On the way in he checks that Jake, Shank and Boxers rides are all in the line. There they are, engines still warm and ticking.
From her perch at the bar, Gypsy watched as he strode into the bar, and the background noise of the Meathook changed key. He was a tall, rangy, biker with hair the color of straw. His cheekbones and jaw, even his short mustache and beard, they could all have been chiseled from granite. The short, neat beard can’t hide a deep cleft in his chin. His deep, emerald eyes were hard and penetrating. His expression was rock solid. The barroom floor could have burst into flame, his face wouldn’t move.
Her kick-ass leather waistcoat had black tassels on the big sliver buckles, and it was open over a white cotton shirt with a tall collar. The shirt was open most of the way, exposing a black lace bra that struggled to contain her hefty, heaving beauties. Sinuous Thai silver chains lay across the tops of her breasts, so as to show them as they when they rose and fell.
Sheer dark gunmetal nylon sheathed her 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 peeked out just below the hem of the little skirt. The huge Mexican silver buckle on the wide black belt was low and loose on the sheen of leather stretched over the curve of her stomach. Short black Spanish hand-made cowboy boots with embroidery and raised heels helped to focus attention on her calves and thighs.
Gypsy sent her tried and tested not looking at you look to Hacker, along the bar. For a long time. When his attention was engaged, that look was 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 didn’t register her, Not 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. Gypsy wasn’t used to that. Hacker was talking to the barman, Grinder. Grinder looked like he was made out of two or more truckers. When she rolled her practically empty glass around and looked into it, Grinder noticed. But Hacker didn’t.
She wanted him. She wanted him so bad she could taste it right on the back of her throat, feel it with the tip of her tongue. Her thighs tingled and she got squirmy in her panties with the very thought of him. If she had known then what the cost was going to be, would she have done it any differently? Hard to say. Gypsy learned a lot in the next few days. If she’d seen what was coming, would she have acted differently, or would she have figured it was all worth the price?
Intricate tattoo art on his strong neck slipped down the muscles inside his black work shirt. On the back of his cut-off leather motorcycle jacket was the Savage MC top rocker, the big ‘S’ with a dagger and drips of red. The bike jacket had big zippers and buckles and even with no sleeves it looked like it weighed about as much as she did. He rocked up to the bar, loose-limbed in denim baggies, ordered a bourbon and talked with the barkeeper. Leaning at the bar, his ass was a miracle.
Gypsy recognized Hacker from high school, where he had been a few years above her, 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 she looked in high school, she had the best shoes, the best clothes, the coolest makeup. She had all the money. But she had been under a layer or two of puppy fat. She looked a whole lot better now.
Gypsy strutted slowly over to the jukebox. She 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 her throat, over the sliver chains and inside her shirt, around her black bra and then up her thighs. Every other man except Mr Hacker. The jukebox had John the Revelator, but only the Curtis Stigers version. If it had Son House she would have played that. She was going to cue up Bad Company, the original by Bad Company, but then she saw the live version of Mr Big by Free, so she lined that up with Hendrix If Six Were Nine, thinking, Ignore that, motherfuckers.
She crossed back to the bar, figuring she’d have to buy her own damn drink, but a clean glass was waiting for her with a glowing shot of bourbon. She looked up in Hacker’s direction, but it was Grinder who returned her smile. Good guy, Grinder. Ah well.
As she carefully and studiously didn’t watch their conversation, she saw both men make gestures toward the back of the bar. The corridor led to the payphone, the men’s room and the back rooms, so she decided to head Hacker off at the pass.
She stood waiting in the corridor, rolling the remains of her bourbon around the glass. He loped along from the barroom like he was in slow motion. When he got to where she was standing, she was blocking his way. He looked in her eye as he waited for her to move aside. No expression, no greeting, no, “Hi, nice to see you,” nothing. Like he didn’t even recognize her. So, she decided that she’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 she didn’t move he put his hands on her upper arms to move her to the passageway wall, but as he moved her she was sure that he caught her perfume. Not just the scent from a bottle, the one that smells like patchouli and cum. As his fingers contacted with her skin, a shock ran through her. His bottom lip tightened and that was how she knew that he registered it, too.
He moved her, his hands gripping her arms, moved her to the side. Their lips were close enough that they 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 their 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.”
Gypsy put out her bottom lip. He could still have reached it with his teeth. She was sure that the thought crossed his mind. She 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?” She lifted an eyebrow and tilted her hips at him, “Seems like there’s an armadillo in the front of your pants who is very interested. He is with you, right?” She watched his jaw muscles work as she 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?” She felt his heat right in front of her crotch. Her own heat was rising, too.
He was about to pull away. She 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.”
Gypsy chewed the inside of her lip. As he left he said over his shoulder, “At your own risk if you don’t have a brain bucket.” She knew that he meant a helmet, and he knew that she 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 seemed a safe bet to Gypsy 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 she saw a matt black bike. Low seat, high bars, no dressing at all. She thought, that’s him.
She thought it would be fun to really surprise him. Jump in the saddle and wait for him, ready on the hog. But she also knew that if he saw someone on his bike, he’d probably shoot them before he even wondered who it might be, so she stood waiting b
y the side of the bike like a little groupie.
About fifteen minutes standing around and Gypsy was starting to wonder if this was all worth it, when two drunken bikers lumbered towards her. 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. Both of them had swarthy complexions and she took them to be Mexicans.
The taller one said, “Hey, sweetbutt,” His accent sounded Mexican, “I got something here needs a cleaning. Get your tongue ready for work.” The other one laughed and moved to step behind me.
She said to the first one, “Ooh, I bet you got a cock that tastes of, let me see I’m guessing,” she narrowed her eyes and made her lips purse like a wine snob on a TV show, “don’t tell me, warm, runny enchilada cheese and mmm, I’m guessing... beer farts?” and she licked her lips. He moved towards her and she 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 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,”
Gypsy said, “You know whose hog this is, right?” as she 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.”
She was still turning, but she couldn’t keep facing both of them. She said, “You sure you want to make that bet, soldier?” but right then the tall one grabbed her from behind. He was as strong as he was big, and there wasn’t anything she could do to get out of his grip. She thought she’d better bide her time. As he held her the other one came up close in front. Put out a finger to pull her shirt forwards. Peered down into her rising hot cleavage. She tried to keep her breathing steady as he leaned his head down to sniff. Then he slipped his hand inside her bra. Grabbed her breast. Started to squeeze. She heard the first one say to him,
“That’s some handful of tit there, Boxer. Does it feel all sweet and doughy?” The vibration of his voice rumbled against her back. The one in front looked in her eye as he said, “they could do with a lashing of cream.” He slid a hand up her thigh and said, “I found the fish course,” as his fat fingers climbed to the top of her thigh and shoved at the side of her panties.
Using the grip of the big man behind to hold her steady, Gypsy snapped her knee up hard into the short biker’s chin. Heard a loud crack as his teeth slammed together and she rammed her other leg up hard, driving her 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, she felt herself lifted high and then flung onto the ground. Her arm hit the shale and she rolled. She heard the big guy say, “This one’s on fire. We’re going to have some real fun with you, sweetbutt.” He leaned over and his hand grabbed at the back of her head. He started to pull her up by the hair. He dragged her face towards his groin. With his other hand he began unbuttoning his fly. Then Gypsy 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. Hacker watched as the big biker climbed to his feet, and Gypsy 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 went over to Gypsy. He said... Imagine, you all alone minding your business and a fight starts up... He shook his head... You look alright... and she told him, sure she was.
“The arm of my shirt’s torn though.”
He said, “Yeah. You got a little gravel rash on your arm, too.” She put a hand up to her shoulder. There was a small gash, a little blood and it was sore, but not nearly as sore as her pride. Hacker helped her up and touched her shoulder. Moved it back and forth gently with his hand. He said,
“Not dislocated, nothing broken.”
She looked up into his face and said, “‘Hacks’?” and he gave her a wry smile. That was the most expression she’d seen from him yet. He lifted her chin and looked into her face. She thought he was going to kiss her and she fought the instinct to close her eyes like a schoolgirl. That wasn’t like her. Maybe she was still shaken up.
He said, “If you still want that ride,” he said, “you need to know that there will be a price.” She told him she understood that. He looked at her and said, “Same spoiled brat. You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into.” She put out her lower lip and told him that she knew exactly what she was in for. But he was right, she had no idea.
The pain in her 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 her thighs. She clung on as the motor shook itself awake and thumped a relentless beat that Gypsy felt though the saddle and right into her crotch. After the first mile or two of slicing through the cool evening and air, her panties were damp and her clit was buzzing. All the while, her hands slid along Hacker’s rippling ribs and his tight abs. She wanted to dive her hands into his pants right there on the bike. Haul out that armadillo.
She tried to think of a way that she might be able to lean around him, slide her head into his lap. Get it into her mouth and suck on him while they rode. Just the thought of it was almost enough to get her off. She figured she’d better get a hold of herself before they got to wherever it was that he was taking her, or she could just slide off the bike. She could end up as a quivering heap on the ground and that would not be a good look.
They left the highway on a side road, headed uphill in the dusk for a mile or two until they reached a turning with a heavy metal gate across it. Hacker stopped the bike, got off to open the gate, rode them in, then got off again to close the gate behind them. He took them on up for a couple of hundred yards more, until they 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 them. 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 they passed the rusting pumps Gypsy saw that where they would have had signs on the top for an oil company, they had the Savage MC colors instead. Over the entrance was a red neon sign that said, Hell’s Kitchen, Bar & Grill. Hacker parked up at the end of the line of bikes and led her 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.”
The biker replied, “Righteous weed, bro,” the top half of his body rocking in a slow nod. Hacker said,
“I shall relieve you of that.” The biker handed up the blunt, saying,
“Partake. Be mellow, fellow.” Hacker took the joint and said,
“Anyone sees Bogart, let him know I’d like words.”
The biker was already building a fresh joint. He said, “That will be conveyed upon his return, brother, be assured,”
From the far side of the smoky haze, a bearded biker with a round belly pe
ered over his shades at me. He said... Is that some ’tainment, Hacker?” another one said,
“Something for us to enter?” and Hacker looked at her as he said,
“Clear the table, boys, and put on a nice cloth. We got a spread coming.”
Hacker looked into her eyes. Now she began to realize what the price of the ride was going to be. He was expecting her to back out, she could see it, and he was offering her this last chance. Looking around the room, there were four bikers plus Hacker, all with looks of raw, animal lust igniting in their eyes.
The urge to shout NO! and to run for the door was strong, but with her stomach quaking Gypsy held her ground. Nobody was going to bail her out of this, she had made her choice and she wanted to see it through. For once, maybe the first time, Gypsy was going to finish what she started.
As she dragged the tails of her white shirt out of her leather skirt and undid the shirt buttons, one by one she looked at each of the five bikers. They were all big guys, and she was still afraid. But she was very excited, too. Being the center of all of that testosterone, that lust, the thought stirred her deep in the pit of her stomach. And lower. The thought of those bikers all reaching for her, clawing for her, their cocks standing, hardening for her, coming for her. Cumming for her. Cumming in her. And cumming on her. Fear thumped in her stomach still, but the thrill beat in her crotch. Gypsy’s little panties were soaking.
Perfectly Damaged: Luka : A bad boy mafia romance Page 48