“You hit her?” he asked through clenched teeth.
During my marriage, I was convinced that men didn’t exist who were bigger than he was. The biker stood as proof that I was wrong. He towered over Marvin’s six-foot-two frame like a bearded giant.
Marvin looked at me, scoffed, and then looked at the biker. “Sometimes, women need it. She needed it.”
It wasn’t the answer the biker had hoped for.
His fist plowed into Marvin’s face. A flurry of punches from the biker followed – each of which caused Marvin to crumble closer to the ground. After the last swing – a wild right hand that came crashing against Marvin’s jaw with a crack, his legs gave out, and he fell against his beloved car.
Then, without throwing a punch or saying a word, Marvin slumped into a pile at the biker’s feet. The lop-sided fight took fifteen seconds, if that.
Marvin covered his bloody face with his hands and moaned.
There’s not a victim of abuse that doesn’t wish she’d be given an opportunity to kick her attacker in the balls without fear of repercussion. If given a chance, any woman would jump at the occasion.
So, that’s what I did. I jumped. On Marvin’s nuts, that is.
With all my might, I stomped my heel into Marvin’s overly active male anatomy. The air shot from his lungs with a grunt, and his body wadded into the fetal position.
“Damn.” The biker looked at me. His mouth twisted into a smirk. “That was cruel.”
I wasn’t cruel, Marvin was cruel. After we divorced, he’d often stop by and threaten to burn down my house or kill my cat. My house was never touched, but one day my cat disappeared. I despised him. I wished he would be hit by a passing truck while changing his tire on the Five.
A recurring daydream of bits and pieces of his body being strewn along the freeway from Los Angeles to San Diego brought an odd sense of comfort when it came to mind.
His leg in Costa Mesa for fucking the tattooed skank of a bartender at Twin Peaks. An arm in San Clemente for repeatedly dipping his dick in the anorexic receptionist at his office. His head in Oceanside for the fling with the nineteen-year-old Vietnamese girl who believed his promise of getting her legal citizenship.
He didn’t have enough body parts – nor were there enough cities along the interstate to toss them – for all the fucked-up shit he made me endure.
“Cruel?” I folded my arms over my chest. “You don’t know him like I know him. What he did tonight was nothing compared to what he’s done to me for years.”
His face went stern. “He’s done this before?”
“In so many ways that I lost count many years ago.”
He brushed his hair out of his eyes, removed his glasses, and studied me. An untrimmed beard covered his face, giving him a rugged don’t fuck with me appearance.
I looked him over. He was tall and built like an athlete. A black tee shirt clung tightly to his broad chest, and tattered jeans covered his long legs. A pair of lace-up leather boots finished off the biker ensemble perfectly. He looked mean, but if I’d learned anything in my forty-four years, it was that a person’s looks were no indication of who they were on the inside.
Marvin groaned, and attempted to stand.
Without shifting his eyes away from me, the biker swung the toe of his boot into Marvin’s crotch. The impact wadded him into a tight ball, ending any chance of him getting up for a long, long time.
My rescuer undressed me with his eyes, and eventually met my gaze.
“Cash,” he said dryly.
I coughed out disbelief and gave him an I can’t fucking believe you look. “You want me to pay you?”
“No.” He chuckled. “My name’s Cash.”
Marvin remained incapacitated, moaning his displeasure into the warm night air. I studied the biker. His rough looks, disheveled appearance, and bloody knuckles convinced me that in his presence, I would be safe.
“Kimberly.” I shook his hand. “Kimberly Welch. Thank you for helping me.”
He eyed me up and down. After pausing at my boobs for a moment, he looked me in the eyes and grinned.
“I like your pussy,” he said flatly.
My face flashed hot. My lips parted, and although my mind wanted me to respond, my mouth had gone completely dry. Saying anything wasn’t going to come easily.
I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard. “Huh?”
His eyes dropped to my hardening nipples. “Nice pussy.”
I glanced down, and then quickly realized what he was talking about. There was a cartoonish cat plastered across the chest of my pajama shirt. He didn’t like my pussy at all, he was simply making fun of my late-night attire. Despite the awkwardness of having my ex-husband moaning in pain at my feet I imagined riding away on the back of his bike and never looking back.
It was nice to dream, if even just for a moment.
I squeezed my biceps against the edge of my boobs, feigned a chill, and gave a quick curtsey. “Thank you.”
The sound of police sirens wailed in the distance. He cocked his head to the side. One side of his mouth curled into a grin. Then, he winked playfully.
I gestured behind me. “Sounds like someone called the cops.”
He looked me over but didn’t budge from where he was standing. “If I had any common sense, I’d leave,” he said dryly.
I glanced at Marvin, and then met the biker’s gaze. “But you’re going to stay?”
He took another look at my pussy and grinned. “Yep.”
TWO - Cash
In addition to housing our motorcycles and cars, the garage of our MC’s clubhouse acted as a repair facility for all personal modes of transportation. Ghost lowered the Mustang’s motor into the engine bay and checked the positioning. After satisfying himself that it was exactly where he wanted it to be, he looked up. “Like that waitress at the fish place in Oceanside?”
“No. This chick had more than big titties. She had some serious curves. Perfect ass, nice thick legs. And, she had good hair. Big hair.”
I conjured up an image of her perfectly round ass jostling up and down in her pajamas as she paced the driveway. My cock stiffened at the thought. I shifted my attention to Ghost and shook my head lightly.
He gazed at the engine for a moment, and then looked at me. “Was she built like Amy Betterman?”
Amy was a thick-legged cheerleader in high school that had nice tits and a spectacular ass. Although she sparked none of our interest during school, it was easy to look back at those days and wonder what was wrong with us when we were kids. The five of us would fight each other to get a shot at her now. Back then, all we wanted a girl who was built like a pencil and wasn’t afraid to put a dick in her mouth.
“Exactly!” I blurted.
“No shit?” His eyebrows raised. “She looked like Amy fucking Betterman?”
“Pretty much. But her hair wasn’t blonde. It was kinda blackish.”
“It’s funny. When we were kids, we all called her BUTT-erman.” He reached for his bottle of beer. “We were fools. That was one fine bitch.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
“So, you just left?” He asked. “You didn’t try to get in her pants?”
“She wasn’t wearing pants.”
He sipped his beer. “Pants, shorts, whatever.”
“Pajamas.”
One eyebrow raised. “Bra?”
“Nope.”
“Cantaloupe-sized tits in a pajama top without a bra, and you just left?” He looked me over and then coughed out a laugh. “I’m calling bullshit.”
“I told you, the fuckin’ cops showed up. While I was answering all the questions, some little short fucker escorted her up to the house. I didn’t see her after that.”
“He’s probably balls-deep in that shit right now,” he said stone-faced. “A big-dicked man in uniform is an irresistible combination.”
“Who says he’s got a big dick?” I asked in an irritated tone. “He might be hung li
ke a mouse.”
“You said the cop was a little short fucker, right?”
“Yeah. He came up to her shoulder, why?”
“Little cops always have great big dicks,” he said matter-of-factly.
I crossed my arms and gave him a look of disbelief. “According to who?”
“Statistics. Little cops are always hung like mules.”
“Where the fuck do you get police dick data? Sounds like more of that fake news to me.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s common knowledge.”
“It’s common bullshit,” I said with a wave of my hand.
Accepting that a height challenged big-dicked cop was fucking her while I answered a barrage of questions was impossible. If anyone should have been fucking her, it was me, and not some lame-assed cop that barely came up to her shoulder.
I finished my beer and turned toward the trash can. “She didn’t seem to be the type that liked cops.”
“Looked like the type to find a clean-cut cop as a turn off, huh?” He chuckled, and then peered into the car’s engine bay. “She seemed to be more into ugly bikers?”
“I ain’t ugly, motherfucker.”
“You’re sure as fuck not pretty. Chicks dig a man in uniform, especially a cop. They see them as a protector. Someone who can rescue them. Keep them from harm, and all that shit.”
I was the one that rescued her, not the cop. I clenched my jaw at the thought of him winning and me losing. After a moment, I couldn’t take it any longer.
“Chicks dig rough looking fuckers like me,” I said, more to convince myself than to convince him.
He looked up. “If you say so.”
I couldn’t decide if the remark about Kimberly fucking the cop was meant to piss me off, or if it was truly what he thought had happened. Cops annoyed the fuck out of me, and if anyone knew it, he did.
We grew up in Great Falls, Montana, one hundred and twenty miles from the Canadian border. Be it my hatred of cold weather, the desolate countryside, or my desire to live somewhere that simply had more to offer, I decided after I graduated high school that I wanted to get as far away from Montana as possible.
San Diego, California was the clear winner. The city offered everything that Great falls didn’t. Weather suitable for year-round motorcycle riding, beaches, and two million people to hide amongst.
There were five of us that grew up together: Baker, Goose, Ghost, Tito, and me. We made a pact in third grade that we would remain inseparable. The fact that we moved fifteen hundred miles away – as a group – confirmed our loyalty to one another.
Upon settling in San Diego, we started an unconventional motorcycle club, and later added a sixth man – a military vet from Texas. Focusing on each of our individual strengths as small-time thieves, the club stole from those we felt weren’t worthy of their wealth. As we grew older and more experienced, our jobs became more complex. Now with more than ten years of experience robbing Southern Californian’s of their treasures, no one’s money was beyond our grasp.
Ghost was built like a professional body builder. He was the resident chief mechanic, go-fast guru, and the only member of the club that was willing to talk without chastising me for my thoughts. Although I was close friends with all the men, he and I talked about things I wouldn’t eagerly share with the other men.
“Maybe I’ll go by there and check on her,” I said under my breath.
“That cops probably taking a shower right about now,” he said without looking up. “Hell, he might whip your ass for nosing around.”
“No cop’s whipping my ass,” I assured him.
He straightened his posture, looked me over, and shifted his attention to the Mustang’s wiring harness. “Cop’s know all that pressure point stuff. Bet the fucker can touch your wrist with his thumb and bring you to your knees.”
I hadn’t had my ass whipped since I was in kindergarten, and he knew it. I choked on a laugh. “Bullshit.”
“He’d wad you up in a ball if he wanted to,” he taunted.
I twisted the toe of my boot back and forth on the floor between us. “I’d squash him like a fuckin’ bug.”
His eyebrows raised slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
There wasn’t a man on earth I feared, cops included. I tossed my bottle in the trash and turned toward my motorcycle.
He chuckled a low laugh. “Where you going?”
“Heading to Goose’s place.”
“Not going to stop by that gal’s house, are you?”
“I might,” I said over my shoulder.
“Better take a couple of the fellas with you,” he said dryly. “Just in case that little cop wants to protect what’s his. Might take three or four men to whip him.”
I didn’t need help kicking any man’s ass, and I was prepared to prove it. I stomped to my motorcycle and snatched my helmet off the handlebars.
“Pic’s or it didn’t happen,” Ghost shouted.
Baker, the MC’s president, came around the corner as I was lifting my leg over the seat of my bike. He leaned his lanky frame against the concrete column and gave me a look.
“Pretty early for a beer run,” he said. “Where you going?”
I pulled on my helmet. “To take some pics.”
He stroked his beard and looked at me the way he always did. Like I was an idiot. “Of what?”
“Little cops and big tits.” I buckled the helmet’s strap and fired up the bike. “In that order.”
THREE - Kimberly
Jennifer was once Oceanside High’s head cheerleader and all-around bubbly blonde bimbo. Now fifty and divorced with two adult children, she was reduced to being my ditzy blonde neighbor, sounding board, and best friend.
Short, and golden bronze from baking in the Southern California sun, her athletic size four frame and D-cup boobs attracted the immediate attention of most men. Hair color and Botox treatments masked her age, and she could easily pass for being in her late thirties. When she talked with me about sex, she acted like she was still seventeen.
She leaned against the edge of my kitchen table, holding her coffee at arm’s length. Her hands encompassed the cup like she was presenting me with a peace offering.
She blinked a few times, and then looked at me with dreamy eyes. “Like Dwayne Johnson?”
I peered over the top of my cup and gave her a confused look. “Who?”
The corners of her mouth turned upward. “Dwayne Johnson.”
“I have no idea who that is.”
“Dwayne Johnson,” she cooed. “The Rock.”
“The big bald-headed guy?”
She drew a long breath through her nose, and then exhaled softly. “Uh huh.”
If there was ever a woman who lived vicariously through others, it was Jennifer. Our conversations were often about men, and included detailed explanations of how she’d behave with them if she was given half a chance.
“No,” I said. “Not even close. More like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. Only taller.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s not big.”
“He was big,” I assured her. “He had a presence about him, too.”
She gave me a side-eyed look. “If he was skinny like Brad Pitt, he wasn’t big. I think this big thing was all in your head. You were drooling because he kicked Marvin’s ass.”
“I’m not you. I don’t need a man in my life. He was big, and he was kind. Those are the facts. There was no drooling going on.”
“Your senses were distorted.” She shrugged. “It happens to the best of us.”
“My senses were just fine.”
She pushed her coffee aside and leaned over the edge of the table. A serious look washed over her. “I screwed the quarterback of the football team at a house party when I was in high school. On Monday, when I was bragging about it in gym class, I compared his cock to my wrist. Half the girls I was talking to gasped, and said, ‘You must have fucked a different Jeff Simmons than the one I fucked, because that Je
ff Simmons has a dick the size of a grape.’”
My eyes narrowed. “A grape?”
“A big grape.”
I chuckled. “And you thought he had a monster cock?”
“I was sure of it.”
I gave her a look. “Where are you going with this?”
“When I had sex with him, I was drunk. He was handsome, and the quarterback of the football team. So, in my mind, he was hung. In reality, he wasn’t. I think you’re wanting this guy to be some oversized muscle-bound hero. But, if he’s built like Brad Pitt, he’s a skinny twit.”
The biker wasn’t skinny, and he wasn’t a twit. To satisfy her, and to end the lop-sided conversation, I reluctantly agreed.
“Fine,” I huffed. “He was a skinny twit.”
“He sounds like a douchebag, too. What’d you say his name was?” She giggled. “Dolla Bill?”
I sighed dramatically. “Cash.”
She burst out in laughter. “Oh, that’s right. I knew it was something like Dolla Bill or Mista Money. But, Cash. Really? That’s ridiculous. He’s a wannabe. Probably uses the bike to get laid.”
I forced a sigh. “He’s wasn’t a wannabe.”
“He said his name was Cash.” Her eyebrows raised. “He’s a wannabe.”
“Maybe it was his last name.”
“Maybe he wanted you to think he was cool.” She waved her hand toward the front door. “Is he one of those guys that’s always riding up and down the street at midnight?”
“I think so.”
“They’re young.” One of her Botox-injected eyebrows arched a little. “How old was he?”
I’d wondered the same thing. With the scruff on his face, it was hard to tell for sure. By my estimation, he was in his latter twenties, or early thirties. Either way, he was far too young to be interested in me. That much I knew.
“I don’t know. Maybe thirty.”
She smiled. “A youngster.”
I shrugged one shoulder. “Kind of.”
“Young and skinny,” she said. “Not my type. I prefer the bulging biceps, wide chests, and swollen traps of gym rats.”
Her ex-husband was her height and weighed close to three hundred pounds. The only muscles he had were what he’d developed from simultaneously shoveling 7-Eleven’s chicken wings and chimichangas into his mouth.
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