by Warren, Rie
So I was in an awesome mood. I’d even whistled while I’d unpacked my gym bag earlier when I’d arrived at The GQ. Mamie had made me some southern soul food, which I wasn’t about to pass up. I had a sexy new routine to break out tonight. I’d gotten my girl. Everything was right in my world.
“Dude, you have a seriously goofy look on your face. Hope you plan on losing it before you step on stage. Way you’re looking right now? Reminds me of Glen the Noob.”
“Huh?” I glanced up to see Jack The Stripper giving me the you done gone crazy stare.
“Oh, shit. I know that look.” Hiro crouched in front of me. “Just thought I’d never see it on him.” He spoke to the room at large.
He made a big show of peeling back my eyelids to inspect my eyeballs, pulling down my mouth and looking inside all the way to my tonsils, and pressing his ear to my chest where my heartbeat thumped.
I was gonna thump him in a second.
He sat back on his heels, a serious look on his face. His dark brown cat’s eyes lowered. “I’m afraid it’s true. Kaid’s sick. He’s got a bad case of—”
The latest stripper dude named Duff ambled over. “What up? Is it contagious?”
“Don’t think so. Our man here is . . . lovesick.”
The other guys fell all over themselves laughing, Duff adopted the y’all be crazy expression, and I rolled my eyes while I pretended to stroke one out with my fist in front of my crotch.
“Git out of his face.” Jamal came up behind me and knocked Hiro on the side of the head. “He’s prepping for his new act.” Big brown hands massaged my shoulders like I was a true-blue boxer and Jamal my trainer.
He wasn’t wrong. Tonight was a new one. I’d already killed the businessman routine, and that was an old favorite I’d bring back for special occasions. Tonight though? I was a down and dirty boxer from the silk hooded robe to the soft leather boots, to the Everlast shorts, and of course, the sports-grade jockstrap.
When my turn came, I waited on the blacked-out stage. That was my signature, and it was the signal to all the regular women I was up. Micah didn’t even need to intro me. The chicks climbed the walls and raised the roof before he even opened his mouth.
No fear. No panic. Just the thrill of the dance and the reaction of the crowd. This was what I did and I was damn good at it.
Ever the showman, Micah waited for the roar to die down before starting in a real low voice. “Think you know what’s coming, ladies?”
“KINKY KAID!”
“Bring it ON!”
“We want to see him!”
“That’s right, it’s Kinky Kaid.” Micah doffed his old Stetson with a chuckle. “But not as you’ve ever seen him before. Tonight, you’ll be the first to see him, touch him, watch him, want him as Theeee KNOCKOUT! The Champion! The BOXER, KAID THE RAIDER!!!”
The lights blazed on in big bright white spotlights shining down on me. The noise of hundreds of horny women erupted with violent intensity. I stood inside the boxing ring Micah had had built, ropes and all. The hood of my short silk robe covered my face, leaving my features shadowed in darkness.
As the song started with one lone guitar and a gritty growly voice, I stalked around the stage, throwing punches from my taped fists, the deep silk hood still hiding my face. “Bad Company” by Five Finger Death Punch banged into a hardcore chorus. My hood dropping back, the robe parted down my middle as I jabbed at the air. Feinting left and right, I smashed my phantom enemy in the ribs, the kidneys, the jaw.
Tonight I was raw. On edge. The song became sexy because I was, and I had the moves to back that shit up and take it to the final bell.
“Bad Company” slowed through the verse, and I rolled my hips, pulling the robe from my shoulders. The black silk shooting red flames floated down to my feet. I fucked the air, lifting the band of my boxing shorts and letting it snap lower on my groin.
My skin shined in the bright lights. I kept a sneer on my face, my eyes cast down and deadly.
Screams rent the air. My chest bared, the women took that as an open invitation to mob the stage. They only got as far as the red ropes cordoning off my boxing ring.
The beat picked up. Punch. Duck. Left hook. Uppercut. I danced on my toes and jumped through the air, landing on the other side of the ring. Hands roamed all over my body, but I slipped away, shaking my head at the flock of women flailing all over themselves.
Feinting away, I stepped under a spotlight. Gyrating around, I hooked the shorts with my thumbs, lowering them an inch over my ass. The top of the jockstrap peeked out along with the taut slopes of my butt cheeks, sinister black ink and all.
Screams deafened me, crashing against my ears.
Just then the song rocketed full on. Bashing around the ring, banging against the ropes, I loosened the knot in my shorts. Sweat flying, teeth gritting, I ditched the boots in a move I’d perfected in practice only after a hundred tries.
Bad Company.
That’s what I was.
When the lead singer started talking—a deep-voiced and dangerous monotone—I rounded the ring, sliding on the soles of my feet. The snake tat on my back drew tight. The muscles from my calves to my thighs to my Adonis belt and my pecs punched up, worthy of this boxing ring. I jumped onto the top rope above the cheering crowd. Balanced there, I raised my fists. Arching away, I backflipped to the mat and came up, grinning.
Savage yells of Kinky Kaid tore through the air. The clients hung off the ropes, desperate to touch me. Money flurried onto the stage, green and abundant.
The guitar riff rippling into the air, I went down on my knees. My legs spread wide, I ran my hands up my midriff, over my chest and into my hair. I wound my way to my feet slowly, undulating from side to side as I drew myself up—a lethal fighter who could kill with one blow.
As soon as the beat picked up, I shredded the shorts. The louder the song piped out, the faster I danced from the ropes to the center of the mat, from corner to corner. Parrying, pushing off my faux-opponent, blasting from my corner. Clothed in nothing more than a white jockstrap lazily laced up the front and in danger off falling off, I pounded and leaped, landing on my feet. I thrashed my opponent to the ground.
I flicked my knuckles, shaking off the blood.
The GQ exploded in applause, but I wasn’t done, the song wasn’t finished.
The vibe escalated. I raced to the corner turnbuckle and fucked against it like it was a tight wet pussy, ramming against the pole. I pushed my hand against my cock, bringing my shaft fully erect while the woman watched me pump in an erotic charge.
I no longer heard their screams. Pure adrenaline fed me now.
One last backflip across the floor, I landed on my knees, center stage. All the other spotlights shut off, leaving me heaving in the last shaft of beaming light. Bending forward, I laid my knuckles down on the mat. Sweat dripped from my face, liquid salt against my lips. I lifted my head, masking my face in a pitiless snarl.
Heaving one leg under me then the other, I stood arms out, face raised. With a final weave of my hips and a flick of my lowered hands, I started to drop my jockstrap.
There was no ignoring the banshee squeals then.
My pubes.
The base of my cock.
Shrieks rent the air.
The jockstrap started drifting to the floor just as the song abruptly ended and the lights went completely black-out.
And they’d seen nothing more than a white flash in front of their eyes.
I blindly found my way off stage to the reverb of wild applause.
The contact high from the screaming, whistling, fanning-themselves fans overloaded my brain cells. Grinning from ear to ear, I made my way back to the changing room after I grabbed a towel from Mamie to wrap around my hips. I bet Micah would give me another raise after tonight’s success. I could pay off the rest of Grampa’s last hospital bill and still have enough left over to do something special for Sadie.
The dudes high-fived me, slapped my ass, congratulat
ed me as I passed by them to my locker. We were pretty tight-knit, but sometimes professional jealousy reared its ugly head—or cock, as it were. Not tonight though.
I was changing into a simpler G-string to work the floor for an hour or so when I heard Duff’s fake street gangsta voice, “Yo, yo, yo. You know that hot babe over at the Chrome and Steele shop?”
My ears instantly perked up. Chrome and Steele Auto Parts stood side by side with Retribution MC in the same compound and was owned by Boomer, Brodie, and Catarina Steele. The whole family was pure class, unlike Duff.
Duff was buff but not as buff as me. Besides, he had a big mouth to go with his white dude breakdancing routine. I’d wanted to punch that smug smile right off his face from day one. Bragging rights had to be earned, just like an MC patch. He wore his pants belted halfway down his ass and his baseball cap flipped around backward like that gave him some kind of street cred.
Jack tightened the laces on his black leather pants, pulling out his latex hood that buckled at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know it. Seen the woman too. Name’s Catherine or—”
The Eminem wannabe readjusted his back-to-front baseball cap. The cap wasn’t the only thing back to front about him. There was also his head and his ass. “Yeah, homes. She be like real fine. The kind of bitch you wanna jack up, right?”
My skin heated and my ears were now tingling. My hands formed into clenched fists.
“That Cat Steele”—homeboy continued—“yo, she used to be a bonafide stripper! Heard she had some moves make a man need to crank his cock just watching her. I’d bang that bitch until she squealed then gag her with my cock ’til she choked on it.”
Before I knew it, I shot an arm out and grabbed Duff around his throat, lifting him off his feet and up to my face. “Show some fucking respect. That’s a married woman you’re talkin’ about. I’d say you’re the little bitch.”
I shoved the asshole away from me.
“I heard it’s true,” Hiro whispered beside me.
“Yo, man. S’all truth. The D-man don’t tell no lies.” Cracker Jack Duff just didn’t know when to cut his losses.
“I don’t care if it’s true or not. That’s no way to talk about a lady.” I snarled at the dickless wonder. “If you think what I’m about to do to you is bad, I know her big brothers and her husband. You’d have trouble finding your own gravemarker by the time they got through with you.”
I cocked my fist, pulled back, and let fly at Duff’s face. His skin broke with a satisfying crunch that shivered all the way up my arm. I didn’t follow up with any of my boxing ring moves. One punch was enough to shut him up. The little bitch had probably never been in a real fistfight in his entire life.
I considered it a favor to him. I’d added a nice shiner to go with his tough boi attitude. Call it stage makeup.
Even that little incident didn’t ruin my mood. As soon as my shift was over, I was on the way to Sadie’s.
****
I cleaned myself up at The GQ then made for the Retribution clubhouse later that night, closer to morning, to make sure all was spick-and-span. Thank fuck everyone was either passed out on the couches, across the tables, or even on top of the bar. I must’ve missed one hell of a party. But I had the bruised knuckles to show for my own little bust up keeping Cat’s name clean, as well as a wallet full of cash I’d put in the bank tomorrow.
By the time I throttled down outside Sadie’s apartment it was three. Since I’d been spending more time with my girl, Miss Solange had taken on longer hours. I’d felt guilty at first, but Grampa told me to stuff the guilt shit down my throat.
“You been nursing me and mother-henning me half out of my mind, son.” He cracked a smile over gummy teeth. “’Bout damn time you gave me a few minutes away from all that pecking and got somethin’ goin’ on with your pecker instead.”
I let myself into Sadie’s apartment, quiet as a mouse. I’d had a spare key since she’d moved in, and she was expecting me. I didn’t think she’d still be awake but that didn’t matter. All I wanted to do was get out of my clothes and fall asleep with her in my arms.
If she happened to wake up—say, if I brushed my cold toes against her warm ones—I wouldn’t be too upset. Especially if it led to a round of sleepy sex.
The thought of being inside her without anything between us sucked the oxygen from my lungs and propelled all the blood in my body to my cock. She felt so damn good to me. Better than being on my Harley. Better than the open road. Better than that high I got from dancing.
We’d always connected as friends. Now our bond forged deeper, burned brighter.
I prodded off my boots by the door and shook off my leather jacket. I stripped off and placed everything carefully on a chair. I didn’t want her to get up in the dark and trip on my shit. I didn’t want to leave a mess all over her place.
Lifting the blankets as little as possible, I crawled in and curled up beside her. Her arms were wrapped around the pillow I used. I gently replaced its softness with my shoulder, shifting her into my embrace.
She was naked and long and tawny, and her hair tickled my arms. I kissed her on the forehead.
“Mmm. Kaid,” she drowsily mumbled.
That was good. I could be reasonably assured she wasn’t inviting any other men to her bed.
She cuddled closer, smushing against me. I reached down and filled my palms with her more-than-a-handful ass.
She kissed my neck. Then she sniffed at me.
Flinging off the covers, she sat up and sniffed at me again. “Where the hell have you been?”
I’d taken a shower as usual but there must’ve been some lingering scent of strip club/dance club/and my own fight club on my flesh.
Fuck.
The room was dim but not dark enough I could ever miss the set of Sadie’s stiff shoulders or the way her eyes sparked like hard blue diamonds.
“Working?”
“Working where?” The blue diamonds compacted into deadly deep water ice.
“Just finished a shift at The Gentleman’s Quarters.” I shrugged.
“You WHAT?” she shrieked.
Chapter Ten
I STARED AT SADIE in shock. This was not the happy homecoming I’d expected. “I always work Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. What’s the problem here?”
If I was shocked by her reaction, Sadie vibrated with an emotion I couldn’t name. Incredulity? Complete and uncontrollable rage?
After a moment when her mouth opened but nothing came out, she screeched at me. “You’re still working there?” She scrambled off the bed. Breasts heaving. Hair tousled. Finger pointing in accusation. “You’re still fucking stripping?”
Ahh. Well, that made it clear enough. She was pissed right to high heaven.
I stood slowly, suddenly wary of her. “Well yeah. I thought you knew.”
“How could you?” She snatched on a big billowing CofC T-shirt and yanked it down to her thighs. “How could you after you . . . and me . . . and we . . . ” she spluttered to a stop.
My lips popped open. Before I could get a word in edgewise, she barged straight ahead. “Do you know how I felt that night I saw you there?” She thumped her hand to her chest. “What it was like watching you on stage, flirting, flinging off your clothes?”
I knew better than to try to answer now. I learned my lessons fast.
“I was angry! I was jealous! All those women getting to see what I so desperately wanted, all because they paid for you to take off your clothes!”
My nostrils flared wide. My eyes narrowed to slits. I leaned forward from the waist dressed in absolutely fucking nothing and pushed my face into hers. “I’ve got nothing to be ashamed about, Sadie. It’s my job. I’ve got fucking bills to pay in case that’s escaped your attention!”
She blanched and tried to back up with my angry breath blowing in her face.
I wrapped a hard arm around her waist and tugged her against me. My voice lost some of its sharp edge. “I didn’t think it bothere
d you like that.”
Reaching up, she yanked my face down to hers. “Let me put it this way, if I was stripping down to a tiny see-through bra and a thong in front of a bunch of drooling guys, how would you react?”
“IT’S NOT LIKE THAT!”
“It is to me!”
I stalked away from her and back, rubbing my hands over my head, muttering through my teeth. The thought of anyone seeing her the way I did, or of her giving them a show, sent a streak of white hot rage through my body.
I grabbed her wrist, yanking her to me. “For the record, I’d kill anyone who so much as stared at you two seconds too long, clothes on or not.”
“Double standard. Male chauvinistic pig.” Ripping her hand free, she crossed the room.
“Maybe that’s true. I don’t give a shit. I’m not interested in those women at all. I don’t feel one iota for any of them what I feel for you.”
Her disbelieving snort rang in my ears and put an end to any more talking.
“Oh, want me to prove it to you?” The violence of my seething rage transferred to my cock.
It rose, thickened, curved upward. Hard, long, and thick I was ready to fuck the brains out of her in seconds.
Sadie sneered in my face, hissing. “Go ahead. Fuck me.” She tossed her hair back with the dare.
She didn’t run when I padded to her. I must’ve looked like an animal, intent, dangerous, on the edge of out of control.
I curled two fists in the neck of her T-shirt and shredded it right down the middle. Flicking the two halves off her shoulders, I palmed her tits roughly, mauling them with my fingers and my mouth. I moved to her neck, sucking hard enough to leave hickeys on both sides of that soft expanse of skin.
Mine.
Seizing her with one hand squeezing the flesh of her breast, the other under her ass, I vaulted her up against the wall.
No preliminaries. No words. Our eyes locked, unforgiving.
The head of my cock slipped against her. My dick didn’t give a shit what my intentions were. It wanted inside her body. It wanted now.