by Paula Cox
“Rust,” Zeke says.
I feel myself about to snap at him, but then I see what he’s gesturing at: two men, swaggering into the Englishman, wearing leather jackets without patches on them. They could be just two men swaggering into a bar, but there’s something about them, something about the way one of them shoves the door open with his shoulder and the other casually flicks his cigarette stub not onto the ground outside the bar, but onto the floor inside the bar.
I nod. “Let’s go.”
We climb out of the car and walk toward the bar. As we walk, I feel myself letting go of this bullshit, letting go of the anger, letting go of all this stuff going around and around my mind. This is my business; this is the work I can lose myself in. It feels good to have Zeke at my shoulder. It feels good to be on a job. It feels good to be focused. Zeke and I stop for a moment outside the door, and then we nod at each other; Zeke pushes the door open and we walk in.
The two men sit at the bar. One is tall, lean, with a mop of grey-brown hair which hangs lankly down to his shoulders, wearing big cowboy boots which look completely ridiculous. His face is tired-looking, his eyes a dim shade of brown. I’d say he was about fifty, maybe older. The other is around my age, short and fat, with a podgy cherub-like face. But both of them are packing; I can see the outlines of their weapons beneath their leathers. That’s new for the unpatched. Before, they were a rabble of gunless men walking blindly around the city. Now, they are becoming a cohesive unit…with Trent at their head. If we can find Trent, end him, I’m sure the rest will disband. Or, at least, they’ll be so disoriented they’ll be easier to take out.
“I said I wanted ice, old man,” the lank-haired one snaps at the bartender, who is about ten years older than him. The bartender’s fear is plain in his lined face, and in the way he hurriedly takes Lank Hair’s drink and goes to the ice bucket. “How hard is it to get some ice?” Lank Hair says, grinning and turning to Cloon. As he turns, he sees me and Zeke, and his smiles dies. “Oh,” he mutters.
“Oh,” I echo, pacing across the bar and standing over the two men. Behind me, I hear Zeke locking the door. I glance to the bartender, and then nod toward the back. “Go take a break.” He quickly scurries out of the bar.
When Zeke returns, the two of us just stand over the men for a few moments, watching as they realize the situation they’re in. They don’t go for their weapons; they know who we are, and they know that would only turn this situation to violence damn quickly.
After a long pause, a pause we let stretch out so they know just how much shit they’re in, I say: “We want to know where Trent is. Where he lives, where he eats, where he sleeps, where he pisses, who he fucks. We want to know where that fuck is, alright?”
“Why?” Cloon mutters, his voice quivering. “He hasn’t done anything to you.”
“He shot one of our pledges,” Zeke says, voice quivering too, but for a different reason and with a darker quality. “Could have killed a boy who hasn’t even crossed him. Your boss is a fucking psychopath. And he’s dealing heroine. Dealing heroin in Damned territory. You don’t think that’s doing something to us? You don’t think that makes us want to have a conversation with the man?”
Zeke and I take off our leathers and lay them over the backs of chairs at the bar, all while the two men look wide-eyed at us.
“We’re going to have a talk,” I say, “and then you’re going to tell us what you know.”
“We don’t know where he lives,” Cloon says. “Really, we don’t.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Lank Hair mumbles. “We don’t know that much about him. He isn’t seen that much. He really isn’t. He’s like a ghost, man. He’s like a ghost.”
“Stand up,” I say, taking a step back. “I won’t fight a man when he’s sitting.”
Lank Hair watches me to see if I’m serious. When he realize I am, he stands up, taking off his own leather.
“At least you’re doing it fair,” he mutters, holding his hands up.
When we’re all facing each other, the scent of violence in the air, we start fightin’.
Chapter Sixteen
Allison
I feel my body betraying me as I approach the Englishman: my heart pounding way too fast, my palms sweating way too much, my head aching as though it’s going to crack open. Luckily, the sickness does not feel like it’s going to return. Yet, anyway. I tell myself there’s no reason to feel this nervous, not yet. It’s not like Rust is going to be in there. I’m only here to find out where Rust might be: his apartment, maybe his cell number. I find myself laying my hand on my belly, stroking it with my fingers, thinking about how much bigger it will get over the coming months if…if…but I will tell Rust first, and go from there. I don’t want to think about the other option.
I am at the front door of the Englishman when it creaks open. I step aside to let the person pass: a big man, wearing a leather jacket, with his dusty blonde hair tied in a ponytail. I turn my head as he passes, looking at the back of his jacket. The Damned! I will myself to stop the man, to ask him for Rust’s cell number. I will myself to step forward. But I just stand to the side of the door, watching, and then I know it’s too late. I turn, meaning to head into the bar, when my eyes come to rest chest-height on another leather-wearing man. This man is taller and more muscular: his leather stretched over his massive muscles, close to bursting at the seams. I swallow, a ball of nerves inching down my throat.
Rust: Rust, here. Rust, thrust quickly and without warning back into my life. I look down his body, at his scuffed jeans, at his scuffed boots, and then back up. His knuckles are grazed, as they often are, and there are flecks of blood on his hands, and spattered here and there on his leather. I look up into his face. His black eyes startle me at first sight. It’s not that I’ve forgotten how intense they are; it’s just that their intensity is so much stronger in reality than in my mind. He’s let his beard grow, but only a little: a five o’clock shadow. His face has the same hardness, and his cheek is cut and grazed. His mouth falls open, but he quickly shuts it, and then, to my disbelief, he ducks his head and walks right by me.
“Rust,” I mutter, but he just keeps walking.
He puts his hands in his pocket and paces away. I feel a stabbing in my chest, a sharp, almost physical pain as I watch the father to my child swagger away from me as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. I know I shouldn’t chase him. I know it is something that will make me look desperate. But I can’t just let him walk away like that, as if I don’t exist: as if I am a shadow and he has zero interest in seeing what is casting the shadow. I bite down, and then pace after him, taking long steps across the street. His partner is sitting behind the wheel of a pickup truck. Rust is almost there when I catch up with him and place my hand on his elbow.
“Rust,” I say. “Wait a second.”
He shrugs my hand off. “Go home, Allison,” he says. “This isn’t the place for you.”
“I just want to talk to you for a second!” I snap.
He flinches at the harshness of my voice, and then wheels on me. “Get the fuck out of here, you silly girl!” he growls. “Get the fuck out of here and get the fuck out of my face!” His chest is heaving, his bloody hands hanging at his sides, and his black eyes darker and more intense than ever. He seems surprised by his own words and looks for a moment like he might apologize, but then his face hardens and he paces toward the pickup.
I’m stunned for the first few steps he takes, but then my own rage explodes out of me. I scream at him across the street: “If I’m a silly girl, I’m a silly girl who’s pregnant with your child, Rust! Maybe you should come and see me at the library if you want to know more about it!”
With that, I spin on my heels and pace back down the street, toward where my car is parked. I feel my anger bubbling beneath the surface, even more acidic than my vomit, even more turbulent than the emotion I felt when I found out I was pregnant. The anger courses through me, pushing me to my car. I want to get o
ut of here. I want to hit something. I want…
I hear Rust call to his partner: “Get out of here, man. I’ll find my own way back.”
And then I hear his footsteps following me, pounding on the concrete, as he jogs after me. I walk quicker, almost at my car now, which is parked around the corner in a small side street in between the back of a takeout place and the back of a closed-down and boarded-up electronics store. I turn down the side street and pace to my car, reach for my keys in the front pocket of my dress, everything vibrating with rage: my body aching with rage. How dare he …
And then he jogs past me, standing between me and the car. His face is no longer as hard, and his eyes, somehow, seem less grimly dark than a few minutes ago. I feel my chest heaving just as his chest heaved. It’s like the anger which caused him to roar at me has been transferred to my chest. He approaches me. I take a step back, hitting my car, and gaze up at him.
“Don’t touch me,” I say, voice low.
“Is that true?” Rust mutters. “You’re pregnant? Are you really pregnant?”
Something about the way he asks this question triggers another outburst of anger. He asks it, and he looks at me, like he truly believes I would make this up. He asks it in a tone of voice which tells me everything I need to know about how his opinion of me has changed. I have become something else in his eyes: something disgusting. Before, we had fun; we joked. And now he stands here ready to believe that I would lie about something this serious. The anger bursts out from deep in my belly, rising vomit-like up my throat, and then explodes from my mouth.
I launch myself at him without thinking, punching him in the chest. “Do you really think I would fucking lie about this?” I snap, hitting him over and over in the chest. “Do you really think I’d come here just to make this up, you fucking asshole? Do you really think I’d be here telling you this if it wasn’t true? What sort of person do you take me for? Do you really see me as that sort of girl, Rust? Really?” With each word, I punch him in the chest. Even in my anger, I’m aware that he doesn’t move an inch under the force of my blows. He just stands there, taking them with ease. This makes me even angrier…I’m unloading my rage and he doesn’t even have the decency to flinch under my blows!
“Prick!” I hiss. “Asshole! Jerk!”
And then he begins to laugh, deep, throaty laughs, and this drives me ever crazier.
“Fucking prick! Fucking asshole!”
I make to punch him again in the chest, but he catches my wrists, darting his hand out viper-like and catching them with ease. I stare up into his face; he is gazing down at me, his old cocky smile on his face. “Let go of me,” I say, breathing heavily. “You’re a prick.”
He shrugs, and then steps forward, pushing me firmly into my car. “Maybe I am,” he says. “Yeah, maybe so. But I gotta admit, seein’ you so full of rage was definitely worth pissing you off.”
I try and take my hands away from him, but I can’t. He’s too strong…and there’s something about how strong he is, about how easily he can hold me back, that sets my body going. I tell my body to stop it; I tell myself to retain my rage; I remind myself of the way he snapped at me. But I can’t. My heart is still beating fast, my palms still sweating, but now it’s for different reasons. He presses his body against me and I feel his cock, rock-hard.
“Let go of me,” I say. No—not say. Moan. I moan it. “Let go of me,” I repeat, trying to make my voice firm, but I can’t.
At the end of the side street, it is daytime, not a busy street, but not a completely dead one, either. Anybody could walk by. Anybody could see us.
“If you really want me to let go of you,” Rust says, that infuriating, hot-as-hell smirk on his lips, “just ask me one more time. But I warn you, I’ll do it this time.”
God, I hate that expression on his face. He hasn’t said sorry for shouting at me, I note. I shouldn’t put up with that. I shouldn’t let him shout at me and then give myself over to lust. But my lust is so strong, overpowering me, my pussy already aching desperately for his touch. No, I try and tell myself. No, look to the end of the side street. Anybody could walk past. Somebody might see. No, stop it.
But then I am lifting my hand and placing it on his face, feeling the roughness of his five o’clock shadow, looking into those dark, dark eyes.
Rust laughs shortly. “Thought so,” he says.
I am wearing a summer dress, my legs bare, and all at once Rust has slid his hand up my thigh and is pressing his fingers down on my clit. I think: “someone might see. Stop it. Stop it now.” But I don’t say that; I only think it, and then just briefly. I grip on his face with one hand and his shoulder with the other, squeezing down. Rust watches me as he plays with my pussy, pushing down on my clit through my panties.
I feel as though I have been waiting past month for the feeling of Rust’s callused fingers on my clit: waiting without even realizing that I’ve been waiting; waiting for the animal pleasure of it. I bite down, my vision going blurry as my eyelids flit open and closed. There’s something so dirty, so down and dirty, so fucking filthy about having his hand on me right here in this side street. I am reminded of the first time he touched me, in an alleyway close by here, and somehow I managed to stop him. I don’t think I’m going to be able to manage to stop him this time. My lust is too great: swelling inside of me, hot, almost too hot for me to comprehend.
“Give me your car keys,” Rust groans. “I want to fuck you.”
“Have you got a condom?” I hear myself ask, my voice far away and distant.
Rust grunts out a laugh. “The damage is already done,” he says. “Give me your car keys so I can fuck you until you come all over my hard cock.”
“Oh, god—”
He leans in close to me, his beard tickling my cheek. “You like it when I talk like that to you, you horny bitch?” he says, breath caressing my skin, middle finger pressing firmly down on my clit. I feel my panties becoming wet, soaked, as my pussy responds to his words, to his touch.
“I like it,” I admit, voice strained.
“You like being told what a whore you are, a biker’s fuckin’ whore?” He rubs my clit faster, his breath warmer on my skin. “I’m going to shove you into the back of the car like a dirty bitch, Allison. I’m going to shove you in there and then slide my thick cock deep into your pussy; I’m going to pound you like a whore right here where someone might see us. I’m going to fucking make you come again and again.”
“I can’t—”
Oh fuck, his hand is so firm on my clit, so fast. So hot, too, as though small flames dance at the end of each of his fingers. He pushes aside my underwear and then slides his middle and ring finger deep inside of me. I cramp up, leaning forward, propping my hands on his shoulders. It’s too much; it’s too hot; it’s too dirty and naughty. We’re right here in a side street, right here where someone from the takeout place might come out for a cigarette break and catch us, right here where someone walking by the street might glance down and see us. Oh, fuck, this isn’t me. This isn’t me. I’m a professional social worker. I’m a professional working lady…no, no, I’m his whore, right now I’m his whore, and it feels so good to let go and be this tough biker’s little whore.
“Car keys,” he grunts, as though we really are animals and he is growling a short command at me. As he says it, he takes his hand away from my pussy and steps back, leaving a distance between us. Now that his hand is not on me, I should be able to let go of the lust. I should be able to tell him to stop. Or, at the very least, I should be able to tell him that we can’t do it here; we need to go to my apartment, or a hotel room. Yes, that is what a responsible girl would do—and it is clear I have tricked myself into believing I am a responsible girl—but as I stare at him, chest heaving, blood-flecked hands at his sides, I know I cannot stop myself. I need it, and I need it now.
I reach into the front pocket of my dress and take out my keys, not caring about the staring gaze of the mouth of the street, the possibility o
f being caught at any moment, the sounds of frying and shouting coming from the takeout place; all I care about in this instance is the tingling which moves over my clit, tempting me.
Rust takes the keys, opens the back door of the car, and then grabs me by the shoulders and lays me down on the seat. I sit back, panting. My breath is suddenly going out of control. My head is light, lighter with lust than it ever was with rage, and hotter, too. Everything is aching in anticipation. I want him so badly my toes are preemptively curling, I realize. I expect Rust to lean up and over me, but he doesn’t. He stays down near my legs. Then I feel his hands on my panties and I bite my lip; when he yanks my panties away, snapping them, the fabric cutting into my hips, I bite my lip so hard that I wince at the pain. I let out a squeal, and then Rust begins to bite my inner thigh, hard bites, bites which will leave a mark. Up and up, he bites, and all the while I am telling myself to stop, it is too public, I can’t, I can’t…