Ridin' Dirty: An Outlaw Author Anthology (OAMC Book 1)

by Blue Remy

  She’s curious. The remains of his drunken fog receding in light of this puzzle to solve. Curious equals interested. Interesting. “Half-price. I didn’t realize you were a chick.” Downplay everything. “My favorite kinda chick.”

  Chin to her palm, head tipping the other direction, she waited for a beat and then, that thread of humor still present, “What does that mean?” Nice fuckin’ voice. Nice package of pretty sittin’ here in front of me.

  “My favorite kinda chick? A hot chick.” He’d known whores in his life, knew one of them since he’d been birthed, since that was his mother’s chosen profession. So he knew the patter they preferred and made a split-second decision to find an edge there to walk. Lowering his voice, he pitched it sexy-sweet for his spiel, letting the truth roll off his tongue knowing it would be more believable than anything else. “Hot chick like you, I’m surprised you’re not already laid up with a man. But you ain’t, and here I am. Give me a chance, I’ll rock your world, baby. Rock you all night long. Make you feel so good.”

  Lips he hadn’t realized were so generous stretched in a beautiful smile, giving her face additional dimension. His cock twitched, the first sign of life from that rat bastard all evening. Low and smooth, in a level tone, she asked, “What’s the cost of this hypothetical connection?”

  Ho-lee shit, she’s goin’ for it. Chin up, he pushed his bottom lip up and out, creating that pouting, bearded smile the girls seemed to like so much. Confident for the first time since before he broke the last rack of balls, he held her gaze as best he could in these indifferent shadows on the edge of the lot. “Man’s gotta make a livin’, but you’re so pretty…” he trailed off and made a show of looking at what he could see of her “…you name your price and you got it, baby.”

  The rolling rumble of a hundred truck engines surrounded them, quietly vibrating the air, coiled power exploited for the drivers’ comfort, keeping the cabs cool or warm according to preference. Her truck was silent, the window already slightly open before he knocked on the door. She took things as they came, without forcing things into a mold. He wondered suddenly if she could take him the same way and felt a shiver of fear trickle down his back, not sure how far he should take this farce.

  He cast that thought aside as he felt his chest settle, heavy with disappointment at her continued silence, and was a half-breath from turning away when she spoke. “Payment after services rendered.” There was no way a whore would go for that arrangement, rightly assuming they’d be stiffed. The way it worked was payment up front, like what you get or not, the goods were the goods. No way would a whore climb up in a truck without seeing the green. “Got a condom?” she asked, giving so much away with her two short sentences.

  She couldn’t know how whores worked. He knew that tidbit for a fact, now that he was paying attention. The inside of her cab reflected a quiet femininity, more like an anti-masculine than anything specific or pointed towards the fairer sex. A quilted pouch on the dash to hold small things, the fabric would muffle any annoying rattles. Cute and functional, there was a ladybug-shaped air freshener clipped to the visor. Those things identified her truck in such a way that there’d be no whores for her. The typical truck stop lot lizards avoided female drivers like the plague, like sweetbottoms at club parties avoided ole ladies. Like cottonmouths and copperheads, knowing the other by the stench emitted, each giving the other a wide berth.

  Her question, well, that gave away a lot. A woman without condoms meant she did without getting dick regularly, or at least never brought it home. He knew from his brother that truckers considered their rig a home as much as he looked at the clubhouse the same way. You only brought into that what you were willing to defend. Sweetbottoms didn’t come inside, not past the outer rooms. Relegated to the party spots and common areas, never allowed back where the members lived because bitches didn’t rank if the shit hit the fan. So this woman not having condoms meant she didn’t shit where she lived. Which made her willingness to let him in suspect and odd.

  Such a nice package of pretty, appealing and sweet. Why would she be looking for paid company? A beautiful woman alone on the road learned to be safe and cautious early on, or they didn’t stay good-looking long.

  Twisted, road name earned years ago, the only name his club members knew, didn’t like odd. He liked to understand odd, dissect it, and see what made it tick. The why mattered.

  Decision made, he nodded, reaching for the grab bar anchored to the side of the truck. Hand out, he caught the door as she threw it open before disappearing into the back of the truck, headed towards the sleeper. It took him two false starts, but he managed to climb up and into the driver’s seat. He powered the window shut and made a show of locking the door before turning to look into the rear of the cabin.

  The pass-through between the seats led to a condo sleeper, dim lighting from the built-in cabinetry illuminated the area as well as the woman perched on one end of the mattress. A pistol was lying on top of a table next to her, within easy reach of her right hand.

  Palms lifted in front of him, he shook his head. Shit. Shit shit shit. Shoulda known too good was too good. He imagined seeing his winnings from the night going up in a quick puff of smoke. Seeing the hit he’d take when the boys found out he’d been taken in by a slip of a chick who was hardly old enough to hold the license her current vehicle indicated. “Hold on,” he said softly, feeling a cold ball of steel settle into his belly. Calm and cool. There we go. He was good in challenging situations. His responses never quite what people expected, twisting the fabric around him until everything of benefit came to him. “Hold on.”

  “Just so there aren’t any misunderstandings,” she said, reaching over and picking up the gun.

  Shit shit shit. Hand inching down his leg, he split his attention. Half remained on the woman, watching the movement of her fingers and hand, fixated on the flexors and tendons and muscles in the arm holding the gun, and half transferred to his own hand, feeling the outline of the gun in his boot. Judging the time it would take to flip it out and into his palm, evening the numbers. He had another weapon in a holster on his six, but his position in the driver’s seat made that one awkward to reach. If you can’t win with one gun, you’re fucked anyway. Wait, he thought. Wait and see.

  With a practiced flip of her thumb, she engaged the safety and then dropped it back to the surface with a clatter. Twisted refused to give her any reaction, not even the satisfaction he felt that she had so misjudged him. Happens all the time. With a pretty face and a lean, muscular body he preferred to think of as wiry, he found himself underestimated all the time. By males, who felt bulging muscles were the measure of a man. And now, by a woman who didn’t know the kind of viper she’d allowed into her home. Propping the door open, invitation offered and accepted, slithering in, forked tongue flicking inside the smile forced into place. Oh, darlin’, your mistake. My pleasure.

  “So, how’s this go?” She trained her eyes on him, fixing him in place, but he could see the edge of uncertainty there, too. She was rethinking things; probably already sorry she’d rolled that window down. Time to pour on the charm again, ease her into things. If he wanted to take this all the way, it seemed he’d be able to, and he found himself still intrigued. Would be good to fuck someone just for fun for a change. Most of his rendezvous were calculated for club advantage.

  His last three encounters had all been like that, unsatisfying fucks that were more work than fun. First, the wife of a rival club’s president, a video of her active participation emailed to the man’s club that night. Twisted stood back and watched the implosion, members not willing to follow a man who couldn’t keep his bitch in line, freeing Twisted to scoop the good ones right up. There was the offered daughter of a sweetbottom looking to trade up to ole lady status. He’d verified the age and willingness before tossing the bitch on a table and drilling into her hard and fast. Even without priming her, finding to his distaste that at just-turned-eighteen she was already sloppy—he gave a silent
snort at where his mind went—as a truck stop lot lizard. Then the party doll who’d sucked him off at a joint gathering three weeks ago, her reluctant man forced to watch the head-bobbing action. Prospect patch for the other club on his back, the hookup as much a discipline for him as a tradeoff with Twisted. He’d come with slitted eyes watching the crowd, listening to the bitch gag as he wrenched her hair, thrusting down her throat.

  This cute thing in front of him was looking for more than a quick fuck. An offer of an all-night gig was on the table and those words triggered an involuntary tell, an eye flare suggesting he’d piqued her interest. Meant she was looking for a partner, not an encounter, maybe didn’t know there was a difference. She’d be looking for sweet. I can do soft tonight, he decided on the fly. I can give her sweet if that’s what she needs. Tipping his head towards her gun lying on the table, he tipped his hand at the same time.

  “This goes a couple different ways, darlin’.” Using a sweet voice, soft and quiet, reassuring, he adjusted the tone until he saw the muscles in her shoulders relax a bit. “First I need to know you don’t plan on robbing me.”

  “What?” The question was forced out by her surprise, a laughing negation of sound that he was happy to hear. “No, of course not.”

  “Man can’t be too careful.” He gave her the smile again and her face softened, brightening in enticing ways. He found this up close view of her reaction intoxicating. I know I’m good-lookin’, but I do believe this chick is into beards. Testing his theory, he lifted a hand, stroking downwards from cheeks to tip, over the point of his chin and down his neck the short distance to where his beard ended. She watched the entire motion without breathing. Not once. Mouth open partway, she would be embarrassed to know she licked left to right across her entire, lush bottom lip. Fuck yeah, she’ll be willing to ride my beard, no doubt.

  “You never know what kind of people you’ll find these days.” Stretching out his arm, he rested his hand palm-up on his thigh—not a danger, he projected, harmless to you—concentrating on her as he said, “I’ve got my own protection.” Spell broken, her chin jerked up, pointing directly at him, eyes locked on his as he continued, “I have two pieces on me, darlin’. And a knife in my boot.” Still and quiet, she didn’t glance at her handgun, which told him she knew exactly where it was in relation to her body. She didn’t have to look at it to go for it. Interesting. “I wanted to tell you now, so when you see me take them out and put them up here,” he gestured to the surface between the seats, a built-in sticking out from the wraparound driver’s console, “you won’t be surprised.”

  She nodded, the only movement he could see other than the jumping fabric over her heart. Every conscious reaction was clamped down, but she couldn’t control that tell. His gaze slipped to her neck and he saw the same pulse leaping there, pounding. In about two minutes I’m gonna have my mouth there, he decided, giving her the smile again. “So long as you aren’t planning on robbing me, and I’m extending the same courtesy, we’ll have everything out in the open, yeah?” He moved and the chain from his wallet jangled against the seat controls, reminding him of something. “And I have three condoms, sweetness. If we need more than that, one of us will have to get dressed and walk to the truck stop, make a purchase.”

  That pulled a reaction from her, startled surprise. Hmm. At the honesty, or the offer to go three rounds in the space of time she was offering him? Maybe she’s been with shitty men in the past? Young as she was, that didn’t mean lack of experience, he was a prime example of that. By the time he’d turned fifteen, he’d fucked his way through the entire senior class, and even tagged a couple of juniors. Not to say his freshmen peers hadn’t wanted their turn, but he focused on the leverage pieces first. Access to booze and cigs, invitations to upperclassmen parties, girls with jobs who didn’t mind spending cash on flash for him.

  He’d taken his mother’s advice to heart, though, even back then. Georgie, you always take care of the woman first. Don’t make her feel like a slut, don’t make her wait on you to get yours. Take care of your woman. She’d told him that the first time she saw the trash can full of used tissues, back when he was twelve. Watching the women around the whorehouse had given him a unique window into what ‘taking care of the woman’ meant. A practical application of knowledge had never steered him wrong.

  “Then how this goes is I come back there and sit next to you. I’ll kiss you, if you’re okay with that.” A pause and she nodded, his head bobbing as he returned the gesture. She was all in on this. He eased his hand down, pulling the pistol out of his boot. She didn’t even look at his hand when it came up to place the weapon in clear view on the console. Her gaze remained stuck to his face, taking in everything he said. “Then we’ll neck for a bit, stretch out, get comfortable. I promised you all night, sweetness. We don’t have to hurry anything.”

  Hand behind his back now, he pulled the other gun from the holster, laying it next to its smaller partner. Barrel to barrel, the two guns looked like a parody of a tattoo. A gangster he once knew, Two Guns, had that image inked on his belly. Once knew the man, nothing to know now. Two Guns had met the fate foretold by his name, eating the end of a rival’s gun, shadows in an alley devouring his pain.

  She licked her lips, then, voice soft and low, sweetly unsure, asked, “All night?”

  “All night long, sweetness.” He retrieved his wallet, flipping it open and taking out the condoms. Palming the wrappers, he replaced the worn leather into the back pocket of his jeans, feeling it snag on the frayed hole in the bottom corner of the fabric. “All night,” he repeated, legs pushing as he levered to a standing position, half bent over, shoulders rounded and bumping the ceiling. He glanced up to the space over her bunk, seeing the upper bed folded away. Much taller back there, more room to maneuver. “Permission to enter the boudoir, ma’am?”

  That pulled a grin from her and he returned it, knowing his smile looked more self-satisfied than hers did. That was okay; they’d get there. She just needs some confidence. Startled at the thought, he wondered why the fuck it mattered to him. He was about to get his nut off in a sweet piece that had fuckall to do with the club. No business in this truck, just two people about to fuck like animals.

  She gestured to his feet and he looked down, then back up, waiting. “Can you take your boots off up there?” She pointed to the driver’s seat and he looked to see two pairs of shoes lined up beside the outer wall, up beside the clutch. “I try to keep the outside as far away from where I live as possible.”

  Me, too. With a scowl, he remembered the one time he’d let a woman into his space at the clubhouse. A newly patched member, he’d gotten shitfaced and hauled a drama mama to his room. She’d been looking to work her way up on her back, and left his bed in the middle of the night to crawl into an officer’s rack. Fucking her way through the ranks, only to be discovered by that man’s ole lady the next morning. Fucked up for sure.

  Hair and blood flew, and while that shit was amusing to watch when drunk or stoned, it was a fuckuvalot less entertaining at six o’clock in the morning, hungover, and feeling like shit. Still, it was his to clean up, so he’d waded in, taking a rake of nails to the face for his efforts. That had been the only time he’d done that shit; made his personal rule mandatory in the first church after he took up the president’s gavel.

  She was frowning, so smoothing his expression, he gave her a dialed-back version of the cocky grin, pulling the veneer of civilized back into place. “No problem, darlin’. I like neat and tidy right alongside you.” He bent over and lifted a foot in the same motion, something he’d been doing for decades now. Leather changed, habits didn’t. One tug and he dropped the boot with a quiet thud, exchanging positions, propping his other ankle on his knee as he tugged again. Reaching down, he sorted his boots, lining the heels up with the edge of the rubber mat, keeping them off the carpeted area. “Better?” He reached, unclipping his wallet, pulling it out and laying it between the guns.

  It was good she spok
e up, that told him she was willing to ask for what she needed. Communication always made fucking more satisfying and just easier all around, so her asking for this boded well for him.

  She nodded and he moved, easing a knee to the mattress, shifting to a hip and gliding past her to put his back to the rear wall. Head in his hand, elbow propping him up, he grinned up at her. Where she sat, shoulders leaning against the sidewall, her ass was about where the pillows would go if they weren’t scrunched up into the corner. He wasn’t surprised by the restless movement he’d heard even before knocking on the door, she hadn’t been sleeping. There was a book tucked under the edge of the pillows, face down, uncaring if she broke the spine.

  He glanced around. There were a dozen well-worn books on one of the shelves over the top of the bunk, held in place by two fabric-covered elastic straps. From where he was, he could read the titles on some of them. Jesus, fuck, he thought, trying hard not to laugh aloud. Motorcycle club books. Every one of them. He’d stumbled on a closet club fanatic. Probably religiously watched that fuckin’ show on TV, even now that it was over with. Hell, she probably watched the reruns, too. Got her ideas from a Hollywood version of the life, probably didn’t know a single founder’s name of the club that “advised” on the show, but she could tell you the statistics for the actors portraying bikers.

  From the looks of the models on some of the book covers, she wasn’t above smut for her bedtime reading, so hopefully she wouldn’t be opposed to acting out some of her favorite scenes. Mentally he compared himself to the clean-shaven, mural-inked, and gym rat-fit bodies on display and had to fight laughter again. Full beard, mostly black tattoos with a little color when the ink called for it, a leanish frame with a hint of body fat to attest to his love of food and booze—about the only thing he had in common with the guys on those covers was he wasn’t wearing his cut right now, either. That was in Fred’s truck, wherever the fuck that was, stored so he wouldn’t have to deal with shit solo. Not that he was afraid of an ass beating if it came down to that, but this wasn’t his town, so protocol demanded he respect the dominant club in the area.