by Lydia Pax
“Yes,” said Tank. “He's not a man with much honor. Someone should take care of him.”
The salesman nodded. “What you're doing here...that have anything to do with that?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you walked out of here with a van, say—”
“A van and an SUV,” said Locke. He pointed at one—an older black model, sturdy and wide with a grille guard on the front of it. “That one.”
The man smiled. It was a twisted thing with the scar running across his face. “Sure. Two vehicles, let's call it. That would help you? That would hurt Rattler?”
“That's right,” said Tank. “It would be essential to the whole operation.”
“And you'd remember, huh? If it worked out. You'd remember your friends.”
“Yes,” said Tank. “And we'd forget them if it didn't work out.”
The man's smile grew. “Well boys. I'm sorry about those vehicles you wanted to buy. They just disappeared right off my lot. I can't even say for certain that I ever had them in the first place.”
Chapter 24
Beretta had been to hospitals in big cities before. Well-funded hospitals, flooded with money from philanthropists from every kind of business, all of them eager to leave a mark on the world after finding out that their money didn’t make them anything noteworthy in the cosmic scheme of things.
Beretta knew what they had found out: money didn't validate, money didn't justify, money didn't resolve—all money ever did was flow or stagnate.
These high-end hospitals had color-coded floors and vacuum-locked windows, room-by-room climate control, high-definition televisions for each patient, and he’d even been to one with an arcade in the in-patient waiting area. They also had complex security—cameras everywhere, long patterns of rotating guards, keycards for every door and every wing.
Stockland was not a big city. Stockland had a very small collection of business owners with expendable wealth, and none of them were philanthropists.
And so, Stockland did not have that kind of hospital. The pharmacy had the best security the hospital offered—a locked door that required a key-card to open. The problem with the system was that anyone hired at the hospital in a medical capacity was able to get into the pharmacy with their key card.
That Saturday morning, Beretta had Helen’s key card. They went to her work the following morning after collapsing back at the motel.
Well, in truth, they collapsed for all of about twenty minutes before finding their bodies intertwining once again, her mouth on his cock and his mouth firmly attached to her pussy. All they had to do to go wild on each other was to be alone.
Increasingly, Beretta found it harder and harder to keep himself separate from Helen. Not just his body, but his thoughts too.
There was a way to do it, he knew. He hadn’t exactly been celibate since Madeline died. With other women, it hadn’t been a problem to keep his feelings to himself, his thoughts separate from his actions. He didn’t let them in, no matter how crazy or good the sex got.
But Helen was getting in. Helen was seeping into his mind. He owned her—she was his old lady—but even if that was just for show to keep her alive, he had been wanting it to be for real since the second he proposed it.
At around six in the morning, they rolled up to the hospital, Helen already in her scrubs—a fresh blue pair. Her shift would start in a few hours, and so they figured she could pretend to be showing up early if someone who knew her ran into them.
Beretta quickly stuffed his colors in the saddlebag on his bike; he would have ridden in them, but this was a mission of the covert persuasion, and it wouldn’t do to announce who he was to any cameras or guards that might somehow catch his image.
So he wore a normal outfit—tight pants, black A-frame shirt, and a denim jacket. The parking lot was mostly empty and the sun had not risen all the way yet. Some morning dew was still splattered on the cars and concrete.
“You ready to do this?” Beretta asked her.
“Ready? Yes. Willing?” She laughed harshly. “I’m working on that.”
“The time to back out was a while ago,” he said. “Before you suggested it.”
“I know. I know that. But the concept is one thing, and the execution is another.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He put a hand on her shoulder, guiding her forward to the hospital. “You oughta let me tell you about a meeting I had in a hunting cabin one time.”
“Cabin meeting, huh?”
“It was a very exciting time.”
They walked inside and upstairs, using a side entrance to avoid the traffic of the front where all the eyes were. With Helen’s knowledge, they managed to successfully avoid most of the staff. Most of her job was done on the first and second floors, so as long as they stayed clear of the workers there, they ought to be good. Beretta kept his distance from her, always walking a good ten or fifteen feet behind. They moved through the stairs instead of the elevator to avoid being seen together for any length of time.
This was hard, of course, because just seeing her made him want to shove her against the wall and fuck her rotten. It was impossible for her to be near him and not produce at least a semi-hard cock.
Everything about her made him ready to go. Even in those formless scrubs, he wanted to take her, to fill her up like only he could. That she filled the scrubs out so nicely probably didn’t hurt. The fact that months ago, when he met her for the first time in a bar, she had been wearing scrubs and he was disastrously attracted to her then, didn't hurt either.
The hospital pharmacy was in the middle of two hallways on the fifth floor of the hospital. Glass doors were on either side, perpetually open. Beretta was always confused by that kind of policy. Why have the doors in the first place? It wasn’t like the hospital closed.
There was a security guard posted in front of the pharmacy, not good enough at his job to give Beretta the long look a man like Beretta should always have from law enforcement. The guard was clean-shaven but had a long mass of hair that was too young for him, ironically making him look older and more out-of-touch. His gut was too big and he read a paperback sci-fi novel, licking his thumbs to push the pages along.
Beretta sat down on a bench in the hall, waiting in the shadows and pulling a magazine from a nearby table, pretending to read about the ten best ways to resurface his deck. Helen, meanwhile, sat closer to the doors and fiddled with her phone. In all, they waited for about ten minutes for the pharmacist to go on break. Once he did, Helen waved Beretta forward—the game was on.
Along the way in the hospital, Helen had picked up a wheeled cart full of supplies—boxes of gloves and needles and empty containers, that sort of thing. Helen walked across the stretch in front of the pharmacy, “tripping” and pushing her cart over, sending its contents sprawling all over the ground.
The security guard walked over to help her. His belly stretched far over his belt. His pants clung tight to his rear and looked as though they might split open at any moment. All the same, he bent down and picked up what he could to help Helen out.
“Sorry,” said Helen, hands scrambling and making the mess even more pronounced even as she pretended to pick things up. “I don’t know where my mind is.”
“It’s all right, ma’am,” said the guard. “You ain’t the first to slip in this hallway, that’s for sure. Though most of them that do are usually a little under the influence of whatever they’ve picked up from the pharmacy.”
Beretta snuck forward as the guard’s back was turned and used the key card to get inside. Helen’s voice raised to cover his entrance, saying something about her favorite sci-fi novel, noting the guard's book.
Once in the pharmacy, Beretta went straight to work—grabbing only from those piles that Helen had put on his cheat sheet. Painkillers, disassociatives, stimulants, muscle relaxants. From those, he only took about half the pile—leaving enough there to ensure that the alarm wouldn’t be raised the second the pharmacist returne
d. They did a full inventory once or twice a week, Helen said, and so there might be a big long window before anyone even knew that something was missing.
Soon, his bag was full. He popped out through the door—Helen still had the guard distracted—and he walked down the hall and into the stairwell, waiting for Helen.
His heart rate had climbed during the robbery. When he saw Helen again, some five minutes later, it doubled and doubled again. Every part of her made him feel alive.
“Sorry,” her eyes were wide and a bit frazzled. “Guy was desperate for a conversation.”
“I’d be desperate to talk to you, too, if I was him.”
She laughed. “Well, it’s done now. Let’s go.”
He was ready for that, but ready for more, too. He pulled her in and kissed her thoroughly, loving the taste of her mouth. Right away she was pliable in his arms, giving in to his strength.
Not part of today's plan, kissing her. But goddamn, it should have been. She felt too good to not plan for.
Eventually he broke the kiss, pulling her along. No one passed them on the stairs. Helen explained that once Beretta was out, she would double-back and enter from the front and start her shift properly.
Once they made it to the first floor, a tall, handsome, skinny man with thick blond hair approached Helen as they passed the coffee stand where visitors congregated. Past this stand, the hallway was empty save for the three of them. Beretta had fallen a little behind trying to adjust the bag on his shoulders so the weight was distributed evenly, so it would have been easy for the newcomer to think that Helen was alone.
“Hello, Helen,” the man said.
Helen drew up, stiffening and drawing her limbs close together.
“Randall.”
Helen clearly knew him—and knew him well. He had nice hair and a friendly smile, but there was something underneath it that made Beretta’s skin crawl. This not even mentioning the way that Helen’s body language changed—suddenly hunched over, arms crossed, protective.
This Randall had hurt Helen. He had hurt Helen and Beretta knew without a doubt that he was going to hurt him for it.
“It’s real nice to see you.” He had a calm, easy smile. “You’re looking real pretty.”
His voice carried the easy sort of twang that made a man seem affable even when he wasn’t.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Gosh, do we have to start out like that? I haven’t seen you in, man, six months? You’re looking great.”
“I heard you. And it’s been nine months. They’ve been wonderful. Please, let’s pretend this never happened and make it nine decades, all right?”
She moved to walk past him and he put his hand on her shoulder, spinning her just rough enough. Beretta’s temper flared.
“Hey now,” said Randall. “I’ve been trying to reach you. You don’t just walk away from me—”
Beretta shoved his forearm against Randall’s throat and jammed him hard against the wall. His feet started kicking Beretta’s shins, lifted up as they were a foot off the ground.
“She don’t want to talk to you,” said Beretta. “I’d leave her the fuck alone. Forever.”
“I don’t know...who you think you are, pal, but she and I, we have a history...”
Again, Beretta shoved him into the wall. This time his head banged hard against the plaster.
“I’m gonna make you history you don’t shut the fuck up right now. You understand me?”
Randall didn’t answer, so Beretta shoved his forearm deeper into his meat, thumping his head back against the wall a third time.
“I said, do you fucking understand me, string cheese? Or do I need to explain things to you the way I explain them to someone I don’t like?”
“I g-get you,” Randall choked. “L-leave her alone. I h-hear you.”
“Good.”
He let Randall down and he collapsed to the floor in a heap. The smaller man held his neck, eyes still bulging a bit, his throat red. Coughs and spasms emptied out from him like exhaust from an old car.
That felt good. There was something that was right; something he had done for Helen alone.
Smirking, Beretta grabbed Helen and kissed her tight, right over the fallen Randall. She resisted at first—surprised—and then his lips melded over hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth. They locked lips for nearly a minute, his hands tight on her curves.
“It's still...we're in public,” she breathed as he relinquished his grip.
Beretta didn't give a damn.
“You’re my property,” he said. “And everybody has to know.”
Chapter 25
Helen didn’t want to go back to work with Randall still there, and she had no idea when he would actually clear out. She asked Beretta to drive her around for an hour to let him leave and to help her gather herself in case she needed to face him again.
So they were out on the highway, circling around the city of Stockland and taking in the plain, rustic beauty of the morning as the sun rose up. They passed cacti and cliffs, dirt roads and worn patches of small, rain-starved forest.
She said nothing about Beretta’s intervention; she didn’t know what to feel about it.
On the one hand, she was doing just fine before Beretta came along. Very fine, as a matter of fact, on her way up in the hospital’s eyes and maybe looking at a shift manager position sometime soon, with Georgetta’s blessing. She’d gotten away from Randall all on her own and was perfectly happy to kick him in the balls until all future generations of Randalls were as evaporated as rain on hot concrete.
And on the other hand...
Her body grew warm and she clung harder to Beretta’s body, her hand sliding down to his crotch. He was hard and he was ready, and Helen moaned at full volume, knowing the motorcycle drowned out the sound and the vibration, both.
She didn’t have to hide any of her feelings, riding with him like this. The wind whipped through her hair. Every second on the bike was more dangerous than the last, and not just because Beretta drove faster and faster.
Touching him was dangerous. Knowing him was dangerous.
So, yes, she could take care of herself when it came to Randall.
On the other hand, watching Beretta take care of Randall for her was pretty fucking hot. It was a weird, biological, primal impulse to watch and enjoy the mate she chose—loosely speaking, of course—terrorize the mate she had rejected.
But all the same her heart had thumped, her pulse quickened, her body temperature rose, and her moistness grew as she witnessed Beretta utterly dismantle Randall. It had been hell to resist the urge to slide against him as he did it, to bite his shoulder and slip her hand around his cock, to beg him to maybe give the asshole one or two more shots in the ribs just for her.
It wasn’t just that Beretta cared that turned her on, though that was nice. It was his possessiveness, his protection, his alpha-supremacy that didn’t allow any challengers to his right to his woman. That struck right to the core of her.
Randall had tried to be possessive with her—still tried, now that she thought about it. But his always came from a place of desperation, a place of insecurity and a need for validation.
The contrast was remarkable. Randall would have seen someone talking to her like he had just tried to do, and would have berated her and degraded her all the way home in the car. He would have waited, blaming her for the problem, reminding Helen that she was supposed to be his.
With Beretta...it was different. He wasn’t insecure. He just didn’t like the asshole talking to his woman. The asshole had to know right away—and if he wanted to fight about it? Go the fuck ahead.
See what happens.
Her body squeezed tighter against Beretta’s, her hand grasping more firmly on his ever-growing cock. She didn’t think it had a limit to how hard it could get; or if it did, she hadn’t seen it.
There was nothing she wanted more in that moment than to feel him inside her.
Beretta pulle
d over into a rest stop off the highway. It was the kind with the gondolas and picnic tables and a stout, round brown building full of restrooms and road maps. An outcropping of rocks piled high next to one of the gondolas. Her heart began to skip wildly. Was he needing it to? Was their passion that much in sync? Stepping off the bike, Beretta pulled her behind the outcropping so they were out of the view of the road.
She waited for him to speak—needing to hear him say it first, not trusting herself to proposition just yet.
And he did speak first. More than that. He took her by the throat and kissed her hard, crushing her body against his.
“I need to fuck you, ” he said simply. “Now.”
Any resistance she might have felt had long since melted. Today, Beretta was everything that made her think he was terrific—making a plan, easy with his decisions, organizing their movements. And now all that was operating on her—planning his way out here to the middle of nowhere, deciding he would simply take her and that was that. No worries about consequences, no second-guessing—just doing and damn it all.
She nodded. “Yes. Please.”
The strength left her knees. Her breaths came quicker, hotter, even though there were less of them with his hand on her throat. She felt dizzy and needy, both, and her lips fell into his. Arms wrapped tight around his thick neck and she let out a long, shuddering moan, her body pushing urgently into him and kissing him.
She didn’t want him to have any doubt about how badly she wanted—needed—to fuck him too.
He kissed her harder, rougher, than she could ever recall him doing it before. Slowly, it occurred to her that recent events instigated this need for her. The crime had turned him on. Not to mention the roughing up of Randall.
That was fine by her. It had turned her on too. He was her fucking man, and it felt good to belong to baddest motherfucker in the city.
Beneath them was a patch of grass, soft and still a little wet from the morning. Very soon he had her pants down, her body turned over on the grass so that she was on her hands and knees on the grass. She could feel the moist, warm shaft of his manhood sliding up the back of her legs. He took his time, his hands crawling over her body. So warm and strong. She moaned at every touch. She was wet, and she was ready.