They got onto the M1 as quickly as possible, and then on to the N1, the freeway to Pretoria. About halfway there, at Centurion, Cole noticed a bike closing in and when it got close realized it was a Cheetah. So they had twigged and probably had scouts on every major route out of town. He knew what he had to do, though he hated to do it, especially with Brianne in the car, but he had no choice. If the Cheetahs knew he’d gone to Pretoria, they’d find him. Telling Brianne to hold on, he slowed down until he was adjacent to the biker and edged over until he nudged his handlebars, sending him careening into the car in the next lane. What Cole saw in the rear view mirror was reassuring. The biker came off the bike and tumbled into the traffic. He sped up and took the next exit to Centurion. He knew that the trouble he’d caused for the innocent motorists in the road would be on his conscience for a long time, and he regretted dispatching a fellow Cheetah. But needs must. He figured it was self-defense.
Brianne, he saw, was aghast. She looked at him wonderingly. “How could you do that?”
“Bri, it was a matter of killing or being killed and having you killed as well. He would have done the same to me without thinking twice.”
“I suppose so.” But, not for the first time, she wondered how she could be so attracted to a killer. It would take some time to get used to.
***
When they got to Hatfield, they found a hotel on Burnett, across from the Pick n’ Pay. After checking in, Cole drove into the mall’s parking lot where the car would be out of sight.
When they got to their room things became a little awkward. They both knew they would have sex, and both wanted to, despite their fatigue, but the situation was new and the fact that they hardly knew each other loomed large. Cole didn’t want a quick roll in the hay as was normal with the Cheetah women. This had to be special, an act that expressed gratitude and love, not just lust. It had been years since he’d that sort of sex and wasn’t sure he remembered how. All he could think of was the necessity for taking his time.
Brianne, though eager, was more than a little afraid. She was far from being a virgin, but the memory of Cole’s brutal behavior on the freeway was still in the forefront of her mind. Would he be as brutal with her? She tried to blot that picture out of her mind and replace it with her memory of the gentleness and sensitivity that had been apparent when they were sitting in the café chatting.
They stood for what seemed like an age in silence, looking at each other. Then Cole said, “I’ve got to have a shower. I smell like a goat.” He went into the bathroom and closed the door.
By the time he emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist, Brianne was under the covers wearing the flannel babydoll she’d packed. She walked over and slipped under the covers, dropping the towel at the last minute.
He was no stranger to being naked with a woman and, with a Cheetah woman, wouldn’t have bothered with the towel at all. But this was different. He wasn’t sure how Brianne would have reacted to rampant nakedness. As soon as he was next to her, he gently took her in his arms. The feel of her warmth was exciting, and her scent was intoxicating. He’d never had sex with a black woman before, so her rather spicy odor was new to him, and practically destroyed his control.
He began to gently minister to her with his lips, first just behind her ear, and then in the hollow where her shoulder met her neck, and then the corner of her mouth, but he waited to take over her lips until he felt her relax.
When she showed that she was ready by turning towards him, he devoured her and was devoured in return. The feel of her tongue on his once again brought him near to the point of no return, so he disengaged enough to reach inside the low neckline of the babydoll to cup her breasts in his hands, lifting them so he could suck her already swelling nipples.
When she began to whimper, he lifted the short skirt of her babydoll and began to caress her belly and thighs with long, smooth strokes, dredging up from his memory his experience with the masseuse the Cheetahs brought in to bring them down off the tension of an operation. Slowly, inch by inch, he came closer and closer to the centre, where he could feel the dampness that told him he was doing okay. Very tentatively he touched her labia with one finger, and with a cry, she pulled her legs up and apart and lifted her hips to give him easy access.
Reassured, he cupped his hand over her and stroked her with his fingers, paying particular attention to the hardening bud he found in the centre. She began to moan just at the moment he felt he was losing control, and, reassured, he lifted himself over on her and entered her, catching her legs with his shoulders so that she was supporting him, and so that he was free to take her breasts in his hands.
With his last vestige of control he moved very slowly at first, but soon felt her urging him on with her hips and he quickened the pace, soon exploding into her with a wave of sensation that he couldn’t remember ever experiencing before. As soon as she felt his seed inside her, she followed him over the crest with a cry, and then again and again, as he continued to move, even has his manhood was losing its stiffness.
When it slipped out of her, he moved back to her side and held her so that every inch of their bodies was together. He kissed her deeply and lovingly until he was completely calm, though his nerve endings would continue to be alive and aware for some minutes.
Brianne pulled away just far enough so she could look him in the eyes and said, “I have never ever experienced anything as beautiful as that. It would be a rare Xhosa man who would bother, believe me. You’re a rare man, Cole. I just hope I can be a rare woman for you.” Then she nestled her head on his shoulder and fell asleep.
Cole, however, wasn’t ready for sleep. He knew he would want more before long, and in fact began to feel a stirring in the groin that signaled a reawakening already. But he waited, not wanting to disturb Brianne, and just enjoyed the sensation of being with her, feeling her skin against his, inhaling their scents and the fragrance of their sex in the cozy warmth under the covers. He was thankful it had gone well, and though he was not a praying man, and hadn’t been since he was a boy, he thanked God for that gift and for the gift of this woman to him.
But when the signals from his groin became more insistent, he began to fondle Brianne’s breasts until she stirred into consciousness, continuing to worship her body with his hands until she was fully awake. When she smiled and said, “Yes, definitely!” he began to kiss her, but to his surprise, she pushed him away and sat up.
Taken aback, he froze. But it was immediately apparent that all she wanted was to remove the babydoll. She pulled it over her head and in the same movement moved over on top of him. “I promised to try to be a special woman for you, Cole. Let me start on that.”
She began by nipping his ear lobes and blowing onto his ears. “This is the way my grannies told me to give a man pleasure. Let’s see if it works with a whitey.” She moved to his nipples. His groan encouraged her to move down along the line of hair in the middle of his torso. She took her time and gave butterfly kisses and little licks as she went, massaging his back and his buttocks with her hands. He smelled like the soap he’d used in the shower and it excited her.
“My God, Brianne, I must meet these grannies of yours and thank them.”
“They’d love that! Gossiping about it would make then famous for miles around.” She took some time enjoying the sight of him. Except for his hands and neck, he was amazingly white, skin without blemish except for a scar on one shoulder which must surely be a bullet wound. His muscles, from pecs to six-pack, were in sharp bas relief. He looked like the marble statues she’d seen in her history textbooks. His belly was not quite flat—after all, he was 40—but still trim.
Then she applied her tongue to his navel, and when he began to groan and she felt an urgency rising underneath her, she took his shaft in her hands and began to flick her tongue over his cap, and especially the space between the wings of it, until he cried out, “Enough, Bri, enough! I’m losing it!”
Without delay, she lowered herself on hi
m and froze, hoping she hadn’t been too slow. Happily she could sense that she’d been able to draw him back from the cliff for a moment, at least, and began to move very, very slowly in a circular motion and was rewarded by the pounding of his heels and fists on the bed. “My God,” he said, “My God!” And he emptied himself into her—it seemed to him a gallon at least, as it went on and on. She continued to move, more quickly now, bringing herself to her own climax even as she prolonged his.
When he could speak again, Cole whispered, “Bri, you are indeed a rare woman. I’m so lucky to have found you.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” she said as she spooned herself against his back and dropped off to sleep. This time Cole joined her and they slept together until mid-morning when, after an enjoyable and stimulating shower together, they fell into bed again and continued their mutual quest of being one another’s special treasure.
Sometime after noon, Cole dressed and went down to the lobby where bought a newspaper, which he brought back to the room and scanned for mention of a motorcycle accident on the N1. He knew that even if the cyclist had been killed, it might not make the news, but to his relief there was a small article on the inside of the front page. Four cars had eventually been involved, and that, together with the death of the motorcyclist, made it newsworthy. The police were looking for a driver who “may” have been involved, but without success. He sighed with relief, thinking that they were probably safe for the moment. But he knew the Cheetahs had long arms, and because in South Africa you had to record your I.D. when registering, he knew they should move on as soon as they could. He hadn’t ever got a fake I.D., so had had to use his own.
They stayed in the hotel for two nights, basking in each other's glow and making plans. In the end they decided to head down to the Transkei in the Eastern Cape, where Brianne’s family network would protect them and where he could find temporary work without questions being asked.
When they got there, Brianne was welcomed enthusiastically with open arms, and because of her endorsement, Cole was accepted as well—though with a certain reserve. It didn’t take long, however, for it to become clear that he was a white of a different color than most, accepting them as equals and treating them with African politeness, as S’bu had taught him to when he had visited soon after leaving Angola. The men were pleasantly surprised that he was willing to join them in physical labor, and he was able to contact S’bu, who lived just a few miles away and whose endorsement eliminated any lingering suspicion the villagers might have been feeling.
They both tossed their cell phones and destroyed their I.D.s and Cole’s passport. Cole set about securing a false I.D., not difficult in the tribal areas, and as time went on without any sign of a successful pursuit, they began to feel safe. Cole found that he was as happy in the village as he’d ever been.
There were things he missed, but they were more than compensated for by the presence of Brianne at his side. African culture, he discovered to his surprise, was very like the Afrikaner culture he’d grown up with in Potchefstroom, and he felt privileged to have had a chance to realize this, as so many of his fellow Afrikaners never would. Once you were part of a group, it was a very forgiving and laid-back culture as far removed from the Cheetah culture as was possible, and that was a relief. There was a network of mutual dependence that sometimes chafed, but also protected and soothed. Cole no longer was a man who did what he wanted when he wanted, but he was glad for that—mostly.
Of course, it might be temporary. But what in life wasn’t? And when Brianne told him a few months after they had arrived that she was pregnant, he thought back to the life he’d dreamed of when he was a Cheetah and knew he’d found it.
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Masters of Menace
Sophia Hampton
Michael Lawrence. The name resonates in my head with all the intensity of church bells and with all the pain of a gunshot.
Michael Lawrence. I look at the coffin being lowered in the grave and I think about the vow I made early in my eulogy.
Michael Lawrence. I have never met this man, but I will make sure he is ended. I will make sure he knows what he has done, the pain he has caused.
Michael Lawrence. The man who killed the only father I ever knew, the man I swore to put behind bars.
Two years later
I drove into the empty driveway and stared at the vacant house. Since the house was paid off I let it sit on the block while I finished my journalism degree. I always managed to find internships that would get me out of the state, or spend the summers with friends or boyfriends. Anywhere but here. But now I was back. I was back and Michael Lawrence would pay.
Many people considered my obsession with Michael Lawrence to be misguided. After all, he wasn’t at the crime scene. But he didn’t have to be. Dad had spent most of his life trying to put the vicious members of Michael Lawrence’s gang behind bars. I had spent much of my teenage life leaving in the slight fear of death threats and being used as leverage against Dad. Although the man who pulled the trigger might not have been Lawrence, he had to be behind the crime.
The pain of that sunny day in the graveyard still wracked me and provided me with my motivation. Without that anger and hate I would have never gotten through college, I would have never come back here. But I made a vow to my father that day that I would bring Michael Lawrence to justice.
The police had never been able to prove he was connected to the crime directly. They brought some guy named Charley to court for his murder, but I knew Michael Lawrence was the one behind it. He ran the biggest motorcycle gang in the entire region—they were also criminal bodyguards and ran a security ring. His men were always for hire to make sure whatever your nefarious deed was got done without you being detected. It sickened me. Violence and death followed him everywhere. As, I reflected, it followed me.
Almost all my worldly possessions fit into two suitcases and a duffel bag. I left the suitcases for the morning, slung the duffel over my shoulder, and walked to the front door of the little house. I paused at the front briefly. The porch light wasn’t on—probably didn’t even work anymore—and night was falling quickly. I unlocked the door and went inside.
The house was roasting. Once a month I paid for a housekeeper to come out here and make sure nothing had been stolen and that wild animals weren’t invading, and I came down every summer to give the house a good scrubbing, but for the most part no one had even entered the house since my father’s death. And the A/C had definitely never been turned on in that time. The baking South Carolina heat had turned the house into a furnace.
Praying against all hope the A/C still worked I flipped on the thermostat and, mercifully, the whoosh of cool air flooded the ducts. Crisis averted, I turned my attention to the rest of the house. Nothing had even been moved in the past two years. Under the dust and disinfectant I could still smell Dad, his comforting musk. I slung the duffel bag on the couch and unzipped it, pulling out the flag I received at his funeral. Stoney-faced, I put the triangle on the mantle and stepped back. “This will always be your home, Daddy.”
I wandered through the rest of the house, trailing my fingers across surfaces, remembering growing up here. When I stepped into the house for the first time as a scared and lonely seven-year-old; the smell of burnt food and the ding of the delivery man at the door; the sounds my dad and his cop friends playing poker and drinking beer while I watched cartoons; where my high school boyfriend broke up with and Dad held me while I cried.
Every good memory I had was in this house, and every good memory was of my dad. And he was gone now. Michael Lawrence took him away from me. I headed up to my bedroom. It was still decorated like it was when I graduated from high school. Hell, there was still a picture of Steve and I tucked into my vanity mirror. I laughed as I remembered the drama that was involved in that relationship, but it was high school. I pulled the picture out of the mirror. Maybe I would call him up and we could get coffee or something. Ask him how his baby is d
oing. A lot happens in four years.
I paused in front of my dad’s door. The room where the Christmas presents hid, where I would bound every Sunday morning—no matter how old I was—and snuggle under the covers and we would watch classic movies all morning while my dad told me about when he saw all of them when they first came out. I entered the room, curled up in the center of his bed, and pressed his pillow to my face, inhaling his scent. Tears started to leak out of my eyes and before I was aware of what was happening, I was sobbing into his pillow, tears of anger and regret and loss and grief.
Tomorrow I would start work.
Tonight I would grieve.
One year later
The alarm went off at five, but I was already wide-awake. I had barely been able to sleep at all last night. Today was the day. I was sitting at my computer, continually refreshing the page, waiting for the article to go live. I was told it would be any time between five and eight. Three long hours waited for me.
Runaway Ride: Alpha Bad Boy Biker and MC Romance Box Set Page 53