was a change of pace. I laughed. “The less you know, the better.”
“I guess,” She rolled her eyes at me and crossed her arms. The girl was in a full pout.
“What’s your name?” I asked
“Callie, what’s yours? Let me guess, the less I know, the better.” She mocked my light accent and deep timber.
“You know I’m holding a gun on you, right?” I tried to say with seriousness.
“Yeah, but really, why would you shoot me? You wo
uld have to jump off the train or shoot everyone else on the train. I was having a bad day before I met you…”
“Poor you, what happened?” I feigned concern. For some reason, she thought I was serious.
“My friends, they’re like running around Barcelona on drugs… like maniacs. It’s like they’re forsaking everything we ever believed in—
“Yeah,” I mocked her Valley Girl tone, “I’m not interested, and by the way you just said “like” practically three times in a row.”
“Why did you ask then? And I’m not from the Valley. I’m from Boston.”
“Okay, Boston Girl, let’s have some quiet.”
“Can you put the gun down?”
“No.”
“So, we’re just going to sit here like this for twelve hours?”
“Yes.” I relaxed against the wall and took my cellphone out of my pocket to call my club back in Paris. No reception.
“Okay,” She shrugged and stared up at the ceiling.
I did have women hanging off my dick. Our clubhouse was a bar in Les Halles. The women knew what we wanted, and they gave and gave.
They were my kind of women, tight little asses, big tits in the low-cut dresses, always ready for me and my gang. All I had to do was tilt my head towards the backroom and they came running.
I never bothered to look at regular women. It was as if they didn’t exist. It was the same with Callie, she was invisible to me as a woman. Callie was a means to an end. A way to safely get back to Paris.
But when she looked up at the ceiling, her chest jutted forward. I didn’t even know she had tits until that moment. She was dressed like a college girl, oversized sweatshirt, jeans, hair in a ponytail.
Her tits though, round, full, filling out the baggy top. If I was different kind man, I would have reached out, ran my hands over them, squeezing them.
I felt my dick harden at the thought, and crossed my legs.