by Zoey Parker
I stride to the bathroom, giving each of the men a moment of my glance in turn. I’ll think about who to choose while I check my hair. They all look like good prospects – but tonight, I don’t want good, I want great. Who knows the next time I’ll get away from my family again. Even escaping to this bar, which is a five-minute walk away, wasn’t easy. I had to wait hours until Carlos finally left the house.
As I brush my hair with long pleasing strokes, I glare at the smile working its way onto my face.
How did I let it get to this point? To the point where I’m so cooped up in our stupid old house that I relish even getting out to a public washroom?
My brush hits a snag in my hair and I yank down, but the snag holds. Stuck here, the questions attack me:
How long will Papa be sick?
How long am I going to have to be in charge?
How long am I going to have to hide so that no one knows that I’m Toni, momentarily in charge of the infamous Piccolo family?
The brush’s bristles wrench through the hair tangle and the answers tumble down:
Probably not much longer now. He’s a fighter, Papa Piccolo. He’ll be better in no time.
So, I’ll be free soon. ‘Til now, I’ve only had to keep business running as usual, not a big deal, except…
I glance up then away, away from the horror already manifesting itself on my face. Carlos tried to keep it from me, as it were; I only found out by accident. And yet, I can’t seem to get it out of my head, what that sick bastard Clarence let slip.
I tuck my brush in my bag and stride out of the bathroom.
That’s enough hair-brushing and soul-searching for now. Now, I’m ready for some good old forgetting.
No sooner have I sat down at the bar then the minnow slides up beside me.
“You’re beautiful. What do you drink?” he asks.
“Sex on the beach,” I say.
He grins, thinking he knows exactly what I mean.
Really though, I like my alcohol tasteless, like an extra yummy juice.
Just how you liked the family business, reaping its rewards while ignorant of what was really going on, a voice in my head says.
When the drink is set before me, I down it in one gulp.
“Whoa,” the minnow says, “You must be really thirsty.”
I stare into his eyes, smile and purr, “You have no idea.”
“A drinker. I like that,” the goldfish says in a heavily-accented voice, putting another Sex on the Beach on my other side.
I let my smile slide over to him, take the straw with one hand and suck up my deliverance for tonight, my fingers playing with the straw.
Tonight’s going to be a good night, I can tell already.
When the whale appears behind me with two Sex on the Beaches in hand, I’m hardly surprised.
What follows is an all-you-can-drink competition where I lose track of the empty glasses, the men get on first-name shoving basis, until all three of them fuse into one man, goading me into more drinks, tugging me to the dance floor with a hand around my waist, snaking hands around me.
Finally, I stumble to the bathroom, stare at myself in the mirror.
This is fun, but eventually I’m going to have to choose.
I tilt my head at my reflection, hoping she has a better idea than I do.
Who am I going to choose?
Chapter 2
Gabriel Pierson – Head of the Rebel Saints
The strongest of all warriors are these two — Time and Patience.
I glare into my whiskey.
Thanks, “War and Peace,” that’s going to be a real help now. Patience is just what I need, now that my sister may be missing and it might be my fault.
I take a long swig of my whiskey, enjoying the lightness slowly seeping over my mind. That’s the most I’m gonna get, after all. That’s the rule – one drink and one drink only.
I take out my phone, stare at my sister’s text again. Off on vacation. No need to contact me.
The more I drink, the less plausible the message seems.
Hannah is all exclamation points and emoticons. She’s a planner. She gabs about anything she’s going to do for months in advance.
I shove my phone back in my pocket. I don’t want to look at that message anymore.
It’s weird, is all, Hannah going on vacation all of a sudden. Especially after how things have been going with the Piccolo family. Sure, we’ve been fighting the Piccolo family as long as I’ve been breathing, but lately it’s escalated.
Please God, don’t let it have escalated that far…
I take another drink, and, over the rim of the cup, see my plans for tonight striding on up to the other end of the bar.
Sex on legs. Red dress, one zipper pull away from naked; thick wild curls down her back; black eyes on me. Now, that was a “come hither” look if I ever saw one.
Chapter 3
Toni
I knew there was a reason I waited to throw out my line – the shark hadn’t arrived yet.
Now there’s no mistaking him. Hulking bodybuilder chest, tattoo-sleeved arms, smirk like he knows already – that’s him. That’s my escape for tonight.
His white hair and ice blue eyes look strangely familiar – I think he’s even an albino, but I’m probably just wasted.
I throw him the look and he takes the bait, strides right on up to me.
“Some dress,” he says, gesturing to my tits.
“It’s convenient,” I shoot back, my gaze on his crotch.
“What do you drink?” he asks.
“Why don’t you try it?” I ask, putting his hand on the zipper.
Our eyes meet in understanding. I don’t need anything else to drink. I need him. Now.
I let a slow smile slide over my face. I love teasing men like this. Daring them to do what we both know they won’t.
His fingers close over the zipper. His gaze goes from the hint of my cleavage to my full red-lipped smirk.
I raise my eyebrows. Go on, I dare you.
His hand pulls down, and I gasp.
My bare breasts exposed, I rip myself back and zip the gaping sides of my dress back up. He chuckles and tilts his head at me, as if examining a strange bird specimen.
“Shouldn’t make offers you don’t mean.”
He smirks, and I step forward, get all up in his face, put my hand on his cheek.
Game on.
I slide it down, from his cheek to his lips, my hand pulling his lower lip down a bit as it moves on, over his stubbled chin to his thick neck, his muscled chest, his rock-hard abs, his belly, the top of his jeans, onto his crotch.
I grasp his package, and saunter off to the bathroom, tossing a “see ya” over my shoulder.
Every man in the room’s eyes follow me as I strut to the hard-wooden door at the end. The one with the little lady figurine sign that, if my expectations are correct, will be disregarded in no time at all.
I barely have time to glance in the mirror before he’s here – the albino – slamming me to the wall, pressing his lips over mine, running his hands over my velvety sides. He shoves his pelvis into me so I can feel the outline of his dick, hard already. His hand plays with the zipper of my dress, zipping down a bit, then up again. A bit down, then up again, teasing me.
I shove him back.
I command, “Unzip me.”
He shoves me back.
“Shut up.”
And, in one swift motion, he unzips my entire dress. The sides flop down and his gaze and hands go where they were, grasp my body’s every curve, every fold, envelop my breasts, one on each, while I suck on his neck, moan my pleasure in licks and tugs of his ear and earlobe.
“No bra, you slut,” he says, removing his hands so he can get a good look at my chest.
“You haven’t even seen my thong yet,” I shoot back.
I twist around so I can rub my ass on his dick, and he can enjoy the red satin ruffles twisting between my ass cheeks.
; “Jesus,” he groans, rubbing himself back into me.
He shoves me back to the wall, presses his thick rod to my ass.
“Who said you could do that?” he demands.
I whirl around and throw my mouth on his, my tongue dancing with his, my fingers unzipping his jeans and burrowing into his pants.
I’m wet already. I want him – now.
“Fuck me,” I say.
“Shut up,” he says.
His chest pressing me into the cool tiles of the wall, he growls, “You haven’t earned it yet.”
Heated want coils through me.
I try to struggle, but it’s no use. Fuck, he is so strong.
I kneel down, direct my plea to the hard pillar in his pants, “How do I earn it?”
The door opens partway, hits his back.
“Shit,” he says, slamming the door closed.
“Hey man-” a male voice behind the door says.
“One minute,” the albino says, his back against the door. He leans over to pick up my dress, and hands it to me.
I throw it on and zip it up hurriedly.
His eyes snake up and down me, then he asks, “You ready?”
As his paw of a hand locks around my wrist, I almost feel like asking “For what?” But instead I let him pull me out of the bathroom without a word.
Waiting outside the door is the goldfish from before, his yellow mustache a scratchy sneer.
I smile back. Am I supposed to be ashamed or something?
The albino leads me out of the bar without looking at anything, oblivious that every man in the place’s stares are locked on me. Eyes on the door, the albino doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause, not even when we step outside.
“Where are we going?” I ask as we step out into the cool night.
“My bike,” he says, not pausing.
Now I stop.
“And then?”
Ahead of me, his hand still locked around my arm, he stops, speaks to the dark empty parking lot, where, at the edge, the moonlight is glinting off a motorcycle, “I know a place.”
He takes a step forward, and I don’t move.
“And what if I don’t want to go to a place?”
With his palm to my shoulder, he shoves me to the wall. Then, taking a leaf out of my book, he runs his head over my entire body, from the top of my head to my face to my neck, chest, belly, crotch.
“Don’t pretend that she doesn’t want this,” he says, grabbing my pussy, reverberations of want trembling through me.
I shove him back, though he barely moves.
I say, “Fuck you.”
He smirks, grabs my arm again and, yanking me along, says, “Not yet.”
As we near the motorcycle, I see that the Harley Davidson is as much of a hulking beast as its owner – huge front wheel, flames on the side and a roar like it’s on fire.
“Get on,” he says, and I do, my gaze never leaving his.
As he walks to the front, I slide myself around, lay back so my head is resting on the front seat.
“Sorry, this seat’s taken,” I purr, arching my back.
The albino looks down on me, his eyes running over the length of me.
“You’re not one for taking orders, are you?”
I lick my lips, lock my gaze on his. “I’m better at giving them. Come here.”
He leans over me, presses his mouth to mine. My hand slides for the bulge in his pants, and his hand slides mine away, holding it back. When my other hand reaches for his crotch, his other hand holds that one back, too. Then, with one hand, he grips both my struggling arms, while the other presses the side of my head into the motorcycle seat. His warm breath rasping in my ear mockingly, he says, “Guess you’ll have to learn.”
He lets me go, and I heave upright.
“Fuck you,” I say, throwing myself on him into something between a blow and a kiss.
He shoves me back, and, holding me at an arm’s length while I struggle, cautions me, “Careful.” Then he steps back, says, “I'll fuck you when I want and not a second before, got it?”
I glare at him, then turn back to the bar. Where there’s at least five other guys waiting there, who can give me just what I want, when I want.
I look back at the albino, and my glare sags.
And yet – not quite.
This fire raging between my legs isn’t just to get fucked. I want to get fucked – by him. I hate his domineering aggression – and yet it’s exactly what’s making me so wet.
“You ready?” he asks.
I turn back and he’s on the bike, gaze on my crotch. As if he knows. That she’s the one making the decision.
I get on the back without another word, and we barrel off.
The entire ride is foreplay. Even through my panties, my wet pussy claws at the soft leather angrily. I clasp my hands around his chest, running them up and down when it gets slow enough that I don’t have to hold on tight.
At every red light, his hand goes back, feels for my head, which he pats, absently, infuriatingly. Like I’ve been a good dog or something.
After a few of these annoying head pats, on the next one, I sweep his hand down under my dress. To my bare breast, the soft nub of my nipple.
His hand freezes.
The light goes green. We don’t move.
Horns blare behind us, and he rips his hand away. The bike careens sideways, onto the sidewalk, then, a few seconds later, down an alleyway, then shrieks to a halt.
He jumps off the bike. “You little slut,” he growls.
He twists me around, grabs my dress and yanks me to the edge of the bike, spreads my legs, and presses himself against me, his angry hard cock digging into me.
His mouth envelops the top part of my ear, nibbles on it, growls into it, “I’m just trying to get you to a motel so I can fuck you good and proper, is that too much to ask?”
I shove my pelvis back onto him, throw my lips around his ear, hiss into it, “Yes. I want you. Now.”
He rips himself away, and, white-blue gaze meeting mine, freezes. We stand there for a minute, breathing in time, then I rip open his jeans and tear down his zipper.
Jesus. He is so hard, so thick.
My hands grasp his dick eagerly, part the flaps of his pants further.
I kneel to the ground while my hand slides up and down his shaft, his silky black briefs as good as Vaseline.
He pats my head again, and a pleasurable spasm of anger flares through me.
I pull down his briefs and his cock rises to meet me.
He slaps me in the cheek with it, grabs me by the hair and yanks my head back so I’m looking up into his cruel smile.
“Who said you could do that?”
I twist myself out of his grasp and, throwing my lips on and off the tip of his cock with a loud smacking sound, say, “I did.”
Just as I’m going in for another taste, he grabs my dress and yanks me up, shoves me into a wall.
“Looks like you still haven’t learned how to listen.”
Cock burrowing into my dress right where my pussy is, hand pinning me to the wall, he growls, “Guess I’ll have to teach you myself.”
I grab his cock and start pumping it. “Fuck you.”
He shoves me back to the ground, to my knees. He rips my hands off him. “I don’t need your hands, slut.” He presses his cock into my cheek. “I just need that pretty little face of yours.”
Red-hot desire runs out from my pussy in all directions.
God, even his voice, those gravelly commands, are enough to make me wet.
He sweeps his rod across my face to the other cheek.
“I’m going to teach you how to listen.”
I give his dick a sweeping lick. Grab it, then give it another. Cover its entirety with slow, sweeping flicks, as if it's an ice cream that’s melting. The dribble of precum on the tip is my lip gloss, my face cream, my little snack.