by Lena Pierce
I nod at her, a dark smile on my lips. The unspoken message is: And for you.
“I know,” she says. “It was—horrible. I was at the clubhouse with him, and then we rode home, and then … I can’t remember it very well because I was young. What I remember most is this wall outside our apartment building. The bricks were brown and really clean, like they’d been blasted with sand or something. And then the next second they were covered in dark red and Dad made a sound like a rabbit. It was some petty drug dealer who had a grudge against him. Almost as random and pointless as cancer, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
We sit in silence for another long while, long enough for the sun to set completely and for a few people to start making noises from the other rooms. Night owls and junkies, getting their day started. Soon the junkies move on from the motel to disappear into the town and we’re left in another peaceful silence. Meghan’s gaze moves over me endlessly and mine over hers, but still we just sit there. It’s like there’s an energy between us that doesn’t require speech, that would, maybe, disappear if we used speech.
Then she stands up and leans down to me. She kisses me on the lips; I kiss her. We kiss each other. It’s not a kiss like the others. This one is softer and I find myself going gentle, too, like I never have in all my life. I kiss her tenderly, going with the flow of the kiss, opening my mouth slowly and letting her do the same. She slides onto my lap and grinds her ass against my crotch. My cock goes rock-hard but I don’t grab her and throw her onto the bed like I’d normally do. Instead I just kiss her a while longer, my cock pressing firmly against her crotch.
Then she stands up and undresses herself, unhurriedly. I watch each movement, the subtle revealing of her perfect breasts, her legs, and her pussy. Then I stand up and do the same as she watches me, until both of us are naked. I am rock-fucking-hard and yet I still don’t maul her. Instead I push her gently onto the bed and lean over her, looking into her eyes, not her body. I never look into a lady’s eyes during sex, but with Meghan it’s somehow different.
I thrust deeply inside of her, feeling every moment of her tight, soaking wet pussy. She’s warm, no—hot, everything about her is hot—and as I thrust deeper and deeper inside of her, something damn weird happens. She moves with the motion of my thrusts and then it’s like I’m not sure which one of us is moving who. It’s a fleeting feeling but I’m sure she feels it too. She smiles at me and that there’s a damn strange sight, a woman smiling during sex. And then I realize I’m smiling too. Sex is normally quick and frantic and greedy. But now we smile at each other. I lean in and kiss her softly.
Her orgasm comes slowly, twisting her body around like she’s a dancer. She claws onto my shoulders and holds her eyes open, staring straight at me. I feel no awkwardness, which is what I’d expect to feel with a lady staring at me like that. Instead I feel the exact same way she does, like this is a perfect goddamn moment and I don’t want to ruin it. She sing-moans to me as the orgasm takes her on a journey. I feel her, tight around my cock, coming hard. I place my hand on her breast, lightly twisting her nipple as the last of the orgasm spends itself inside of her. Then she grabs my face in her hands and I thrust deep, deep, deep inside of her, pushing myself right to the balls and then letting out a gasp which is equal parts shock and pleasure.
Her eyes are what make me come most of all, the look of openness in them, the connection. I come, hard, hunching over and kissing her on the neck. And then I roll aside and stare up at the ceiling, panting heavily and feeling like I’ve just returned from a gunfight. I have the same amped-up feeling, the same what-the-fuck feeling. I feel like I could jump over a building and yet that I am stuck to the earth.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
I tell her, which is in itself a miracle.
“You feel weak and strong,” she whispers. “I get that.”
“You do?” I turn to her, laughing. “Because I sure as hell don’t.”
“Look,” she says, sitting up. She’s still naked and there’s something beautiful about the way she holds herself, not sexually, not putting on a show. “It’s not my fault I have a magic pussy, okay?” She collapses onto me in giggles, her breasts pressing flat against my chest. Then she pauses and traces her finger along a scar on my pectoral. “How did this happen?”
“Too many questions.” I shove her off me and spoon her, my cock between her legs already getting hard.
She wriggles her ass against me. “I didn’t know questions could be dangerous.”
“They can.” I pinch her ass, making her giggle, which makes me laugh. “They can be very, very dangerous.”
“That’s a shame.” I can hear her pouting. “Because I have a question for you.”
“Maybe I’ll let one go,” I tell her.
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. I sense that she’s serious, even if I can’t see her face. It’s in her body: a thousand invisible signals. “Do you care about me?”
A question like that, laid so bare, from a lady after we’ve just fucked … normally it would send me running far, far away. Normally it would send me into a different dimension. But right now the answer is obvious and for some bizarre reason I feel comfortable giving it.
“Yes,” I say.
“Good.” She wriggles closer to me. “I care about you too.”
Chapter Twenty
Meghan
I wake with a feeling of dread in my gut. It takes me a moment to realize where it comes from, and then it hits me. Here I am, playing lovers with Dirk, when at the club Sissy is probably undergoing all kinds of torture. And even if she’s not being subjected to any new brand of pain, they’ll still be applying the old brand to her, especially Rider with his fists and his pride. Just one look at that man told me enough about him; he’d kill her, beat her to death. He’d do it without a second thought.
Or is that just my mind going to the worst-case scenario? After all, Sissy has somehow survived in there longer than I could have, and she seems okay, mostly.
“Are you all right?” Dirk asks from the other side of the room.
I turn. He’s shirtless, just emerging from the shower with a towel around his waist. On the table there is a pile of clean clothes, folded shirts and pants. Two piles, one for me and one for him.
“Just going around and around and around my head about the club,” I say. “We have to help them, Dirk. We can’t just run away. We can’t just disappear and leave them to fend for themselves. It’s not just Sissy. It’s the new girls, girls who are exactly like I was, scared and excited and deluded. They think this is going to be their big new life, the big, special life, and now all the bad things that ever happened to them won’t matter because they’ll be club girls, and that means something.” I think of Maxine, and my voice gets low. “But even if that life works for some of them, we can’t let any of them sleepwalk into the situation Jackson’s got running over there.” I clench my fist, suddenly angry. “Sometimes I can’t believe that he’s my brother.”
“You can’t pick your family,” he says, and I wonder if he’s talking about my brother or his mom. “But I reckon you’re right. We’ve gotta do something.”
I sit up. “I expected a fight,” I say. “Last night you seemed pretty against it.”
“Well—a lot has changed since last night.”
I laugh. “Crazy as it is, Dirk, I agree.”
He turns away and drops his towel. I look at his back, realizing I’ve never seen it like this before. He has a scar that runs down between his shoulder blades and another that goes from just above his ass to halfway up his back, zigzagging all over the place. Then he pulls a T-shirt on and some underwear and pants. I didn’t feel naked until he got dressed, so now I stand up and walk across the room to my pile of clothes. I stop, halfway, grasping with shock that I feel no discomfort at walking around naked in front of him.
“I’ve never felt—this comfortable before,” I stammer, when he looks at me like I’m mad.
&nb
sp; He grins. “Me either,” he says. “Ain’t that a damn strange thing?”
I get dressed and then we both sit down, smiling at each other like teenagers in love. And maybe that’s what we are, I reflect, or something close to that. Maybe we’re part of that rare group that is finally allowed to relive their childhood as adults. Or maybe I’m just feeling tired and sex-achy and I’m letting my mind skip to strange places.
“So,” Dirk says, “now that we’ve decided to try’n help your little friend, we’ve got to figure out a way to help her. Going in there guns blazing is probably the worst damn thing we could do, since that’d mean me catching a piece of metal to the head. Truth be told, Meghan,” he goes on with a rueful smile, “I could do without a piece of metal to the head.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I can see how that would be a problem.”
“So I need to know what contacts you’ve got in the Sinners.”
I lean back and stick a fake smile on my face, shaking my head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I don’t have any contacts in the Sinners. That’s not how I run my store.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t bullshit me. I happen to know that Badger Burnes helped you out in the beginning by loaning you some cash, and he’s been pretty damn nice about not taking that cash back.”
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head, “you really are a piece of shit, Dirk.”
He grins. “I try, Meghan, I really do.”
“You’re right,” I tell him, when he stares at me expectantly. “I needed the cash and I didn’t know where else to turn. I couldn’t go to a bank since my credit was nonexistent and I couldn’t go to Jackson because … well, just because. So yeah, I went to the Broken Sinners and asked them to loan me some money. I’ve regretted it ever since, not that Badger is particular about calling in the payments. He doesn’t even seem to care when I send the money in, but I make sure to stick to the original plan. I won’t give him or his men an excuse to say that I’m dragging it along, you know?”
“Sure. Do you have a way of getting in touch with him?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But I haven’t, not in all this time. I think I wanted to forget that I ever paid him. But yeah, if I ever needed to, I could get a message to him.”
“We need to now,” he says. “I want you to get him a message asking if we can meet. I need to talk with this Badger Burnes and see if we can’t work something out. I’ll be a goddamn traitor, is the truth of it, but being a traitor must be better than being an enforcer for a man like Jackson.” His voice goes low. Grim. “A man like that don’t deserve followers.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Dirk
We ride to the store, finally. It should’ve been the first thing I did after the place was set on fire. But Jackson didn’t want me to go by, and now I’m wondering if maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe the man was his and he knows that he might’ve been sloppy. Maybe Jackson is even more of a prick than I thought. Still, I’m not angry or pissed as I ride with Meghan’s arms around me, her body pressed close against mine. I’ve gotten her a helmet now, which she should’ve had all along, and her hands push into my belly. Part of me—a big part—wants to stop the bike and move that hand down just a little bit lower, make her moan as I growl in her ear …
But there will be time for that later. Now it’s time to be levelheaded, if such a thing’s possible with Meghan so close.
We stop at the store and climb from the bike. I’m walking in before I notice that Meghan isn’t walking with me. I turn, finding her standing there with her hands clutched together and her face beetroot-red. She’s staring at the store, cordoned off with tape, looking like she’s struggling not to cry. I go to her, place my hand atop the gnarled bundle that is her clasped hands, and squeeze.
“It’s all right,” I tell her. “It’s over.”
“It’s just … I spent so long building this place up, cleaning it, keeping it tidy and presentable and now—Just look at it! It’s like I never even dragged a broomstick through the place! It’s—” She seems to struggle to find the right word, and then she says, definitively, “It’s dead.”
I take her by the arm and walk her toward the building. She is right; it is dead. Because this place was once alive, after all, a teeming thing which threw its life out into the night, calling to weary travelers. Now it is a blackened hunk of char sitting shyly by the side of the road.
We slip through the cordon and head into the building. Meghan walks quickly ahead of me, her hands clasped in that same way. It’s like she’s trying to find something in her left hand with her right hand, pressing her left hand so hard against her right that her veins strain on her forearms. She walks up and down the aisles, staring at the nothingness—the shreds of burnt paper and the remains of what might once have been row of cans of beans—and then stops at the cash register. She has her back to me but her shoulders are trembling. Normally I’d turn and flee when a woman starts to shake like that, but with Meghan there’s a magnetic force which draws me closer.
I go to her and wrap my arms around her, pushing my body so close to hers that I can feel the heat of her, the subtle trembling. I kiss her on the cheek, all the while split into two; there’s another me, a more distant me, that watches this exchange with a look of complete wonder. That isn’t you, this part of me whispers. Are you playing a joke? I ignore the bastard voice, mostly because it’s right. That isn’t me. And yet it feels right with Meghan.
“I need to look around,” I tell her after about a minute. “I need to see what the hell happened here.”
“You think you can do that?” She doesn’t sound convinced.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not … but it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
“Don’t they have investigators they send to places like this?”
“That’s just it. It ain’t a hard thing to pay off an arson investigator. Maybe he missed something. Maybe he wanted to miss something.”
“Ah,” she says, nodding. “Okay. What shall I do?”
“Wait in here or wait outside.”
“I’ll wait in here,” she says. “I want to look around for a little bit.”
“Okay.” I nod. “Fair enough.”
I walk to the window where the firebomb was thrown as Meghan strolls over to the cash register. As I search, I hear her behind me, rooting through the cash register and around the cupboards and drawers. I kneel down and examine the place where the firebomb landed, or as close as I can get, and then I see that there is no mark, not really. There’s a splash where the fire spread but nothing severe, nothing that would cause this. Then I remember the way the fire spread through the building, especially the upper stories, and I wonder …
I end up on the ruined stairs, slowly climbing up, choosing my footing very carefully. A few pieces of wood fall away, and then I almost fall away, but I manage to get to the top without smashing my head in. I stop at the top of the stairs and touch an unburnt section of wall, just a small rectangle in the corner which God or whoever decided to leave for me. I touch it, bring my fingers to my nose, and smell.
There’s a scent there, something I recognize. I smell deeper and that’s when it hits me: oil. The walls were doused with oil, which means that somebody doused it with oil before the bomb was thrown. This wasn’t someone with a grudge like Meghan guessed. This required planning and quick execution. Most likely somebody snuck in through the back when the store was busy, did the work, and then left just as silently. So what, then? Badger Burnes and the Broken Sinners? Maybe it was them, but it just don’t sit right with me.
I make my way back to the staircase slowly, hands at my sides since the ground is like a fuckin’ swamp right now. Any misstep could see me sinking far, far down. I manage to climb back down the stairs safely, though, and then I join Meghan at the counter.
“Found anything?” I ask.
“They’ve taken the cash,” she says. “I looked at the register and saw that it wasn’t completely b
urnt out, and I thought, Dirk, I really thought that fate might smile on me and I’d find some cash. But no—What’s stranger, though, is that I keep my logbooks, the important stuff, in a fireproof lockbox under this floorboard.” She nods at the ground where she has peeled a charred floorboard away. There’s nothing there but a black hole. It sort of looks like a gap in somebody’s teeth. “Why would somebody want my logbooks? I need them for claiming insurance. It’s going to be an uphill climb without them. Why take them?”
I kneel down and examine the spot. One of the things you learn when you’ve seen more’n one spot blown to high hell is that all of the random marks in a burned-out place mean something. I glance behind me, at the floor, and then follow the new footprints to the spot on the floor.
“Somebody came in here after the fire,” I say. “Specifically to this spot to get the lockbox.”