by Cherise West
“Something stiff enough to warm you up, so maybe you’ll forget about standing like an insane person out in the middle of a rainstorm,” he responds curtly, taking a sip of his own. It brings a curl to his expression before exhaling the warmth of the booze up from his mouth. I think twice about following his example, before canting my eyes towards my phone, pushed away to the edge of the table.
I take a big, deep gulp.
Ughgh! Cough cough cough, I wretch out. Too stiff. It tastes like… like alcohol, nothing but alcohol, and too much of it. I exhale, wheezing quietly. Snotty amusement shines clear in Tony’s eyes.
“Did they just pour grain alcohol into a cup?” I rasp.
“I warned you,” he says, gulping down another mouthful.
“I didn’t think it was going to be that stiff,” I say.
“You’re at a biker bar,” he quips deadpan. “What do you expect, exactly?”
“Fine, I get it, laugh at the prosecutor in her frilly suit who can’t swallow a drink,” I hiss.
“I didn’t say anything,” he retorts.
“You didn’t have to, I saw it in your eyes. That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it,” I sass.
“I brought you here to make sure you didn’t die in the street like a wandering maniac,” he insists. “You’re the one getting crazy thoughts about dates or ulterior motives in your head.”
“I’ll show you,” I yelp defiantly, grasping the glass tight. Taking a deep breath, prepping myself, I put the liquor to my lips and swallow, swallow, swallow; I swallow until I’ve drained the thing two-thirds down. Slamming it back onto the tabletop, I breathe out, smiling smugly. “See. I’m not the shrinking violet you think I am.” I immediately begin to feel my stomach turn, and my cheeks warm, no doubt a rosy blush brought to them through my daring gesture.
“Are you trying to prove something to me, or yourself?” he jeers.
“Well, speaking of proving things, who’s the one who paid for my drink? Huh?” I smirk.
“I told you I felt sorry for you, crying in the rain. You look a gift horse in the mouth, it’s liable to bite,” he huffs. I don’t know what that drink was, but it’s actually… good. I take another heavy swig, feeling warmth surging into my stomach and through my body.
“Is that what you’re in to? Biting?” I tease. I realize a second too late that something scarcely resembling flirting just came out of my mouth. C’mon, Mara, I didn’t drink that much yet. Don’t be an idiot.
“Don’t flirt with me,” Tony calls me out. “I offered you a drink. Try to hold your liquor like a big girl.” I shrink back into the booth. I want to challenge him, but at the same time, I’m terrified of what might happen. I swallow down the rest of my drink, quickly; the liquor starts to churn in my stomach, filling my blood and blurring my thoughts.
“You want another?” he asks.
“Maybe, if I can hold my liquor,” I jab at him.
“Can you?” he scoffs.
“Only one way to find out,” I twirl my finger along the table, playing hard. Pretending like I don’t even care what he says or thinks. Hey, whatever. He’s just free drinks to me right now, right? Grabbing the glass and sighing in irritation, he dashes back through the crowd of drunks and bikers and bristling, brawny men. The stink of cigarette smoke and ash swirls around me; I glance across the tables, still finding a few pairs of eyes fixated on me, flicking slowly into ashtrays.
“Here,” Tony pushes his way back to the booth, sliding the glass nonchalantly towards me. He sits next to me, having brought himself another drink; he guzzles down a good chunk of his liquor, watching me. I contemplate drinking, or waiting. Should I really be getting drunk here? With him of all people?
“Are you going to drink or what?” he asks gruffly.
“You know,” I twirl my finger along the edge of the glass, my first bout of liquor beginning to warm me up. “It’s against state law to smoke in public places, including bars and restaurants,” I state astutely.
“Oh yeah?” Tony pretends to be impressed. “That’s cute. You should go tell the rest of the bar it’s illegal. Maybe even call the cops over here. I bet that’d do the trick,” he mocks. “Maybe arrest them yourself.”
“I’m a prosecutor, not a cop, genius,” I spit back at him, taking another long, heavy drink of liquor. Whatever’s in this is killing me, but it tastes good and the buzz tingling at the ends of my nerves encourages me with each sip. “I can’t arrest anyone.”
“Prosecutor, cop - all lawmen to me,” Tony scoffs, drinking. “All trying to breathe down my neck.”
“Well, maybe if you didn’t have your toes dipped into the pool of criminalim… criminality,” I blurt, my word slurring slightly. I bury the embarrassing moment in another sip of liquor. “Criminality, you wouldn’t have to worry about anyone breathing down your neck. Any law… people, anyway. That’s a sexist term, ‘lawman’,” I sneer.
“I certainly wouldn’t want you to think me a sexist,” Tony groans. “Criminal, sure. Sexist, no way.”
“I only think you’re a criminal because you are,” I rebut, my voice growing louder, the way drunk people always tend to. Can you blame me? The music seems to be getting louder, too, and all the voices and guitar melodies whirr into my ear as a mess of blotted noise.
“What’s your deal?” Tony jabs back. “Why’ve you got it in my for my brothers? You’ve got to have some kind of vendetta. I don’t get it.”
“Oh, so now the real reason for this little conversation becomes apparent,” I slur, pulling back another stiff swallow from my glass. My head spins, layers of heavy alcohol filling each vein with sloshing, liquid encouragement.
“Everything’s got to be like that with you, hasn’t it?” Tony says in disdain. “Always assume somebody’s got another reason for saying or thinking something. Or just wanting to do something nice.”
“This is nice? To you?” I ask, incredulous, drinking down the rest of my drink. I don’t realize how fast I’ve swallowed down two whole glasses of whatever this stuff is, but it starts to hit me with that last swallow, every nerve tingling.
“I could make you pay for your own drinks,” Tony growls. “I bring you to my bar, and you start talking about bringing cops in, and cook up these crazy ideas about me. Typical. Is that what you want?” he asks, taking another drink. “To see me cuffed up?”
“Oh, now who’s flirting with who?” I chime loudly; I go for another sip of liquor, but my glass is empty, and my head is swimming in wild sensation; the loud music, flashing lights, chattering conversations bombard and overwhelm me.
“That’s not flirting. Just observing you’re a crazy woman, and probably a pervert,” he snarks. “I did find you soaked in a rainstorm, I guess I can’t expect too much mental stability.”
“Hey, listen,” I murmur, lifting myself across the table with my elbows on its lip. “I didn’t come here for you to insult me.”
“Why did you come here?” he asks, a dangerous flash in his eyes.
“You took me here,” I announce, aggression in my voice.
“And do you always just go wherever a man tries to take you then?” he leans in a little closer, swallowing another sip of his liquor.
“No,” I exclaim, “in fact, I’ve spent tonight, drinking and enjoying, to spite the asshole men in my life, my boss, my ex, everybody,” I declare proudly.
“Oh,” Tony interjects, “so you like using men, instead. As excuses, or for free drinks.”
“You know,” I breathe hard, my ire raised, “if you didn’t look as good as you do, and if I hadn’t imagined you shirtless in that rainstorm, little dewdrops glistening on your tattoos, I’d have told you to go screw off,” I point a finger at him.
“See? Knew you were a pervert, having filthy fantasies about me. And then you’re stupid enough to tell me about them,” he replies. Only now do I begin to notice our argument, shouted at one another, has attracted the idle attention of a handful of bikers circled around our booth.
“Even if you came anywhere near my bedroom, I’d be the one doing the cuffing,” he threatens darkly.
“Oh? You like to be in control, huh? Is that why you’re boss of the worst biker gang in New Jersey?” I don’t pull any punches.
“The best,” his voice sizzles back, muscles bristling beneath his leather jacket, a few dewdrops still dappled across its surface. “I don’t know what your beef is with the Wardogs, but it’s probably one of those love hate things, isn’t it?”
“No love hate,” I breathe out angrily, “just hate.”
“You tell everyone you hate they’d look good shirtless in a rainstorm?” he taunts. I blush, but that lawyer sense in the back of my head stokes the fire; he challenges me and I don’t want to back down.
“As a ‘law man’, like you’d say, I feel compelled to be honest and truthful,” I gulp, the liquor really starting to take a toll on my swirling senses. I balance myself, half-propped up on the table, my eyes glassy with the effects of the drinks. “Honesty, something you criminals wouldn’t know anything about.”
“I’ve got some honesty for you,” Tony exhales sharply, filling his mouth with another swallow of dark liquid. “I think you’re one of the most irritating, shrieking, haughty, snotty, bitchy prosecut—”
I wait to hear more, when Tony stops dead in his tracks. My brain doesn’t immediately register just what silenced his savaging, testy insults. It’s my lips - pressed against his. Our breath smells like liquor, our tongues taste like it; I don’t know how, or even who took the first step, but now I’m stretched over a table on my elbows, the lips of the Wardogs leader pressed against mine, our tongues twining in lust, low moans creeping up through our throats while we breathe one another’s taste in a long, lascivious, hungry exchange.
I pull away; both of us watch the other, wordless. A few mild cheers, whistles and laughs come from the amused crowd watching the two of us. I look at him in silent shock; he watches me vexed, anger in his eyes.
I kissed the ringleader of the Roarin’ Wardogs. And… maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe not, but. I liked it. He’s a good kisser. It tasted good, it felt good. My heart skips hard and my brain throbs in fear; in confusion. One of New Jersey’s most dangerous criminals, a man I never thought I’d speak to outside of a courtroom, and now the taste of his lips lingers on mine.
“I’m getting you a cab,” he growls in contempt, storming towards the door of the bar. I chase behind, legs wobbling; at first I run, but when a gouge in the wooden floor nearly trips me onto my half-drunk face, I take to a slower clip. Pressing through the crowd of men in leather I push open the doors to the bar, finding him outside, chatting on his phone.
“Right around the corner? Three minutes? Good,” he confirms, hanging up the call.
“What was that? You run out like that?” I breathe out, angry and baffled.
“I got you your drink. Two of them, in fact. I did what I owed, now you need to go home and sleep, so you can… I don’t know, get up in the morning and put more of my brothers in jail,” he answers coldly. “I paid what I owed.”
“Wait, this doesn’t… it doesn’t solve anything,” I bluster. “Your gang almost killed me tonight—”
“But they didn’t, did they?” he fires back angrily. The rain has stopped, but the cloud still murmur in muted rage, the storm waiting for the right moment to boom back down onto the both of us.
“They would have, if you hadn’t called them off at the last minute,” I blurt.
“You think that’s what happened? You think I told them to chase you through an alley? Just like you think I brought you here for some wicked purpose, or something,” Tony contests hotly. “Sometimes people just do things. We’re stupid animals, Mara. We act on instinct. We do, and we do, and we take what comes from it.”
“I don’t think you’re a stupid animal,” I march towards him, my finger pointed, the alcohol wobbling my rubbery legs. “I think you know exactly why you do everything. Why did you take me here? Why did you offer me a drink?”
“I don’t know, okay?! I don’t know!” he roars. “You were in the fucking rain, soaked, crying, swinging a fucking ice scraper at me. What was I going to do? You wouldn’t listen to me when I told you just to drive home. What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” I breathe deep, emotion welling into my eyes, staining their edges with tears again. I hear the sloshing of tires along the pooled rainwater in the roadway behind me, a taxi coming to a stop at the curb. I back away from Tony slowly, seething. “Tonight, I drank to spite all the disgusting men in my life. I guess I should include you, too.”
“What?” he asks, plodding across wet pavement towards the cab.
“Tonight, I drank—”
This time, I know it’s him. Pushing my back against the cab door with hungry aggression, he pushes himself against me, muscles bulging beneath his jacket, his strong chest tight to my breasts, his lips claiming mine with an irrational, wild passion. I brace my hands against his forearms, stroking the leather, my breaths trembling while our tongues twirl together in a delicious dance once more. I close my eyes, and a moan escapes from my throat. I let him know, idiot that I am, that I want it. I enjoy it, so so much.
“Please,” I whisper, breaking the kiss for just a moment. He wrenches the door to the cab open, and I tumble in; he ducks down to follow after me.
“Hey!” the cabbie calls back to us. “Thought the fare was for one passenger.”
“Two,” Tony breathes duskily, slamming the door shut behind us.
Chapter 8
“Fare’s 28.17— hey!” The cabbie shouts back to us. I can’t keep my hands off of him, and he’s the same; I pull on the lapel of his jacket, and he meets me with a fury, devouring my lips, pressing all of his rippling muscles down onto me. He fumbles with the door handle, kicking the cab door open and slipping out, pulling me up and out behind him with vigorous force.
“Hey! You gotta pay the damn fare!” the cabbie grumbles.
“Here, take it, and get the hell out of here,” Tony murmurs, enraptured in our shared desire, plucking a fifty from his pocket and throwing it into the passenger’s seat of the cab.
“Wh— a fifty, I don’t have change for this,” he protests.
“Just fucking keep it and go,” Tony rumbles, wrapping his arm around my waist. The liquor and the passion daze me and I focus in enough to see my house. Discretion makes a sudden unannounced appearance in my mind and I think about what a complete disaster my house looks like right now, my bedroom full of flung-off dirty clothes and my living room a mess of paperwork scattered on every single surface that could possibly hold it.
“Thanks man!” the cabbie shouts, tires squealing as he takes off fast enough to prevent Tony from changing his mind about the change. I think money is the last thing on his mind; he tugs at my waist, pulling me towards the front door, our lips exploring one another’s neck and cheeks and skin every single step of the way, up the little cobblestone walkway, to the door. I fumble hastily for my keys, whining when they slip between my fingers and fall onto the porch; Tony dips down, plucking them up quickly, his hand shaking.
“The silver key,” I murmur hotly into his ear, kissing at his earlobe. With a jingle and jangle he plunges the key into the handle and the door swings open; he pulls me along with him, wasting no time in pressing my body hard against the kitchen wall, just inside the house. Every time he kisses me and I feel those rippling muscles handle me rough and hard I shudder from my head to my toes; I’m both terrified of Tony, of this dangerous connection between the two of us, and absolutely enthralled by him. His lips labor gregariously from my chin up to my earlobe, his teeth nibbling on the skin; I gasp, hands slipping beneath his jacket, pressing tight to his strong pectorals.
“I didn’t want to tell you before,” he breathes steam into my ear, throwing his shoulders back and letting his leather jacket,
patched proudly with the insignia of the Wardogs, fall down his arms and onto the floor. “I am the biting type,” he hisses, leaving a trail of hot, reddened nibbles from my ear all the way down my neck, his mouth warm and wet, leading him all the way back to mine. I struggle at his chest, trying to claw my way through the white tank clung to his strong flesh, his tattooed arms swaddling around me and tugging me back towards the couch. I chase after him with kiss after hungry kiss; he bites at my bottom lip, squeezing it gently between my teeth to drag me in lusty passion all the way back to the overstuffed couch, covered in flung pillows and scattered court papers.
We fall together, captivated in desire, landing together on our sides, the soft crunch of papers beneath us doing little to deter our kisses. His hands roll down my sides to my skirt; he squeezes at the clasps, trying to pull them free; I slip my fingers into my beltline and loosen the garment for him, doing the same with the belt clasping his pants to his waist. Our hands move as if mesmerized, frantic in their search to squeeze and grope and feel every last inch of the other’s body. I trace my fingers down the tattoos on his bristling, strong biceps, up to his shoulders.
“What was that you said about cuffing?…” he teases into my ear with dark hunger, slipping my skirt down my legs, leaving long limbs exposed to cool air. I feel the squeeze of the bulge in his pants pressing tight to my black panties, eliciting a cooing cry from my aching body. God, I didn’t know I wanted this, how could I? Wanting to feel a forbidden lust with a criminal like this, a man I swore to punish for his deeds. And now I’m breathily whispering his name as he peels my soaked jacket off of my limbs, kissing from my chin down the front of my throat, leaving little red bite marks across my rosy blushing skin, my back arching as I quietly cry out for more, more.
I reach out to grasp at him, before I realize he’s folded my hands together to the small of my back, his grasp tight on my wrists. My fingers wriggle, but I don’t resist as I feel the leather of his belt tighten around my hands, keeping them cuffed, just like he’d promised. I should fight, but I don’t; I like the feeling of the filthy, hard-bodied criminal being in control, holding me down while he slowly parts the buttons of my blouse, leaving my lacy black bra exposed. His kisses rain across my chest, and for some reason, I trust him. In this intense moment of desire I know he wants what I wants; he promises me with every kiss across every inch of my skin, until I feel his hand slip beneath my bra, unbuckling the clasp, my breasts spilling free, nipples stiffened by the sensations he gives me, plucking at every sensitive, tingling nerve like strings on a harp.