Three Hitmen: A Triple Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 2)

by Alice May Ball

  The more I beat him, the closer I was to crying.

  II sunk my teeth into the top of his shoulder. He still didn’t seem to care. And rage was the only defense I had against tears. So I rode his cock as hard as I could and through my teeth I shouted into his shoulder, “Fuck me. Come on, American. FUCK ME! FUCK ME NOW!”

  The orgasm blasted into me like the Pacific smashing against high granite cliffs, breeching through vast, ancient caves, like a tsunami bursting into a bay, filling and consuming the coves and crags of the coast with white, raging foam.

  Lying back on the table, I could hardly move. I ached all over, but my muscles sang. Never before had I felt anything like that. So powerful it almost felt religious. Maybe because I was exhausted and I hadn’t eaten properly since the wedding. Whatever it was, it left me unbalanced. Confused. I felt drawn to this big biker like a father. Like a savior. And I knew that he wasn’t going to be either. Not for me.

  The sound of boots came from outside. Then a bang on the door and a rough male voice, “You done, bro? Ready to go?”

  Not taking his eyes off me, the biker said, “Ax there?” Another voice came from behind the door,

  “We’re all set, bro.” The biker called back,

  “Ax, take the merchandise and stack it in the cage. Call the geek and get him over. Don’t let anyone start to open anything before I get there.”

  “You got it. See you back.”

  “Ax?” the biker called again, insistent, “Nobody opens anything. No exceptions. Clear?”

  “Aye. You be far behind?”

  “No, I won’t be long.”

  As he fastened his silver buckle he said, “I hate to think of you being manhandled, mistreated and mauled, just to put money in Jake’s pocket,” he looked at me for a long time. Looked me over. He said, “Seems tragic when you could fill my pocket instead.” I watched the emblem on his back then the door closed behind him. And I watched his ass. As it moved in the soft leather, I wanted his cock again.

  I must have slept, but not for long. I heard sounds at the door. The biker opened the door. The one with the red bandana and shades came into the room ahead of him, saying, “So, this gonna square us, right? The bust, Carter, the package you say you were short, we gonna be all squared away now. Right?”

  “All square.”

  “Brother, you paying a high price for a piece of tush. Let me take another quick look, okay? You sure she aint got diamonds in her pussy or a pound of crack in her bra? A weight of grass up her ass, maybe?”

  “This deal didn’t suit you, you wouldn’t be doing it, Jake. No more fucking around, okay.”

  “Okay, bro. She’s all yours. We’re good.” They clasped hands, locking their thumbs, embraced with their other arms and patted each other twice on the back. It was like a dance.

  The biker was leading me from the room. Whether this was taking me to a better situation, I couldn’t know, but the biker looked a better bet than Jake in every way. I pushed away the thought that I had never experienced orgasms anything like those he’d given me. Whatever else, I was sure he was a pimp just like Jake. Me allowing my emotions to get tangled up with him would probably not lead to a happy ending.

  As we neared the door I started to say, “My sister…” and I realized immediately that it was a mistake.

  Jake grinned wide as he said, “Oh, you got a sister?”

  If Jake learned that Inez was my little sister, it wouldn’t do her any good, or me either. Thinking fast, the best I could come up with was, “I gotta call my sister. Let her know I’m OK. And I want to know how her test went.” Maybe I went too far. I remembered from law school, the more detail a witness offers, the more likely they’re lying or trying to hide something. Either one of those lies should have been good. Saying both I could have given myself away.

  Jake said, “It’s okay, I’m sure Bogart will let you use the phone in your suite. You gonna put her in the penthouse, right, Bogart? With the rooftop infinity pool? You gonna let her use the chopper?”

  Bogart. So that was what they called him.

  Bogart said, “Don’t worry, Jake, she’ll be on a chopper night and day. She’s headed straight for the panthouse.”

  Out at the back of the shed, in darkness again. Seemed like the sun had taken a vacation from me. “Hold onto here,” he pointed at a grab rail below the seat of the huge motorcycle. As I clambered onto the back of the saddle and grabbed the chrome rail, he flicked a pair of cuffs over my wrist, chaining my wrist to the rail. He said, “If I’d expected a passenger, I’d have brought the Softtail. The Sportster’s higher, less of an easy ride. Just hold on, lean when the bike leans, go where the bike goes.” He swung his legs over the front of the bike, sat and turned the key.

  The engine burst into a crackling roar beneath us, with a steady pulse from the pipes behind. The thing jerked forward and I didn’t think I was going to be able to hold on. We rode for hours. I held on with both hands on the grab rails under my ass, and my arms felt like they had turned to ice. My legs were freezing so much in the wind that my knees shook violently the whole trip. The rags of the tee snapped and flapped around my bare breasts.

  The thing thrummed underneath me. Reminded my of my Mama’s tumble drier, the way it shook me. Only, Mama’s tumble drier did that because it was a cheap appliance. It shook because it wasn’t made well enough not to. This thing, this bike, it vibrated with a precision, speeding up, slowing down. Always with a force. And a beat. This machine rocked my clit and my pussy and my insides, it even made my breasts shake. And it did it like it meant it. The feeling of his ass, like steel balls between my shaking thighs did nothing to lower the effect. That whole journey I was freezing and almost edging at the same time. Most uncomfortable ride I ever had.

  Eventually, we came to a big roadhouse in a blasted crater of dry scrub. The red neon over the entrance said, HELL’S KITCHEN, BAR & GRILL. A heavy metal thud oozed out through the walls. Several bikes leaned outside, plus a number of pickups and a big container rig. Probably like the one we’d been brought in from the Mexican border. We got in and out in pitch dark so it could be the same one for all I’d know. I saw him look over a couple of the big, shining bikes, listen to them crackling as their engines were still cooling. Rocked one on its stand. He felt them, for the temperature I guess, patted them like they were horses.

  Bogart unlocked the cuffs and led me in through the bar doors. What lights there were behind the bar, on the stage or from the gambling machines around the walls. Red, blue or amber lights and logos flashed and flickered through the dark press of leather, denim, metal and hair.

  Still shivering from the ride, I had to stop a while to warm up. Bogart waited with no sign of impatience. Through the shadows and the mostly male bodies, I saw two or three girls gyrate around the stage. They wore sparkly heels. That was about all. Maybe some glitter and rhinestones. They slithered and writhed in easy reach of the customers.

  Sliding after Bogart through the crowd in the tiny cut-off denims with flaps of the tee hanging from my shoulders, I looked more naked than the dancers, and none of the bikers failed to notice.

  When they saw who I was with, they kept their observations to themselves and greeted Bogart like some emperor returning from a conquest.

  A cute, black-haired dancer crouched at the edge of the stage in front of a customer. Her big, round breasts pressed against him. Looking closer, I saw that his cock was standing out and she had it wedged between her breasts. She slid up and down, reaching under his balls. Some bikers clapping time and stamped until the guy’s cock went off in the girl’s face. She pulled on it and sucked on it to drain it dry, then she wiped all the cum from between her breasts and on her face into her mouth and licked her lips theatrically. She showed her tongue to the crowd with a drooling hunk of spunk on it. She swallowed, licked her lips again and grinned. Her eyes shone and she shouted, “Who’s next?” and reached for the belts of the two nearest bikers.

  Bogart steered me to a room
out back. Inside was a large empty desk with a wood swivel chair behind it, a black safe by the side, and two more chairs in front. A picture hung behind the desk of some men in another desert, in combat uniform. A tattered flag hung in a corner, and a big tapestry of the SAVAGE MC colors hung on the wall opposite the desk.

  Bogart offered me a chair. Doesn’t seem like much, does it. “Sit. Relax.” But it was the first kindness I had been shown since I left my family’s village two days ago. Or was it three days, I couldn’t tell. Now was the first time I felt truly tired, too. He poured bourbon into two shot gasses. Handed me one of them. Not something I would usually drink, but these weren’t usual times. It was sinking in that usual times were fading behind me. Whatever the future would be, it wouldn’t be anything like the past.

  I thanked him for the seat and for the whisky. He paused a moment, letting it hang. Like he was looking at it. Then he made an acknowledgement with a cock of his head. It seemed elegant somehow. “So,” I said, “Is this a brothel too?”

  His voice was hard and even, “Asking questions, especially questions around business is a dangerous sport in these parts.”

  I wanted very much to know where ‘these parts’ were, but I’m a quick study. I figured where I wanted answers, I’d have to find them for myself and be very discrete about it.

  There was a knock on the door. He told me, “Wait here.”

  I said, “Hmm. Should I postpone my drive to Acapulco? Skip the flight to Rio maybe? Okay, you know what, I’ll wait here.”

  He looked back at me from the door, “Help yourself to more bourbon if you want it. Seems to do you good.”

  As he left I watched his pert ass roll in those leathers. After that I did take another shot.

  Bogart was away for some time, and as well as the noise from the bar there were sounds of boots and boxes and animated talk among the bikers. I heard talk of ‘shipment,’ ‘packaging’ and ‘cut.’ I heard men say, ‘general’ and I think they were talking to Bogart. Also some mention of a ‘city alderman,’ either in the bar or coming to the bar.

  When he returned, Bogart said, “Angelica, I hope you’re going to be happy here and do well. I hope we’re both going to do well. But make no mistake, I’m not your knight on a white steed. You’ll be working here, just like you would have been with Jake.” He looked at me, hard over his shot glass. “That’s the way it is.”

  I said, “There’s one thing.”

  He said, “Your sister. I know we’re going to get to that. You think Jake was thrown by your, ‘Oh, I got to call her’ routine? Wondering about her test scores? It was quick thinking, woman, but you may have overplayed it.”

  “Yeah, I thought about that, too. But I think he bought it. He was too busy showing off to you, Bogart.”

  “I see your situation. But you cost me dear, woman. You want me to go back and bargain with Jake for another girl? Forget it.”

  “Okay, look. I’ll do whatever you want, alright? You want me to fuck some guy for you, no problem. Sleazeball, dirtbag, don’t matter. You want me to struggle and pretend to fight back, you got it. Fists, nails, teeth, whatever. Act like I never did it before? Sure. Two guys? Three? Bring ’em on. I’ll make you money, I’ll sweeten your deals, I’ll help you do exactly whatever you want, American.” I looked at him long and hard. I wanted him to see that I meant it and that I could do it. I stood and took a bite of the bourbon. What few fragments of clothes I had on hung in rags. My skin glistened, I breathed hard and my eyes blazed as he looked me up and down.

  He saw a woman in shape, a woman with a woman’s body and a woman’s passion. A woman with a fire in her belly. He saw that I meant what I said.

  We looked at each other a while. Me, trying to persuade him. Him? I don’t know what that man was thinking. I’ve learned, anyone thinks they know what Bogart is thinking, they’re usually heading straight for an ugly surprise. I said, “I’ll go back into the bar right now. Grab two drunks and a psycho. I’ll do all three of them in here, right in front of you. You can put it on fucking YouChoob, you hear me?”

  “Angelica, you are some kind of woman. No, don’t go into the bar and drag three scumbags in here. You’re going to work alright, but you aren’t for the scrotes. Well, not the scrotes in the bar at any rate. You’re strictly for the high-class clientele. Megascrotes only for you. Scrotistocracy.”

  He leaned back. Looked me up and down. Deciding something. I so wanted to fuck him. Most men, that would seal the deal. This man, this Bogart? I stood, my legs a little farther apart. I tilted my hips towards him, put my hand in the back of my hair. Looked at him under my eyebrows as I let my head fell a little forward. Bit my lip. His black leather jeans, right in the front, they were moving all on their own. Like a cat was waking up inside. Stretching itself. He stood up. Took my elbow and led me out.

  We went down a corridor to another room. Inside, it looked like the finest room in the tackiest hotel. Big room, huge bed, red, shiny cover, plump red and pink cushions. Brown wood wardrobe, dresser, table and drinks cabinet. Red drapes on the walls, you might not notice there were no windows. A worn leather sofa and chairs, dark brown like the carpet. He held up one of the drapes. “Big mirror.” He said, revealing a huge mirror surrounded by a very heavy and ornate gilt frame. The mirror wasn’t tilted, it was absolutely on a plane with the wall.

  I said, “And what’s on the other side of the mirror?”

  Bogart said, “You’re sharp, woman. I’m going to have to watch you.”

  He opened a door to a shower room with a hand basin, a mirror and a lavatory. He said, “Take a look in the wardrobe. Pick something out.”

  As I opened the wardrobe I said, “What’s the occasion?”

  He said, “First day at a new job. Look your best and be ready to celebrate.”

  I found a long silky dress, very low in the front and back, split up the side. About as classy as the room, but in a blue that could work on me. There was a pair of heels that fit me and could match. They weren’t made for long walks. There were new pairs of hold-up stockings, so I picked a dark gunmetal pair. I said, “Any makeup?” He looked at me a moment. I saw his pants stir again.

  He said, “There probably is, but it’ll be cheap. You really don’t need to fix your face. It looks just fine.”

  I know that what he meant to say to me was, ‘Your face looks just like the face of a whore, and you’re going to be whoring.’ But when he said about my face, “It looks just fine,” I was certain that a tiny crack of an emotion snuck out underneath the words. He worked the muscles in his jaw and quickly looked away after he had said it.

  I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My face had smears of mascara and lip polish. My face did look like the face of a whore, and a hard-working and tired whore at that. I closed the door and changed into the dress, put on the stockings and shoes. “C’mon,” he called from the room.

  When I stepped out, his dark eyes widened and then narrowed. The slinky dress wasn’t exactly Parisian haute couture, but it displayed plenty of skin. My simple silver chain with a small crucifix from my Papa and the little St Christopher I had worn since my first communion were now the only things I was wearing that belonged to me.

  The blue dress draped and flowed over my ample breasts well enough, and below the slashed back it shimmered and made something of my ass. The long slit showed my thigh as far up as the stocking top. His voice was thick as he put out a hand and said, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Out in the bar, Bogart had me walk ahead of him and he steered me through the dense crowd to a table in a set-off area in the far corner. A pudgy man in a nice grey suit was sat at the table trying to look comfortable in a dark room full of bikers. As though this was the kind of a place he usually hung out for his gin and tonic after work. He looked up and caught sight of Bogart, his eyes showed recognition. And some relief. Then he saw me. That woke him up.

  “Alderman Greaves.” Bogart said, and his hand went out to the man. The
man stood and they clasped hands. Bogart clapped him on the shoulder. “I’d like you to meet Angelica.” I put out a hand to him, paw down like a princess. He took it and attempted a courteous bow. A couple of drinks earlier he might have carried it off. We all sat around the table like familiar old Rotarians or Water Buffaloes. Alderman Greaves, “Please, call me Benny,” he said, mostly to me, made some small talk with Bogart.

  I said, “Why don’t I arrange some drinks for us?” I was certainly going to need one. Benny said he was drinking vodka tonic. I said, “I think we can do better than that, Benny, don’t you?” Bogart looked at me, quizzically. Benny watched me walk over to the bar. I felt his eyes at the bottom of the plunging open back of the dress.

  The bartender was a burly, grizzled looking older guy in a leather vest and a white wife-beater that showed a chest covered in ink like a map and a lot of curly white hair. Lots of hair on the sides of his head, and a bush of it sprouting from his chin and cheeks. None on top of his head. I asked his name, he said, “Hack,” and I told him mine.

  I asked Hack, “Do we have champagne?” He told me, yes. I asked him for a bottle of champagne, a bottle of tequila, a couple of cans of caffeine energy drinks and three shot glasses. Hack’s eyes sparkled and he said that he would bring them right over.

  He brought them to the table on a battered Jack Daniels tray and he set the bottles and glasses out like he was a wine waiter at the Ritz. He could have had a white linen cloth over his forearm. When he left, I poured a quarter of a glass of energy drink and the same of tequila into each glass, then a third of a glass of tequila. Bogart knew what I was doing. Benny didn’t. I showed Bogart how to cover the glass with his p and lift it a couple of inches from the table. He played along.