by Nicole Fox
But I never claimed to be a gentleman. I kiss her hard, lift her by her shoulders, and press her against the trunk of a massive tree.
Chapter Five
Nancy
I’ve never been a slut-shamer or a sex-shamer, a lust-shamer, or a hate-monger, but my first instinct when Fink pushes me up against the tree is to shove him away and tell him that I’m not that sort of girl. I don’t stop to think about what “that sort of girl” is, but the thought strikes me nonetheless. And with any other man, I’d follow that thought without question. But Fink feels so damn good pressed against me, his hard body, his hard leather, his biker’s hand sliding between my legs. His hand holds strength in it: the kind of strength capable of powering a bike for hours and hours and hours.
So I don’t push him away, because I don’t want to push him away.
Instead I open my legs and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him close to me as we share in the kiss. I throw myself into the embrace like I never have before, hurl myself into the pleasures of the kiss without giving thought to where we are, the birds chirping faraway, the cars growling. It’s just us in this tree-shrouded universe; nothing else matters. Our tongues wage war, the tips clashing, and tingles buzz between us. I push my tongue further into his mouth and he fights back, pushing in return. We kiss more deeply. Our teeth click together. Passion outruns us.
Then his hand reaches my pussy, up my skirt, his middle finger pressing firmly against my panties. I gasp, unable to continue the kiss because he has stolen my breathing. I gasp over and over, pushing down on his hand, his finger probing harder against my clit. He rubs side to side, slowly at first, and then quickly, quicker and quicker each moment until the pleasure begins to grow larger and more difficult to ignore. I bite down on his lip, draw blood. Neither of us cares.
He breaks off the kiss and looks down at me, his light green eyes solid and intent. It’s his mission to bring me to climax; that’s the look on his face. I stare back up at him, the handsomest, most dangerous-looking man who’s ever touched me. His face is stern. This is no laughing matter for him. He rubs me quicker, his eyes locked on my lips, and then my breasts, my shirt with my bra flashing through.
I close my legs around his hand, tWolfing from side to side, grinding against him so that my back scratches against the tree. Quicker and quicker, harder and harder, he rubs me and I grind until the pleasure grows almost unbearable. My cheeks are hot, my chest is hot, the deep place inside my pussy is hot, my clit is burning. Everything starts to burn as he presses even harder.
I close my eyes, listening to my panting moan rise into the air. I know I should be quiet, but an orgasm is coming and I can’t stop. The pleasure claims me. I writhe on his hand, his hand, which is like a power-drill now, never running out of power, vibrating against my clit. I gasp one last time, and then—
“We’ll go to the movies later.”
“Yes, that’ll be nice.”
The pleasure recedes, robbing me of the orgasm moments before it strikes. A couple walks by on the opposite side of the trees. I press Fink’s chest, pushing him away. “Stop,” I whisper.
For a half-second he just stands there, and then he steps back. I think he might pout and I steel myself to distance myself from him. Pouting after withheld sex is the most unattractive quality in a man, even if I understand it. I feel like pouting right now, with my pussy screaming at me for his strong hand.
“Damn,” he says, grinning.
“Damn,” I agree, and then I giggle tipsily. Tipsily, not drunkenly.
“What now?” he asks.
“I guess you walk me home like a gentleman.”
He offers me his arm. “Come on, then.”
I link my arm with his and we walk. Today has been bizarre, I reflect, starting with drunk Dad and ending with this stranger who does not feel like a stranger. He walks me to my apartment and looks down at me.
“When will I see you again?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I reckon your old man might have a problem with it, and your old man is a cop—”
“Was a cop,” I correct.
“Was a cop,” Fink says. “But still, I bet he has cop friends—you told me he does. So . . . I don’t know, Nancy.”
“Are you saying you don’t want to see me again?”
“I didn’t say that.” He shakes his head. “When did I say that?”
“I’m asking you a simple question.” I know my voice is getting prissy but I can’t help it.
“And I’m telling you the truth. Look, this isn’t easy for me. I’m not usually into this dating stuff. I’m a Son of a Wolf, and your dad’s a cop. I want to see you again, though.”
“Don’t worry about it!” I snap, vaguely aware that I sound like Dad, vaguely aware that this just might be the alcohol talking and not me.
I turn quickly and pace into my apartment building, striding up the stairs and only stopping once I’ve collapsed onto my bed. I stare up at the ceiling, the world spinning. I know it’s the shots making the bed spin, the room spin, but it doesn’t make any difference. I’m on a rollercoaster and the only way to stop it is to sit up and wait.
Sometime later my mind returns to Fink, to his strong hand on my wet pussy. My pussy is still wet and aching and bothering me.
I lie back and slide my hand down my panties, toying with my clit and closing my eyes, imagining Fink with his oil-flecked body glistening in the garage.
Chapter Six
Fink
I walk into Sal’s office with a box of chocolates under my arm and a grin on my face, though inside I’m not grinning. Inside I’m shit-scared that he’ll tell me I can’t work here anymore. I’ve known Sal since I was fourteen and maybe we would’ve stayed close friends if I hadn’t joined the club and he hadn’t started up this legitimate business. Sal’s the only link I have to my pre-club life, and now that that link might be severed, I realize how much I value it.
“You brought me bribes,” Sal says, standing with that soft smile on his face. Sal has always been soft, too soft. I’m always aware that I could bully him and am careful not to. He’s a good man and doesn’t deserve it. “Chocolates.” He pats his belly. “Do you really think I need more chocolate?”
“Don’t be a drama queen,” I say, smiling. I drop the chocolates onto the desk. “I need to apologize, Sal. That was out of line. If it’s any consolation, I’ve felt like shit about it for the last five days. I’ve hardly been able to sleep.”
“I’m sure,” Sal says, nodding. “Mm-mmm. I’m sure that’s the case. It wasn’t helpful. I won’t lie to you and say it did me any favors. Look, I get that it was a pain in the ass, listening to that man snap at his daughter like that, but he used to be sheriff around these parts. You know that. I’m surprised you never ran into him.”
“I might have seen him around.” I drum my fingers on the desk. “But I’ve never been in jail.”
“Yet,” Sal says, but there’s no viciousness in it. He sounds lost.
“Yet,” I agree.
“You’re here to ask if you still have a job, even though I pay you peanuts and you make ten times more with your club.”
“Yep, pretty much.”
“Why, Fink?” He leans forward. For a second, he’s not almost-thirty Sal. He’s a teenager towering over all of us with a sad smile on his face, looking old before his time.
“I need this job,” I tell him.
“But why?” Sal pushes. “It’s not for the money. So what do you get out of it?”
I don’t answer right away, giving his question some real thought. “It reminds me of who we used to be. Do you remember when we’d go down to the supermarket and help old ladies with their bags and hope they’d give us a dollar, or even a nickel? Do you remember how we’d make sure to split the money evenly and then go to that ice-cream place down near the park? We’d sit there with ice-cream all round our mouths and, man . . . I just like being here. I just like remembering those times. That’s all.”
“I’m sure your biker friends would get ice-cream with you,” Sal says.
“Yeah, I reckon so, too. Only they’d shoot up the place before I got a chance to finish.” I laugh grimly.
Sal doesn’t laugh, just looks at me sadly. “You can work today,” he says. “Please try to avoid hitting anybody else.”
I’m at the door when he says, “Fink. What’s gotten into you?”
I turn and face him. His eyes are watery, which is nothing new for Sal. His allergies have allergies. But the glassy look strikes me today.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You haven’t talked to me about growing up for years. I can’t remember the last time you mentioned it. It was like the day they put that patch on your back you forgot about that ice-cream place. Whole months’ve gone by and it’s like we’re strangers, like we never used to be friends. My wife once told me that it was exactly that: me and you, we were strangers, that people can change so much that even if they see each other damn-near every day, they don’t know each other at all.”
I hold his gaze for a long time, and then sigh. “I don’t know, man. I don’t fuckin’ know.”
I go into the garage and get ready for work. I lied to Sal back there. I do know what’s gotten into me: Nancy. I haven’t been sleeping. It’s Nancy’s face, Nancy’s voice, Nancy’s touch that’s been keeping me awake. I haven’t seen her since that day at the club and yet my thoughts belong to her. I can’t drag them away, no matter how hard I try. I lie in bed and try’n sleep and before I know it, my hand’s on my prick and Nancy’s on my mind. But it’s not always sexual. Sometimes I’ll just lie there, picturing her smile. I need to see her again, but this business with the cops . . .
I asked Snake about it a couple of days ago in a roundabout way. “Let’s just say there was a man, and this man wanted to get with a lady, but the lady’s dad was a cop.”
“And this man was a biker?” Snake said, raising an eyebrow. Snake’s a skinny bastard, hence his name, with a tattoo of a dragon looping around his throat. “I’d say he needs to get his brain checked unless he wants the boss banging on his door at two a.m. Or worse. The cops.” Snake watched me for a long time. “Did you hear me, Fink?”
“I heard you,” I said. “But I gotta tell you something, too. If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to break your fucking nose.”
Snake stood up and retreated. If the men respect me for anything, it’s my capacity for violence.
I don’t know why I got so angry with Snake. He was just telling me the truth, just trying to do what’s best for me. But the idea that I’m never allowed to see Nancy again is like a punch to the face.
I’m cleaning up after a routine parts change when three men come swaggering into the garage. When you’ve lived the outlaw life for more than a day, you get a sense of when men want to start trouble. All of them are in civilian clothes, shirts and jeans and boots, but the way they hold themselves tells me they’re either soldiers or cops. And since I haven’t hit a soldier in the past week, I’m guessing cops. Their leader is a wide-shouldered man with a shock of gray hair and a stiff upper lip. His goons are wide, too, and fat around the middle. The gray-haired man has a nasty gash down one side of his face, framing his eye.
“Are you Fink?” Scarface asks.
“I’m Fink Foster,” I say, standing with my shoulders squared. I hold a wrench in my hand and I’m pretty certain I could use it to lethal efficiency, but then I spot Sal hiding in his doorway, watching with eyes so full of fear it makes me pity him. I can’t fuck up policeman here; hitting a retiree was bad enough. I drop the wrench.
“I’m Officer Michaels,” Michaels says. “And these are Officers Holmes and Greene. Now that that’s out of the way, I want to give you a simple message from my friend Sheriff O’Neill. I think you’re familiar with him. Aren’t you, boy? Well, aren’t you?”
When he calls me boy, I see my thumbs buried in his skull, pushing and pushing until his eyeballs pop and there’s nothing left of his face but mush. I see my boot on his neck and my fists smashing into his face over and over. If it wasn’t for Sal . . .
“I’m talking to you,” Michaels says.
“I can hear you,” I reply. “I just don’t know what the fuck you want from me, is all.”
“Careful,” one of his goons warns. I’ve forgotten their names already.
“Careful.” I let out a harsh laugh. “Careful, or what, exactly? You are cops, ain’t that right?”
“We are.” Michaels grins and I don’t like it one bit. “And our friend was a cop, still is a god to us. He was the best damn sheriff this shithole town has ever known and he deserves respect, so when he tells a little shit like you to fix his car and mind your own business, you fix his car and mind your own business. That’s all. You don’t run your mouth off and sucker punch him to boot.”
“Sucker punch.” I try to stay calm, remembering Sal. Sal, Sal is the man I have to think about here, not myself. I unclench my fists. I can’t hit a cop. I repeat that mantra over and over in my head. I. Can’t. Hit. A. Cop. Not here, anyhow. Not again. But I also can’t let these men talk to me like this. “If your friend didn’t fight like a girl, maybe he wouldn’t’ve ended up on his back.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Sal lowering his head. That hits me right in the gut.
“You need to be careful with your words,” Michaels says. “I don’t know who exactly you think you are, but it ain’t somebody big or special, if that’s what you think.”
“You came here to threaten me. I reckon you’ve done that. You can leave now.”
“You think you tell me what to do?” Michaels lurches forward, his face so close to mine I can see each individual shot of blood in his eyes, each individual jagged line in his scar. “You don’t tell us shit. You say yessir and shut your fucking mouth. Do you think we don’t know about you, Fink Foster? Do you really think we don’t know about you and your little club? Sons of Wolves. What sort of fuckin’ pansy-ass name is that? Sons of Wolves, more like Sons of Bitches!” He laughs raucously at his own joke. “Let me tell you something,” he goes on, clearly annoyed that his goons didn’t laugh with him. “You can’t go around hitting sheriffs and getting away with it.”
I could dodge the punch. I see it coming a full half-second before it connects, but I’m also painfully aware of Sal, and painfully aware that if I don’t take this beating it’ll ruin his business. More and more cops will hound this place until there’s nothing left. Sal is my friend. He doesn’t deserve a war. So I take the punch, and the kicks, lying on the floor limp and pathetic as they do their work. I hate myself for it. I’ve never given in like this before. Since I don’t fight back they take me for a coward—and right now, covered in blood, I can’t disagree with them—and leave off after a few seconds.
Michaels kneels down next to me, elbows resting on his knees, his blood-stained knuckles hanging loosely. “I think that was pretty clear, right? You learnt your listen, little pup?”
That’s too much. Little pup. I can’t stop myself. I spit blood right into his face and then jump to my feet. The men leap back, surprised at my sudden movement.
“Throw one more punch,” I say, “and we’ll get to fighting for real.”
Michaels looks at me like a timid dog who’s suddenly sprouted claws. “Tough guy,” he mutters, turning away. “Tough fuckin’ guy.”
I watch them go, dripping blood onto the floor, and then turn to Sal. “I’m sorry, man,” I say. “I didn’t . . . I’m sorry.”
“You should get cleaned up,” Sal says. “And I think you should leave for the rest of the day. I can’t have customers seeing one of my mechanics like that. It isn’t good for business.”
I sigh, and then nod. “Fair enough,” I say, seething with rage at these bastards, these arrogant bastards thinking they can just swagger in here and mess up my life. And the worst part about it is that they can. They did.
I get on my bike and head back t
o the club, needing a drink to clear my head, maybe to get into a fight, if there’s a fight to be had. I squeeze the throttle so hard my palm stings; my knuckles ache like they want to bust out of my skin. And that’s how I feel, humiliated and ashamed and pissed the hell off like all I want to do is break my fist against something. Fuckin’ cops, fuckin’ pigs. Corrupt fuckin’ assholes.
“What happened to you?” Snake asks when I join him at the corner table.
“Nothing,” I say. “Fell into a goddamn wall.”
“Come on.” Snake leans forward.
“Just leave it.”