FEELS LIKE THE FIRST TIME

by Scott Hildreth

  I clutched the broken buttons and reached for my panties. “Do you have a trash can?”

  He nodded. “There’s one by the bar.”

  I walked to the trash can and dropped my panties inside. When I returned, I crawled under the table and retrieved my purse. After dropping the broken buttons inside, I grabbed the recorder and turned it off.

  “You’re in shock,” Pete said.

  “No. I’m okay, really.” I wanted to rewind the recorder and make sure it recorded everything, but I wasn’t ready to listen to it. Not yet.

  The sound of a motorcycle’s exhaust caused me to flinch. It seemed something I had yearned to hear only hours before had somehow become repulsive, and I didn’t like it. I peered out the window just in time to see Navarro and Pee Bee pulling up to the front of the bar.

  “Navarro’s here. I uhhm.” I tugged against the sides of my shirt, attempting –to pull them together, but couldn’t. I held the two pieces of material, concealing my bra from sight, and then remembered I had worn a blazer.

  I searched the floor, found my jacket, and slipped my arms through it. Remarkably, it was unharmed. Methodically, I fastened the buttons, yet still felt slightly undressed when I was finished.

  I brushed the lint from my skirt and tossed my hair. “No ambulance. I’ll be fine. I need a drink. Maybe get us three beers?”

  Navarro and Pee Bee came rushing in. Pete turned toward the door and met them halfway. Navarro ran past him, and came where I was standing. Pee Bee stood at Pete’s side and talked to him while Navarro looked me over.

  I gazed at him, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, and then realized I didn’t have my heels.

  He pressed his hands against my shoulders and held me steady. “What happened?”

  I wished I didn’t have to tell him. Sooner or later he’d find out for sure, but I just didn’t want to have to talk about it. Not to him.

  “Peyton,” he squeezed my shoulders in his hands. “What happened?”

  “Four of them. Whip, Panda, Lowbrow and Taffy. They uhhm.” My eyes began to well with tears. I pointed to the portion of my shirt that the blazer didn’t cover. I fought to swallow, eventually did, and continued. “They…”

  I pointed to the trash can. “I put my panties in the trash.”

  He pulled me into his chest and held me tight. “I’m sorry. Believe me, they’ll…I’ll make sure that they…” His voice faltered, then he cleared his throat. “Did Pete call an ambulance?”

  “I don’t need one.”

  He looked into my eyes. “You need to see a doctor.”

  I nodded. “I will. I’ll get checked out. But I’m not calling the police. I don’t want them involved. I want…”

  I wanted to tell him to take care of it, but couldn’t put the responsibility on him to do so. I wished he would volunteer, and explain to me in detail how he would make them pay for what they did to me.

  Pee Bee walked to Navarro’s side, inhaled a deep breath, and exhaled into the palms of his hands. “Pete said it was Whip, Panda, Taffy, and someone else, but he wasn’t sure.”

  “Lowbrow,” I said flatly.

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. “Positive.”

  “Already called Ryder,” he said. “Cholo and a bunch of the fellas were at his place. They’re on their way now. You stay here with her.”

  Navarro released me and turned to face Pee Bee. “I’m going. I’m gonna kill every motherfucking one of ‘em. Real god damned slow.”

  Pee Bee shook his head. “Somebody’s got to stay with her.”

  “This is my fight, god damn it. Mine,” Navarro seethed. “And I’m gonna fight it.”

  “You want him to stay?” Pee Bee asked. “Here with you?”

  I nodded. “Uh huh.”

  “You don’t want him to leave?”

  I wrapped my arms around Navarro and pulled him into me. “I’d rather he stay, please.”

  Pee Bee folded his massive arms on front of his chest and sighed. “I’m the Sergeant-At-Arms of this club. It’s my job to protect what’s ours, at any cost. Like it or not, she testified for you, and this is the price she’s paid for it. The club owes her. The club needs to protect her. I’m goin’ for these motherfuckers, and I ain’t stoppin’ till I got ‘em.” He turned around until his back faced us. “Either let me get ‘em, or cut off my fuckin’ patch.”

  Oh, wow.

  “You know good and god damned well I’m not cuttin’ off your patch,” Navarro growled.

  “It’s settled, then. You’re stayin’, and I’m goin’.”

  Navarro leaned over and rested his head on my shoulder. His warm breath on my neck made me smile. His strong arms provided assurance that I was safe from harm as long as he was near.

  “I want ‘em to pay.”

  Pee Bee nodded. “They will.”

  “Be careful,” I said. “Panda’s got a gun.”

  He laughed a dry laugh. “Me? Shit. Make me up one of those cranberry drinks. A double. I’ll be over to drink it before the fuckin’ ice melts.”

  I lifted my head. “Promise?”

  A thunderous rumble rattled the windows of the bar. The sound continued for some time, almost resembling a passing train. I peered outside. Side-by-side, motorcycles pulled into the lot, one row after another. A string of headlights as far as I could see filled the road leading to the bar. It seemed it was never going to end.

  In no time, the lot was filled with bikes.

  Completely filled.

  And, it wasn’t just FFMC’s men.

  Pee Bee bent down, looked through the window, then stood up. “We’re gonna roll, Boss.”

  Navarro cleared his throat. “Who else you call?”

  “Hell On Earth and The Dragons. We’re rolling about fifty deep, Boss.”

  “God damn you,” Navarro said with a laugh. “We didn’t need to--”

  “You want my job?” Pee Bee interrupted. “Start wearin’ my patch. Until you do, you be the President. I’ll be the Sergeant-At-Arms.”

  The door opened and twenty or so men came in, all wearing leather vests. Two massive men came to our side and stood, each crossing their arms in front of their chests as they positioned themselves beside us.

  “What’s shakin’, motherfuckers?” Pee Bee asked.

  Each of the men hugged Pee Bee and patted him on the back. “Good to see you, Brother,” one said.

  “Tiny.” Navarro nodded to the man on the left. “Big Frank,” he said to the other.

  “Crip,” they said in unison.

  Pee Bee turned toward the door.

  “Pee Bee,” I shouted.

  He turned around.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful?”

  He turned around, clenched his fist, and extended his arm.

  I pounded my fist into his. “I’ll have that drink waiting.”

  He walked away, and Navarro held me in his arms. As the walls and windows once again began to shake, I watched them leave. Two at a time, fifty motorcycle’s taillights rode away from the bar and into the street. Each stood as a reminder that someone was going to pay dearly for what happened to me.

  But nothing would ever be enough.

  Chapter 18

  Pee Bee

  It was darker than a motherfucker in Whip’s kitchen, but there I sat, waiting for his dumb ass to come home. Sooner or later I knew he would, even if it was just to get some stuff for the road. With the silenced pistol in my lap, and a straight razor in my pocket, I was ready to give him exactly what the other three men got, which was much less than what he deserved.

  The life of a one-percenter is an interesting life to live. Sometimes years pass, and it’s nothing but breathing in and breathing out. Then, something happens, and each day is like a trip through a booby-trapped minefield – one carefully placed step after another.

  Without having some kind of laws in effect, society would be in utter turmoil. In a world without strict rules and regulations, it would stand t
o reason that the strong would survive, and the weak would perish, but I’m not convinced that’s actually the case.

  At least not in the world I live in.

  Outlaws live beyond the limits of conventional law, most abiding to a strict set of moral codes and standards that prevent the complete collapse of the world they live in. Outside the world of the outlaw, two types of people live.

  Law abiding civilians, and the lawless. One adheres to society’s standards. To the other, there are no rules.

  The lawless prey on any and everything that will provide them with a means to fuel their unrestricted life for one more day, never caring who or what they harm in the process.

  The lawless have one concern.

  Themselves.

  The faint sound of a motorcycle exhaust shook me from what was soon to be a light sleep. I glanced at my watch.

  3:30 a.m.

  As the sound grew closer, I stood up, stretched, and checked the breech of the pistol. I’d checked it half a dozen times before, but doing it was from force of habit.

  The garage opener activated, and I grinned to myself. One way or another, satisfaction was going to come. Hidden behind the doorway that led into the kitchen, I could see into the living room, but it would be almost impossible for anyone entering from the direction of the garage to see me.

  I lowered myself to the floor, pointed the pistol toward the living room, and waited.

  I heard the bike pull into the garage. The garage door closed, and then the door to the house opened. In the complete silence, the sound of the creaking floor warned me of his arrival. With each step that he took, I held my breath and waited.

  As his silhouette passed into my line of sight, I steadied my gloved fingertip against the trigger.

  “What’s shakin’, motherfucker?” I asked.

  He gasped and jumped to the side, still uncertain of where I was.

  “Raise both your hands in the air right fuckin’ now, or I’ll drop you where you stand,” I said through my teeth.

  The little bit of light that seeped in through the blinds illuminated him enough that I could see the expression on his face. Concerned, and still unsure of my exact whereabouts, his eyes narrowed. He scanned the perimeter of the living room hoping to catch a glimpse of me.

  But his hands didn’t immediately go up.

  I pointed the pistol at his left thigh and pulled the trigger. The sound from the silenced .45 caliber pistol was about as loud as a can of beer being opened. The screaming that followed was deafening.

  He fell to the floor.

  I stood up.

  Over the sound of his wailing and crying, I gave my only demand. “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em, or I’ll put one in your other leg.”

  His arms shot out to his sides.

  “I need…a…I need a tourniquet. I’m gonna bleed…fucking hell, I’m gonna bleed to death.”

  I pointed the pistol at his other leg and pulled the trigger. “Shut the fuck up.”

  He screamed and clutched his thigh in his hands.

  I had experience at making gunshot wounds, but I had no experience regarding treating gunshot wounds. I had no idea if he would bleed to death or not. I’d read enough articles over the years about random shootings to know that gunshot victims often lived for hours before reaching a hospital.

  To be honest, I prefer that he live, especially in the state I was going to leave him.

  When he and his three club brothers showed up at the hospital with the same exact wounds, police would assume – rightfully so – that revenge had been sought out for a crime committed against another club.

  But the Savages wouldn’t say a word about who did it. A combination of embarrassment and a hatred for law enforcement would prevent them from it.

  The one and only constant shared between the lawless and the outlaw was that snitching to the police didn’t happen.

  Resolution was obtained from within the ranks. It was a matter of honor.

  I pushed the pistol into my front pocket, unbuckled his belt, and pulled up on the buckle end. After lifting him off of the floor by the belt, the wide leather slipped through his belt loops one by one, until it was finally free.

  “I guess I’ll wrap this fucker around the first one I shot.”

  “Just call me an ambulance, brother. I won’t say a word.”

  “Brother? We’re brothers now? You dumb fuck. You don’t have a clue, you know it? I’m just gettin’ started.”

  While he moaned and bitched, I wrapped the belt around his left thigh and pulled it tight. I then reached for the button of his jeans.

  Whip wasn’t as big as me, but he was a big man. As soon as I attempted to unbutton his pants, he knew what was next, and the struggle began. A few seconds into it, and I stood and pulled the pistol from my pocket.

  I pointed it at his head.

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t care. We decided not to kill you pricks in a vote, but I’ll let you pick. Either lay still or I’ll put one in your head.”

  “Fuck you.”

  If it worked on your brother, it ought to work on you.

  I kicked him in the side of the head as hard as I could.

  Now on the floor unconscious, he provided no resistance. After putting the pistol in my pocket, I bent down, unfastened his pants, and pulled them to his thighs.

  I reached in my back pocket, pulled out the straight razor, and grabbed his nuts with my gloved hand. I had visions of talking mad shit to him while I did the deed, but with him unconscious, it made the experience much less enjoyable.

  I pulled down on his scrotum, stretched it tight, and swung the straight razor directly under the base of his cock. The entire wad of flesh came off in my hand, nuts and all.

  “Holy fucking shit, that’s nasty.”

  He began to stir around. Instead of listening to him, I kicked him in the head again.

  Now, the really gross part.

  It’s a good thing I’m wearing rubber gloves.

  I gripped the tip of his cock between my left thumb and forefinger, pulled up on it as hard as I could, and stretched it to its limit. As he began to writhe around, I swung the razor into the flesh and cut it almost all the way through.

  “This motherfucker’s dull as fuck,” I said. “Makes sense, I’ve been through three cocks tonight. Four, now.”

  About the time he opened his eyes, I swung the razor into the little flap of flesh that still remained. His entire cock came off in my hand.

  “Holy shit. That’s a lot of blood.”

  He screamed out in pain and shoved his hands between his legs, no doubt in shock from what had happened.

  “Well, Whip. You won’t be raping any more girls with this, because I’m gonna take it with me.”

  I reached into my kutte, pulled out the Zip-Lock bag, and unzipped it. After dropping his cock and scrotum into the bag, I squeezed the air out, zipped it closed, and folded it up.

  Whip would spend the rest of his life – if he lived through the gunshot wounds and the castration – without having sex again.

  Not a day would pass that he wouldn’t regret what he did to Peyton.

  A life of pain, agony, humiliation, and regret.

  But it would never be enough.

  Crip’s door opened a few inches. Standing in nothing but his boxers, he looked at me through the crack with sleepy eyes.

  “What’s shakin’ motherfucker?”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Peeb. Any reason you gave an order that no one could tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on?”

  I shrugged. “Wanted to show you myself, so I told the fellas to keep it quiet. You gonna let me in?

  “It’s five o’clock in the morning, be fuckin’ quiet,” he whispered. “She’s still sleeping.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Yeah, she’s here,” he said. “Now shut the fuck up and come in.”

  “Nice seeing you, too.”

  I walked past him and toward his kitchen. I needed a beer, and I ne
eded one bad. As soon as I stepped into the dining room, I grinned.

  On the center of the table, a glass sat. Filled with what looked like pink water, it was a reminder of what a good solid bitch Peyton Price was.

  I motioned toward the glass. “She make that for me?”

  He nodded. “We went to the hospital and got her checked out. They did some tests for diseases and some other shit. She claimed she got drunk and agreed to let a bunch of guys fuck her. Doctors didn’t believe her at first, but she convinced ‘em in no time. Tell you what, that’s one strong fuckin’ woman. Anyway, when we got back, she made that for you. Been sittin’ there since about 10:00. She fell asleep at 2:00. She’s been worried about ya. She’s not the only one.”

  I wagged my eyebrows at him. “Alive and well, motherfucker.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I’m getting’ to it.” I pulled off my backpack, unzipped it, and removed the four Zip-Lock bags.

  He glanced at the bags. His face distorted, and then he looked at me. “What the fuck is that?”

  I tossed the bags on the table. “Cocks. Four of ‘em.”

  “You cut off their fuckin’ dicks?”

  “Sliced off their cocks and their balls. All four of ‘em,” I said. “Well, four cocks, and eight nuts. Cut the fuckers off right at the base, too. Didn’t even leave ‘em a stub. Was Cholo’s idea. Said that’s how they do it in Mexico. Figured if it was good enough for the cartel, it was good enough for me.”

  I picked up the glass of pink liquid and downed it in one drink. “You have one of these yet?”

  “Seriously?” he snapped back.

  His mouth curled into a smirk.

  “You did, didn’t ya?”

  He nodded. “Don’t tell anybody. Fucking shit was pretty good.”

  “Man, I’m tellin’ ya. It’s good as fuck.”

  “Is that you, Pee Bee?”

  “Hey, Peyton,” I said. “How you feelin’?”

  “Just tired,” she said. “Other than that, I’m fine.”

  She walked into the dining room in one of Crip’s poker runs shirts from 2011 and a pair of his boxers.

  Crip reached for the sacks of cocks, but it was too late. She’d already seen them.