by Krane, Kasey
“I’ll be right there,” I promised the chief. “I just need to do something real quick.”
I walked over to Jules, pulled her up into a giant bear hug, her legs dangling off the ground, and just held her. “I’m going to go next door and talk to the cops,” I whispered in her ear. “When I get back, we can talk some more, okay?” She nodded, her face pressed against my cheek. I pulled her in just a little closer, not sure if I wanted to hug her or fuck her. I was just so goddamn glad she was alive.
“I’ll be right back,” I whispered fervently, and then slowly, ever so slowly, let her slide down to the ground. Every inch of me felt every inch of her softness as she slid down, and my cock responded accordingly. She grinned up at me for a moment, and I knew she felt me pressing up against her soft belly.
“I’ll be right back,” I said again, and this time, she laughed. For the moment, the shadows had been pushed from her eyes.
I walked into the other room.
Let’s do this shit.
40
Jules
In a daze, I watched as the EMT personnel loaded Ghost onto the stretcher and carried him outside. I’d never seen a dead person in real life before - other than the ones in caskets, of course, who died of natural causes, not of gunshot wounds inflicted by my boyfriend.
Boyfriend?!
Was he my boyfriend? What…what were we to each other? I sat down heavily on the bed, the music (that’d somehow, I noted absentmindedly, restarted, despite the alarm clocks laying in pieces on the table), the chatting, and the loud, alcohol-fueled laughter all swirling around me. Although it seemed odd on the surface to be celebrating after such an awful event, I realized that the members were celebrating their survival. These were men who lived on the edge, and tonight, they’d beaten the reaper one more time, against all odds.
And they also had the almost magical ability to produce alcohol out of thin air. I hadn’t seen a bottle or beer can the whole time during set-up, and then…magic. The alcohol appeared and the drinking started. A talent, really.
“How you doing?” Judge asked, startling me out of my thoughts. He sat down next to me, pushing his brown hair out of his eyes. I’d not spent much - okay, virtually any - time around Judge, but I felt like I already knew him. Bishop trusted him implicitly, and although he hadn’t said as much to me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he made Judge his vice-president.
“Good,” I finally said, realizing I’d waited too long - awkwardly long - to answer his simple question. I glanced around the room, carefully averting my eyes from the blood splatters on the walls and floor. “I’ve not…” I swallowed hard, “ever seen a dead man before. Not a bloody one anyway. They don’t usually lay them out in the funeral parlor with blood and guts on display.” I smiled with grim humor at Judge and he threw his head back with a laugh.
“No, I don’t suppose that’s common practice,” he finally said as his chuckles died down. He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close, leaning his head against mine. We sat there for who knows how long, just reveling in the feeling of safety, my eyes drifting shut as the adrenaline wore off and my energy waned.
“Hey, you hittin’ on my girl?”
Bishop’s voice broke through the sleepy haze that I had wrapped myself in. I sat straight up as Judge laughed, his arm dropping from around me.
“Just giving a pretty girl a hug,” he said, standing up and punching Bishop’s shoulder lightly as he passed.
“Find a different pretty girl to hug,” Bishop growled, and scooped me up into his arms, carrying me through the motel room to a chorus of cheers and whistles. Bishop seemed to ignore the noises, but my face turned brilliant red. For the thousandth time in my life, I cursed my fair skin that showed my blushes so easily.
He started to head towards the adjoining room, carrying me as easily as he’d carry a feather pillow, but then stopped, realizing that the cops and chief had taken up residence in the room, apparently using it as their headquarters for the investigation. He walked out the front door, into the parking lot, and down towards the motel office instead.
“Bishop, put me down,” I said, beating his shoulder lightly in protest as he walked. I was torn between hiding my face against his shoulder and beating him more. So I settled for both.
He ignored my protests, only putting me down when we got to the motel office door and he couldn’t figure out a way to open the door with his hands full of me. He grabbed my hand and pulled me tightly against him, and then opened the door of the office, my hand in a death grip.
The proprietor came up to the front desk.
“Bishop, I ain’t happy!” he started yelling. “You wanna rent two rooms and the next thing I know, I’ve got gunshots and broken windows and cops and dead bodies being carried through the parking lot. I ain’t had a chance to look at the rooms yet, but I know there’s blood all over the place and I have to pay to clean that shit up, you know. It doesn’t just magically disappear. And this kinda shit ain’t good for business! I hafta make a livin’, you know?”
He opened his mouth, apparently not done yet, but Bishop let go of my hand and pulled his wallet out. “I know. I’m real sorry, Mark. Here, I want to pay you for your troubles.” He pulled a thick stack of bills out of his pocket and my eyes grew wide. He was pulling out more cash than I’d ever seen in one place before. He laid the money on the counter and then pulled out a few more bills and laid them on top. “And that’s in case any newspaper journalist comes sniffing around. I want you to forget tonight ever happened.”
I snorted, unable to believe my eyes. Here was my - boyfriend?? - paying off a motel owner to forget someone like me even existed. Bishop looked down and winked at me. Grinning, he looked up at Mark and said, “Oh, and this,” he pulled out a more cash, “is to rent another room for the night.”
Mollified, Mark picked up his thick stash of cash and pocketed it. “Well, I’m sure I’ve got another one. You want it right next to the two you already have?”
“Oh God, please no,” he said drily. “I think that may keep me from my…uh…planned activities.”
Mark gave a leering grin at me and said, “Of course, of course.” Bishop cleared his throat loudly, and suddenly Mark involved himself in finding a key for our new room, his grin gone.
“So what’s the story gonna be?” Mark asked. “If I’m gonna help you keep journalists at bay, I oughta at least know what the official story is.”
“Well, Ghost was cleaning his gun, and somehow, he shot himself in the back of the head with it. I guess you can never be too careful with a loaded firearm, eh?” Bishop said drily.
Mark chuckled and handed the room key over. “Number 12, down at that end of the parking lot,” he said, pointing towards the road.
“Thanks, Mark,” Bishop said, and, recapturing my hand, he dragged me back out of the office and towards the motel room.
Pulling me into the dark, cool room, he shoved the door closed and pulled me tight against his chest. Stroking his hands through my hair, he asked softly, “You okay?”
I smiled, my cheek pressed against his chest, listening to his heart thump in time with mine. “Yeah,” I said, almost a whisper. “I’m okay.”
“I shouldn’t have let you be there. I don’t care how much you beg and plead, the next shoot-out, I’m hiding you at my mother’s house until it’s over. In her bedroom closet.”
I pulled back and stared up into his eyes. “Is there going to be another shootout?” I asked.
“Well, I guess not. But with us turning down this deal with the Sangre, I am sure there will be hell to pay.”
He pulled my arms up so he could remove my t-shirt, then reached around and unhooked my black lace bra. “Not,” he said in a husky voice, “that I mind such a sexy bra on you, but I thought we ought to get…comfortable.”
“Right. Comfortable,” I echoed, laughter in my voice.
He unzipped my jean shorts and pulled them down, letting them pool at my feet.
“Re
al comfortable,” he said as he pulled my matching black lace panties down. “I’d hate for you not to be…uh…comfortable.” He swallowed hard as he stepped back, his eyes following my curves down and back up again. He yanked his cut and t-shirt off, then dropped his pants. He was going commando, something that allowed me to admire his half-erect cock with great enthusiasm. It grew ever larger under my appreciative gaze.
“Jules…” Bishop said, his voice cracking under the strain. “I was going to just hold you and make sure you were really okay. I didn’t want to push myself on you - not after what just happened.”
I reached forward with eager hands and surrounded his now fully hardened cock in my hands. “We can do the tender stuff later, promise,” I said, my voice breathy and sexy as fuck. “But right now, I’d like you to console me another way.”
I stroked my hands up and down his length and he threw his head back in pleasure.
“Oh fuuuucccckkkk,” he hissed. “Yes, I—”
I placed a finger against his lips. “I think we’ve done enough talking for the evening.” I walked him backwards towards the bed, and then pushed him down onto it and crawled up his thighs, straddling him. “I think,” I leaned over and kissed the tip of his cock, “that it’s time,” I kissed it again, “that you,” I flicked my tongue against the tip, “let someone else,” a little deeper into my mouth this time, “be in charge.”
I took his full length into my mouth and he groaned in ecstasy as I ran my mouth up and down its wide, full length. I swirled my tongue on the tip and then dove back down, sucking as I went. He bucked his hips, groaning.
“Ahhh…Jules,” he half-yelled, half-moaned.
I popped my mouth off his cock. “Oh no you don’t,” I said, mockingly stern. “If you can’t keep quiet, I may be forced to stuff something into your mouth.”
He lifted his head off the covers and I was sure he was about to say, “Like my bandana?” when I talked over him. “Like my panties,” I said with a wiggle of her eyebrows.
“Argh!!” he groaned, flopping his head against the mattress. I grinned, a little too evilly probably, and jumped off the bed. I hadn’t planned on doing this but once the words escaped my mouth, it just seemed like the perfect, sexy revenge for our camping fuck.
I grabbed my lace panties off the floor, wadded them up, crawled up beside Bishop, and popped them into his mouth. “Much better,” I said with satisfaction, and then began working my way down his body, sucking and nibbling across his tats and his washboard stomach. I worked my way back down to his cock and began sucking on it again. He reached out, stroking his hands up my thighs and into my wet center. He ran his fingertips up and down me, dipping into my wetness and back out again.
I couldn’t stand it any longer; I swung around to face him, and eased my body down over his cock. “Yeessss…” I groaned happily as he filled me up. I began moving up and down, enjoying every stroke of his hard length inside of me. He reached forward and grabbed my hips, guiding me, pulling me, pushing me towards ecstasy. The fever pitch got higher and higher inside of me, I was…I was almost…
“Yeeeessssssss!!!” I yelled, my back arching, my world exploding into a million different colors. Bishop jerked his hips upwards and I felt him spray me with his seed. His hands gripped my hips tightly as we climaxed together, wave after wave washing over me.
Finally, I drifted down to reality and lazily opened my eyes and smiled down at him. I reached over and plucked out my panties. He ran his tongue over his lips to remoisten them.
“So, am I free to gag you anytime?” I asked teasingly.
“Anytime,” he said, pulling me down against his chest, our sweat sticking us together.
And for once, I didn’t mind being sweaty. I closed my eyes and slept.
41
Jules
I woke up slowly. The room was gradually brightening as the morning sun began pushing its way into the motel room. I rolled over and faced Bishop, watching him as he slept. His dark stubble sweeping across his face was fingertip enticing and I wanted to stroke him awake across his full pink lips.
I reached out and then hesitated. I better not – he’d had a hell of a day yesterday. It wasn’t every day that he shot his childhood friend and club president. He deserved to sleep as long as he wanted.
I slipped out of bed and into my wrinkled clothes from the yesterday and went to stare out into the uninspiring parking lot.
What was I going to do?
What was I going to do??
I can’t write an investigative piece on the Dead Legion and risk sending him to jail. Not to mention that he’d never talk to me again. Revealing the inner workings of the Dead Legion to the world as a whole…I couldn’t do it. He’d never forgive me.
And Evan may not even want my puff piece anymore, especially now that I don’t really have a fluff piece to give him. He may be really pissed.
I may not have a job.
That stark realization took my breath away, until I realized:
I may not want that job anymore.
I stared unseeingly out into the parking lot.
What was I doing here? What did I want? It was my moment of truth - Bishop or New York City? A man I’d only known for eight days, or a journalism career I’d worked towards for years now?
Really, how could I choose him over my career in New York City? People didn’t do things like that. Not after eight days.
Okay, sane people didn’t do things like that.
I closed my eyes and imagined getting on a plane and going home to my tiny New York efficiency. Back to my puff pieces at Blush.
Back to loneliness.
The tears trailed down my cheeks as I faced something I’d been avoiding for almost my entire adult life: I was miserable in New York City. Despite being surrounded by 8 million people, I was lonely. I was miserable. My friends were all obsessed about celebrities and hemlines and the most popular heel style on boots this year. I hated worrying about whether I’d be mugged on the street or my apartment would be broken into or if the guy following me up the street was just a guy, out for a walk, or a guy with a different purpose in mind.
How did I get stuck in a world that just didn’t fit me?
I’d been so busy trying to “live the life” of a young, hip New Yorker, I never stopped to realize that it was a life I didn’t want.
Alright, so Blush was out. Even if Evan was still talking to me, I’m done. But what about investigative journalism - what I’ve always wanted to do?
I thought back over the last eight days. Truthfully, I’d sucked as an investigative journalist. I stupidly spoke with the wrong people, that always ended with me getting into more trouble. I hated being shot at or more succinctly, being shot near - Ghost never even knew I was in the closet. I sucked at asking questions without the focus of my investigation being found out in three minutes or less. I sucked at asking questions, period. I’d felt like a little kid playing a spy game with my friends when I’d attempted to go undercover.
Maybe with time, I’d get better.
But did I want it? Or was it is something that I thought I wanted?
I heard Bishop rustle the sheets behind me and I turned, startled. He settled further into the bed, his head buried between the pillows, only one muscled shoulder showing above the sheets. He was still asleep. I could still think.
I turned back to the window.
I didn’t want to live in New York City.
I didn’t want to be a journalist, either of the serious or the lipstick variety.
I didn’t want to leave Bishop.
Insane or not, I never wanted to be without Bishop again.
But what the hell was I going to do in Deming, New Mexico? I had no marketable skills, other than journalism. I sure as hell didn’t want to get stuck working the cash register at the grocery store.
And then the solution popped into my head. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. It was perfect.
I grabbed my phone off
the table and walked outside, away from the now lightly snoring Bishop.
I turned on my phone and watched as the screen went crazy. Texts, phone calls, and emails flooded my lock screen. Where are you? What is going on? Deming News says Ghost died last night??? CALL ME!
Instead, I pulled up my browser and looked at the newspaper article myself. Only the basics were covered, and even then, they were mostly wrong. I wondered how much the journalists at Deming News believed what they wrote, or if they just swallowed the lies without thinking.
Finally, I’d procrastinated enough. I called Evan.
“What the hell is going on!! You fucking hang up on me and then turn off your goddamn phone and then I read in the newspaper that Ghost killed himself while cleaning his gun, which is the biggest load of bullshit that I’ve ever read - Ghost knew how to properly handle a gun since grade school. There’s no way that’s what happened. And my journalist, who’s in fucking-Deming, has gone MIA on me and I don’t know what the fuck to—”
Finally, realizing that he wasn’t going to run out of steam anytime soon, I interrupted.
“Evan.”
“—think because that could mean—”
“Evan!”
“—anything - she could be dead, she could be—”
“EVAN!!”
Finally, blessed silence.
“I am alive. In case you were curious. And I am fine. I’ll get you the article by the deadline, and I’ll leave Ghost and his death out of it. I don’t think our readers want to read about how violent motorcycle clubs can really be, along with the hottest new color this season.”
Evan said nothing, which meant he was admitting he thought I might actually be right. He’d never say that - that was just a crazy idea to admit that someone else could be right - but tacit silence meant just as much in Evan’s world.