by Paula Cox
The place is quiet when I get there, a few old men in the corner, a few women sitting at the bar, the music low. Outside, it is still light, so it will be a while yet before the night-fiends come out to play, to turn the volume up and stamp up and down the dancefloor. I look around but Slick is nowhere in sight. I know he won’t be back at the clubhouse; he’s renting an apartment just round the corner from here, though I don’t know the exact address. Either he will be here, or I’m not seeing him tonight. I order a vodka-and-coke and take a seat by myself in the corner, drinking and listening to the music, watching as the group of women at the bar get drunker and drunker and eventually start dancing.
I’m still angry at Heather, at how she would talk about my entire life, how she would question the way I’m bringing Charlotte up. But I can’t be too angry with her, because I did ask for her advice. It’s just that she’s wrong. She’s just plain wrong about Slick. I finish my drink, order another, tell myself I’m going to sip this one slower and then all of a sudden I’m on my third drink and the doorway is turning from sun-bright to night-dark. A man across the bar, tall, lean, short-haired and passably attractive, with a tattoo of dark green fire spreading up his neck and various colorful tattoos on his arms, smiles over at me every so often. She’s wrong about Slick . . . she doesn’t even know him. She just thinks he’s an animal, like the rest of them. She doesn’t know how much more there is to him.
I’m stewing on this when the man comes over to my table. “How’re you, beautiful?” he says. His eyes are the same shade of green as his tattoo. He’s good-looking, not just passably handsome, I can see now he’s up close. Exactly the sort of man I would be interested in, but—“I’m waiting for someone,” I tell him.
“Oh, okay. Well . . .” He looks around. “Where is he? You’ve been here a while.”
“He’s on his way,” I say.
“Can’t we talk while we wait?”
“Talk about what?” I mutter, thinking of the way Heather just disregarded Slick and getting angry, thinking about how she wants me to just move—move away from everybody and everything—because she thinks he’s too dirty for me. She seems to forget that not too long ago I was just as dirty as him.
“Anything.” The man sits in the chair opposite. “Anything you want.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “I told you. I’m waiting for somebody.”
“Look,” the man says, resting his elbows on the table, “you’re a very beautiful, captivating, and clearly intelligent woman.”
“Is that so?” I say, smiling despite myself. This man is charming. If not for Slick . . . but I can never follow the if-not-for-Slick road, not with Charlotte, not with history.
“Yes,” he says. “And if you would—”
Slick and his men, around five of them, enter the bar. The bald-headed spike-tattooed one walks at his shoulder, talking, the other men trailing behind. A couple of them are old, friends of Slick’s father, and a couple are young, maybe the old men’s kids. They talk loudly, laughing and shouting, and dominate the bar when they sit there, shouting out their orders. Ignoring the man, I jump to my feet and make my way to the bar. Whether it’s anger at Heather’s words or just eagerness—or perhaps the alcohol—I walk fast, urgently. Remnants of anger still singe inside of me, and the alcohol makes everything fuzzy. I shouldn’t have had that third vodka, that’s for sure.
When I get close enough, I hear the bald-headed man shout out: “Here’s to Slick, the greatest leader we could fuckin’ ask for . . . if what you’re askin’ for is a fuckin’ useless fucker! Ah!” He yelps as Slick grabs him in a headlock and rubs his head with his knuckle.
“Little prick.” Slick laughs, and then necks a whisky. “From now on, fellas, I want you to give this bastard a punch across the face every time you fuckin’ see him. I want his face to look like a fat woman’s pussy when you’re done with him.”
Dirty, Heather said. Dirty, wild bandits. She wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Slick!” I call, too loud, too eagerly.
The men stop laughing, and then turn around and face me. When they see that it’s me, their boss’s daughter, they fall quiet.
“Slick, I need to talk to you!”
It’s only now that I realize where this urgency is coming from: I’m going to tell him. I am drunk enough, angry enough, and eager enough. I’m going to tell him about Charlotte, just to see how he reacts, just to prove that Heather is wrong about him. She has to be wrong about him.
He’s been back too long now for me to keep ignoring the situation. I can’t bury my head in the sand forever. So I’ll tell him, and then, maybe—but he doesn’t turn to face me, doesn’t give me any attention.
“Slick!” I repeat, voice sharper.
He shrugs, laughs, and then half-turns and snaps, “Why don’t you act like a woman should and leave us boys alone, eh?”
Then he turns back to his men, all of whom are clearly impressed with Slick’s display of manliness, but unwilling to show it with me here.
My mouth falls open, stunned by hearing him talk to me like that. Then I grit my teeth in rage and think about shouting at him again. But already he’s making some crass boys-will-be-boys comment to his men. I know that if I shout at him, he’ll just ignore me again. So I need to come up with another way to annoy him. Maybe this is petty. This sort of behavior should be beneath me. But fuck that. If he’s going to snap at me like a childish asshole, I’ll be a childish asshole right back.
I turn on my heels and march across the bar, going to the table where the green-fire-tattooed man is sitting. He glances up at me over the rim of his glass of whisky, eyes playful when he sees how angry I am. It seems that all guys are destined to be assholes today! I want to glance over my shoulder, see if Slick is watching, but I don’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing I give a damn.
“Can you walk me out?” I ask the guy.
“Walk you out?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Is that a euphemism or do you really want me to just walk you out?”
I sigh. “I really want you to just walk me out,” I say, wondering if I’m going too far. Maybe this really is too childish. Maybe I should stop. But I can’t get the way he just snapped at me out of my head; I can’t ignore their laughter, which even now dominates the bar, loud and raucous. But this is way, way too far, I reflect, shaking my head. Maybe the alcohol has gotten to me. “No, actually, don’t worry.”
“No—wait.” The man stands. “I’ll walk out with you. I’m leaving now, anyway.”
“Oh, okay.” I nod, trying to think of a way of backing out of it. But it’s too late. He’s on his feet, walking beside me, and soon we’re outside the Irishman standing opposite each other.
“Are you really not going to give me a kiss?” the man asks, grinning. There’s something unsettling about that grin, about the way it doesn’t reach his eyes, about the way he shifts from foot to foot like a boxer warming up.
Chapter Eight
Bri
I don’t know what this man would try if Slick did not pace into the parking lot, swaying a little from all his drinking, and walk directly over to me and the man. The man is grinning in that strange way, but he hasn’t made any move at me yet. We’re out front in the parking lot, but the lot is deserted this time in the evening, the drinkers preferring to come out later, so he could’ve done anything. But then Slick is standing beside us. He’s taken off his leather, wearing just a T-shirt and faded jeans, his arms taut and scarred and tattooed and tempting, arms I have dreamt of for the past two years. Shame they’re attached to a man who was just rude as hell to me.
“Beat it,” Slick says to the man, and then turns toward me as though that’s the end of the matter.
But the man doesn’t beat it. He squares his shoulders, puffs up his chest. “We’re having a conversation here,” he says. “I saw you in there. You were damn rude to the lady. Why should I beat it?”
Slick sighs, shakes his head. “I don’t wanna fuck you up,” he say
s calmly. “So just fuck off.”
Something about Slick’s tone must make the man question if I’m worth it, and decide that I’m not. He watches Slick for a few moments, and then bows his head and slinks away, heading around the side of the building, where his car must be.
“That was pretty rude, in there,” I say.
But then Slick just walks away from me, heading around the side of the building toward his bike. I follow him, finding it hard to believe how much of an asshole he’s being, like he doesn’t even know me, let alone like me. The tattooed man pulls out in his car, driving past us, so that when we reach Slick’s bike, we are alone in the car park. Music thumps dimly through the Irishman’s walls, and far away a car backfires, but nobody is near us. The eaves of the bar throw deep shadows over his bike, further hiding us.
“Slick!” I snap. “What’s gotten into you?”
He has his hand in his pocket, fumbling for his keys, staring down at his bike and unwilling to look at me.
“You’re not driving!” I walk around the bike and snatch his keys away from him.
He wobbles a little, and then lifts his sky-blue eyes to me. He must’ve been drinking all day. His eyes are shot with blood, watery. “What’re you doin’, Brat?” he says. “What’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem?” I reply, dancing back to my side of the bike, where he can’t snatch the keys from me. He just stands there, watching me, that cocky smirk on his lips. “You were going to drive, Slick . . . look at you. You’re drunker than I’ve ever seen you in my life.” It’s true. Slick’s always been able to hold his drink, which means he must’ve drunk a hell of a lot if he’s wobbling like this. “You haven’t even got your helmet with you. You’re not wearing your jacket. And you were going to drive!”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Slick mutters, leaning against the wall of the bar. “I was goin’ to get a pack of goddamn cigarettes. What are you, Brat, my mother?”
“Stop being such a prick!” I wave my arms in frustration, the keys making a ringing noise in my hand. “I wanted to talk to you. Why is that such a problem?”
“Look,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t have a woman shouting at me in front of men who look to me for leadership, not even if you are Boss’s daughter. Do you think I’m goin’ to get ahead by accepting that sort of shit?”
“I just wanted to talk to you,” I mutter. “And you humiliated me. You made me look like a little kid getting a goddamn telling off!” Anger rises once again, and I go on, getting angrier, “And you’ve barely spoken to me since that night at the tree! What is it, Slick, ignoring me just because I haven’t fucked you yet? Is that all you see me as, a quick goddamn lay?”
Slick makes a snorting laughing sound, and then pushes away from the wall. Walking around his bike, he says, “I don’t know what you want, Brat. That’s my goddamn problem. One minute you come at me all hot and heavy, wrapping your legs around me and moaning like you fuckin’ like it, and the next you’re jumping away from me and tellin’ me you want me to stop. I’ll be the first to admit, Brat,” he goes on, backing me against his bike, the metal cool through the thin fabric of my dress, “that I’m not the best man when it comes to that emotional shit with women. But goddamn, what the fuck are you tryin’ to do, drive me mad or somethin’?”
“I . . .” I should tell him now, I should just tell him outright this moment, but it’s that conundrum again . . . his hand is trailing up my thigh, his rough fingers tickling my skin and sending buzzing sensations all the way to my pussy, making my clit warm, making everything warm. “I . . .” He makes it so damn difficult to get the words out sometimes, makes it so difficult for me to think straight when he comes at me like this. I can’t stop looking at his arms, scarred, tattooed, powerful, muscles pressing well-defined through skin, big masses of muscle.
“You what?” Slick says. And then he grabs my thigh with what feels like all his strength, grabs it so solidly that for a moment it hurts. But then he eases off the tension, and slides his hand up my thigh, stopping just short of my panties. “What do you want, Brat? Don’t you want to come all over my hand, just like you did that night? Don’t you want to squirt like my little whore? I remember the way you squirted; I remember the way you sucked my fingers afterwards.”
“I—”
He presses his hand down on my panties, pressing my clit. It’s been so long since I felt his hand on my pussy that all thought is obliterated from my mind. I bite down, and then try once more to tell him, one last ditch effort. But my body is too hot, too aching for pleasure. He pushes my panties aside and brings his middle finger to my hole, which is wet, so wet so quickly, soaked and tingly and aching for his finger, his cock, his tongue, his everything.
“I remember when you got on your hands and knees and begged me to fuck you hard from behind, Brat. I remember how you bounced your ass up and down, moaning, telling me you were my little slut, just mine, and you’d do anything for me. I remember looking down at my rock-hard cock and seeing it covered in your come, thick and white, and I remember fucking you ever harder ’cause I loved to look at it so fucking much.”
When he slides his finger inside of me, I am powerless. There is nothing I can do but lean against his bike, my ass pressing coldly into the metal, his finger pressing warmly into the sweet spot inside of me. He slides another finger in, two fingers buried deep inside of me, his eyes staring like blue flames into me, his muscles taut, smelling of whisky and sweat and me loving the smell more than anything.
“Are you going to squirt for me again?” he asks, sliding his fingers in and out of me, the sensation so full of heat and sparks and electric impulses that I can’t even answer. I just feel them, two strong oily biker’s fingers, callused from fighting and riding, in my tight wet pussy.
“You look like you are, Brat,” he says, fucking my pussy faster with his fingers, in and out, in and out, so that I can hear the fleshy sound of him inside of me. He fucks me so fast with his fingers that I have to stand on my tiptoes from the force, gripping his arms with my hands, squeezing his muscles. “I want you to squirt all down my fuckin’ arm,” he says, breathing heavily. “I want to fuckin’ see it.”
Muscles tensing, he lifts me off my feet and sits me down on the bike so that he can put the strength of his arm into finger-fucking me. Aiming his fingers at my hot spot, he fucks me fast and hard, so fast and hard that I start moaning right here in the car park. I am vaguely aware that someone, at any moment, might interrupt us. And I am vaguely aware that it might even be one of Slick’s men, who’ll then go and tell my father. But none of that matters, not with the pleasure coursing through me like wildfire. I lean back, and shift my hips as his fingers slide, hotly, soaked, into my sensitive stop.
“I’m going to—fuck—Slick—fuck—”
“Come for me,” he growls. “Squirt all over my fuckin’ arm.”
I close my eyes, feeling as though I am floating instead of sitting on the bike, floating and hovering above a raging inferno whose heat scorches into my pussy, holding myself poised above the heat to best ride the pleasure. Euphoria grips me, then, and my pussy gets even tighter, closing like a fist around his fingers, gathering its pleasure into a tight ball. And then—the release hits me with the force of a punch to the stomach, but without any of the pain. I sit up, my stomach tight, my body tight, toes curled in my heels, hands digging into Slick’s shoulder, as the pleasure concentrates into a tiny ball inside my pussy, and then explodes. The explosion sends shards of pleasure throughout my body, to my toes, to my fingertips, and I scream. I don’t care who might hear, not right now. I throw my head back and scream, squirting thick white come all over Slick’s fingers, feeling myself come all over his hand, the pleasure immense, blotting out everything. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I moan, as another explosion hits me, and I squirt even more over his fingers. I grab his wrist, pushing him deeper inside of me, tilting my hips to get the angle just perfect, and then the orgasm gives me one last mini-explosion, th
e come pouring, my pussy aching and content and tired all at once. My head is foggy from the alcohol and the pleasure. Maybe that’s why I make the mistake.
“I’m so glad we have a daughter together,” I say . . .
Wait, what? Why the fuck did I just say that?
“Wait, what?” Slick says, as though reading my mind.
“I . . .”
I open my eyes and watch Slick, who takes a step away from me, rubbing his hand against his jeans.
“Give me my keys, Brat,” he says, “and get off my bike.”
His tone is different, dark, troubled somehow. I find myself climbing down from the bike and handing him the keys. After what we just did, I’m amazed by how cold we’ve suddenly become.
“I need to go,” he mutters, climbing onto the bike. “I need to think.”
“You’re just going to leave me, now, really?” The anger returns, and already the orgasm seems very far away. “We need to talk about this, Slick!”